# The Luck of the Irish/Chapter 10
### CHAPTER X

WILLIAM stared down at the writing while a dozen conflicting emotions possessed him. Ruth Warren's photograph, torn into fragments and thrown carelessly into a waste-basket, here in Naples, thousands of miles from home. "This is the girl." A sinister phrase.
All the little puzzling angles in her attitude came back with a rush, each clearly defined; her evident alarm over his discovery that she was a school-teacher, the somberness of her gaze toward the sea, her aloofness, her prayer, her lack of interest in the mail department at Cook's. His heart was swept by savage anger, only to give way to great tenderness. She was all alone. She had run away, and it was now patent that she was being pursued. By whom and for what? Was it the contents of the chamois bag? He swore under his breath. He did not care who she was or what she had done; she was the woman he loved.
William was Irish; but on the other hand he possessed Teutonic doggedness in pursuing an object, in adhering to a plan of action. Come ill, then, come good, always, had she need of him, would she find him.
​Further cogitation was denied him. The girl herself appeared on the threshold.
"Ready!"
"All right," he replied, catching his breath. There was something approaching happiness in her face to-night. He scooped up the bits of cardboard and nonchalantly dropped them into his side pocket. If she noticed the act she gave no sign.
After the concert was over they stopped at a trattoria for something cooling to drink. Over huge lemonades, which no amount of Belgian sugar seemed able to sweeten, they discussed the music.
"Some band," he agreed.
"Nearly all military bands are good. And now, Brother William, what's the matter?"
"Matter?"
"Yes. You've been absent-minded all the evening. You are worrying about something."
"Maybe I did a fool thing yesterday," he said, evasively. "I got tired of running into Cook's every morning for cigar money, so I got fifteen hundred lire. And now I don't know what to do with it. Camden told me that the town is alive with sneak-thieves, and that it isn't safe to wander about at night by your lonesome."
"That was foolish. Do you want me to carry the money for you? … Heavens! don't take it out here," she cried. "Wait until we get into the carriage."
"Maybe that wasn't all that was worrying me." William was not an adept at dissimulation. He ​dipped his hand into his pocket and laid the fragments of the photograph on the marble-topped table. "I found these pieces in the waste-basket at the Bristol." He began arranging the pieces as he talked. "Didn't know what it was at first. I was waiting for you, and I put 'em together like one of those old picture-puzzles. Remember 'em? Well, I got some little old jolt, believe me. Can you step around to this side?"
Curiously she rose and came to his side, looking down over his shoulder.
"Where did you get that?" she asked, in a low, tense voice.
"I told you; in the waste-basket. I was dead sure you hadn't thrown it there. And you didn't tear it up?"
"No." Her hand slid from his shoulder.
"Thought not. There's something on the back." Carefully he reversed the pieces. "See? Will you tell Brother Bill if there's anything serious?"
She leaned down and scrutinized the writing. What color there was in her cheeks slowly faded and her eyes became dull. "I don't understand," she said.
"Well, the way I take it, some one is looking for you. Remember, I said I'd never ask you any questions, but that if you ever needed me you'd call me."
"I haven't forgotten," listlessly.
"Do you want this?"
"No. Throw it away." Her gesture was like a shudder.
​"I'll keep it."
"I'd rather you threw it away, in the street."
"And I'd rather keep it. I'll tell you what. I'll trade it for a fresh one," with a boldness he had not thought himself capable of.
"I haven't any. That was one of the few I ever possessed. And it would please me if you threw it away. Some day I'll tell you why."
"All right, sister. I thought maybe you wouldn't mind if I kept it."
"I would mind very much. Perhaps in Florence or Venice I'll have another taken; and to one of those you'll be welcome. But not that. Would you mind if we returned at once? I am very tired."
William was careful to pick out a carriage with a taximeter. Neither of them spoke until they reached the Corso. He gave her a bundle of bank-notes.
