Rex Stout - Her Forbidden Knight

Knowlton, with the light of battle in his eyes, stood above him with clenched fists. Then, without a word, he turned, unlocked the door, and disappeared into the hall.

Sherman sat up, lifted his hand gingerly to his face, and let out a volley of curses.

“Well,” he muttered, “I made a bad guess. And yet — I can’t be wrong. He’s crooked and I’ll get him. And when I do I’ll pay him for this.”

He rose to his feet painfully and made his way unobserved to the street.

On the following morning Knowlton was formally enrolled as a member of the Erring Knights. “The qualifications,” said Tom Dougherty, “are a good pair of biceps and a boundless esteem for Miss Lila Williams. The dues are two dozen roses each week. A fresh bouquet every morning. Your day will be Saturday.”

Dumain was really not quite easy about it. He himself had introduced Knowlton to the Lamartine, and he knew nothing whatever about him, having picked him up in a Broadway café by accident. But, as was quite right for a palmist and clairvoyant, he trusted to Providence for justification of his action.

From that day forth Knowlton took his place and held it. In spite of his superior education and breeding, he seemed exactly to fit, and within a week had earned quite a reputation as a good fellow. He always had money, and leisure and willingness to spend it.

Nothing came of the encounter with Sherman. A day or two afterward they had met in the billiard room. Dumain and Knowlton were playing.

“Take a cue, Sherman?” Dumain had said.

“If Knowlton doesn’t object,” Sherman replied.

“Not I,” laughed Knowlton. “You can’t bluff in billiards, you know. It’s either hit or miss.”

The significance of this remark was not lost on Sherman.

No one knew anything of the nature of Knowlton’s occupation, or even if he had any. He was in the Lamartine at all hours of the day, and he always had leisure to perform any favor or meet any engagement.

He had one habit that aroused some comment. Two or three times each week he sent a telegram at Lila’s desk. It always bore the same address.