"Oh yes; I had forgotten. You must be very careful of your money. Never carry a large sum about. Never keep your letter of credit with the little pink book of identification."
"I'm getting wise. I keep 'em separated these days. I wish we were at the same hotel. I'd like to know about that photograph. I mean," he added, hastily, "I'd like to see the guy who tore it up. You see, I kick on anybody tearing up something that was yours. You understand, don't you?"
"I believe I do. "Some impulse impelled her to add: "Don't put me on a pedestal. I'm just an ​ordinary human being. To-night, for the first time in weeks, I was almost happy. The fine music, the beauty of the night. … Well, that photograph has spoiled it all. Throw it away, please."
Piece by piece it fluttered into the night. At first it hurt him; then he saw it from a different and less romantic angle. It had been touched by other hands, men's hands. He was rather relieved to see the last piece skim the parapet.
He bade her good night at the door of the hotel and dismissed the carriage. He had so much to think about that he preferred walking down to the Parker. The Corso was deserted. Once he stopped and looked down over the parapet, toward the harbor. The lights formed a necklace of iridescent pearls, flickering and shimmering like real ones that lay upon a woman's breast. Pearls. Once more he saw the chamois bag. It seemed to dance a devil's dance before his eyes, and his nails bit his palms as he struggled to crush down the ugly head of distrust. This mystery concerned him, therefore he hated it. It wasn't the right kind of mystery; it repelled, it did not attract.
And yet, there had been no alarm, no evidence of guilt; only a troubled weariness. "Throw it away," was all she had said.
"Lord, if I only knew something about women!" he murmured—a cry which has beset the male mind since the days of Adam.
He turned away from the parapet and gazed toward Vesuvius. To-night there was an inter​mittent glowing above the crater. Hadn't she called it the Pipe of Vulcan? He could not see the outlines of the great, sinister heap; all that was visible was the dull glowing. It was exactly as if some giant stood over there in the east, smoking his pipe in the dark.
Slowly he set his step toward his hotel, his head down, his broad shoulders bent. Why, he ought to be the happiest man in the world. Never any more worry about his pay-envelope; free to come and go as he pleased; and the great world ready for his explorations; a fine dream about to be realized. And now a woman must enter his life and spoil it all. Somewhere he had read that for every desire fulfilled another appeared in its place.
He was destined to be jarred out of these melancholy thoughts. At the hotel the manager approached him affably.
"You received the package all right, Mr. Grogan?"
"Package? What package?"
"Why, the package you sent for about an hour ago."
"The wrong Grogan. I haven't sent for any package."
"But you must have," protested the manager, his air of affability vanishing and one of perturbation taking its place. "Besides, I have your note or order. I was very careful to compare your signature with the authorized slip which you signed upon taking the room."
​"Let me see that note," said William, wondering what it was all about.
The note was produced, and William was forced to admit that the signature resembled his own. The body of the note, however, was rank forgery.
"There's been a mistake somewhere, unless some one's playing a practical joke. I'll hike up to the room and see if anything's missing."
"I trust, Mr. Grogan—"
"Oh, that's all right. That signature would have fooled any one. But I can't understand why any one would take the trouble to play a joke on me. I'll be down in a few minutes and let you know what's happened."
He waved aside the man at the door of the electric lift and ran up the stairs three at a bound. It was quicker this way. He was a little bewildered, but no particular worry beset him. Moreover, he was not very keen. The tattered photograph occupied too prominent a place in his thoughts.
Entering his room, he sent a swift, cursory glance about. So far as he could see nothing had been disturbed. The articles on the bureau remained as he had left them. No genuine thief would have overlooked those coral cuff-links for which he had paid twelve dollars. He investigated the bureau drawers; there was no sign of alien hands. He rumpled his hair perplexedly. A package. What kind of a package?
"Aw. …" But he did not complete the thought orally.
​There was a row of shoes at the left of his fat suit-case, the only piece of luggage he had brought ashore. He had purchased a pair of patent-leathers, a pair of stout tans, a pair of low calf, and the pair of walking-shoes he had on. The stout tans were among the missing. He looked under the bed, behind the bureau, and under the chairs. The tans were gone. Then he laughed. A sneak had pinched a pair of his shoes!
"What do you know about that, Isobel? A pair of shoes, brand-new, at four-fifty! Well, say!"
He sat down and began to chuckle. He took out a cigar, but he did not light it. His gaze, having traveled again to the gap in the alignment of shoes, traveled a little farther and became focused upon the lock of his suit-case. It dangled by a single screw.
Immediately a fountain of wool and linen and what-nots filled the air. His letter of credit had been in that suit-case, and it was now nowhere to be found. Two thousand and six hundred dollars, all gone to glory!
He had mounted the stairs three at a bound; he went down scarcely touching any of them. He was fighting mad, but cool.
"Anything missing, Mr. Grogan?" The manager was plainly worried. The hotels along the Corso seldom encountered difficulties of this character.
"Ye-ah. A pair of shoes and my letter of credit are missing."
​"Frightful!"
"Now don't get excited. What I want to know is, what did this messenger look like?"
"This is a terrible misfortune! He was about your age, perhaps. I was particular to note that he wore a blue serge suit, baggy at the knees, and had on a straw hat. I could not say that he was either poorly or well dressed."
"What kind of shoes did he have on?"
"I did not notice them."
"That's bad. Sometimes a man 'll forget to change them when he goes masquerading. He didn't go into my room alone?"
"Certainly not. The head waiter accompanied him."
"Send for him."
The head waiter's explanation was simple He had escorted the messenger up to the room, watched him take a pair of shoes and wrap them up in a newspaper. He had then locked the door.
"Did you come with the man?"
"No, sir. I went with him to the head of the stairs, giving him the key."
"Which he gave to me," interpolated the manager. "Somehow he got back before he gave you that key. Well, the damage is done. But I guess he wasted his time. The letter is no good without the identification book which I have in my pocket."
"That news takes a great weight off my shoulders, Mr. Grogan. A word to Cook in the morning will stop the letter from being used anywhere in ​the world. If your bankers cannot find the letter after a certain length of time, they will reissue it, deducting your previous withdrawals. Tourists make so many strange requests, and are so irritable if we don't comply, that we are forced often to act against our judgment. If the messenger had been a native, he would never have got as far as the head of the stairs."
"He wasn't an Italian?"
"If he was, he was a supremely clever one. He talked and acted like an Englishman. A number of English stop here, so I have reason to believe that he was English."
"Well, so long as I can stop him from touching my money, that's enough for me. I don't blame you any. But it's some mystery. How'd he know it was in my grip? How'd he know that I wasn't carrying it? Sure, it might be chance, and then it mightn't."
William returned to his room, not at all grateful for this peculiar diversion. He undressed and sat down on the bed, smoking. Tobacco always had a way of loosening up the knots in his head. He groped backward. He recalled the robbery on board the Ajax and the subsequent return of the wallet, its contents intact.
"I got it!" He thwacked his thigh. "The guy that took my wallet took the letter of credit, too. That's the answer. But why pick on William Grogan? It don't listen right. Let's see. Who'd get any fun out of tripping me up? … Wops!"
​He knew something of the Italians; they never forgot, they never forgave. A friend of the men he had sent to Sing Sing had crossed on the Ajax.He had always wondered when those Black-Handers would start reprisals. And La Mano Nera in Italy was backed by the Camorra, which sounded Irish and wasn't. He was positive now that he had hold of the main thread. He must watch out for an Italian who spoke excellent English, who no doubt had been born in New York.
Having reached this conclusion, logical enough from his point of view, he laid the butt of his cigar in the ash-tray, turned out the lights, rolled over and went to sleep, untroubled by dreams. He did not know that there were men here and there across the world who would have traded their millions for those nine blank hours which he accepted as a matter of course.
Next morning Cook sent out the alarm. If the missing letter was not found within thirty days a new letter would be issued and forwarded either to Cairo or Colombo. All William stood to lose was time. To make sure that he would not lack for immediate funds he cabled Burns to send five hundred to Cairo.
"And so, sister, you've got to carry brother Bill's money. I haven't told anybody but you."
"But I might lose it."
"I'll take the risk." He did not confide to her the suspicions he held in regard to the Italian vendetta. Worrying her would not better his situation. "By the way, where's Camden?"
​"He left for Venice late last night."
"Uh-huh. What's your idea of him?"
"Moody, but very interesting." She was rather non-committal.
In Rome William was attacked upon three occasions, at night, always when he was alone. Each time he had struck one good blow; thereupon, much as he disliked doing it, he had taken to his heels. Italians were handy with their knives. In Florence he had two narrow escapes. After these visitations he did not go prowling across the Ponte Vecchio at night in the endeavor to reconstruct some of Benvenuto Cellini's lesser adventures. I might add that he no longer slept dreamlessly. He even went so far as to write Burns to learn if any of those Italians he had sent up the river were out. The affair began to get on his nerves, tough as they were. He was not particularly disturbed on his own account; but how was he to watch over Ruth, when a knife was hourly threatening his back? Of course, he said nothing to her about these mysterious contacts in the night. He set a smiling face for his school-teacher, and she suspected nothing.
Neither of them took note of a new fact. Their fellow-tourists were beginning to smile when they saw these two together, which was daily and everywhere. Romance! Humanity smiles indulgently upon the young male and female when they walk together, upon love or the suggestion of it. Heaven knows why they smile; the real thing is serious enough.
​One afternoon as they came down from Fiesole, twenty or thirty carriages in all, like a funeral cortège or a wedding—you could take your choice—William voiced a plaint.
"In Rome I saw all the churches—St. Peter's, the Vatican the galleries, the museums, the wrecks and ruins; same here in Florence. And what do I know? Nothing. I can't tell the name of a picture, a church, or a ruin. I guess I'm solid ivory and no cracks."
"Don't let that bother you. No human being can assimilate all these things at once. Years from now you'll be staring over your pipe, and all these wonderful beauties will return to you, one by one; you'll understand and your heart will glow with gladness. You don't want to see these things just to go back and tell about them. They are for us to dream over."
"Look!" he cried, suddenly.
"Where?"
"Well, what do you know about that! See, they're building something, putting up something that's not a ruin, that's brand-new!"
"Now you're trying to be sarcastic."
"Maybe I am. But my head seems filled with one of these dago soups; a thousand years, and you couldn't tell what was in it."
They came into Venice at sunset. For once William was bereft of speech. The brooding silence of this magic city in the sea laid hold of him.
​"Beautiful, beautiful!" murmured the girl at his side. "And I have lived to see it!"
Several times on the way to the hotel she grasped his arm to call his attention (as if that were necessary) to some enchanting marble, the towers rosal in the flood of sunset, the base of it dark and gloomy like Alpine ice. Each time she touched him he trembled. Sometimes he found it very hard to be so close to her.
"Oh, we mustn't stay indoors here; we must be out in the sunshine every minute. I'm going to love it. I don't want to go any farther. I want to stay here all the rest of my life."
They were keen to ride around the canals that night; and William engaged a gondolier immediately after dinner. After they had listened to the barge concerts (and the inevitable toreador song), they let the man at the sweep go whither he listed. He slid into the Giudecca and wound in and out among the destroyers, the liners, sloops, yachts, and lighters. They were gliding under the stern of a handsome sea-going yacht, white as frost in this incomparable moonlight.
William slowly spelled out the name.
"E-l-s-a; Elsa, New York. Well, here's a boat all the way from the old burg."
A strange thing happened. The girl gave a little cry and huddled down close to the black cushions of the gondola.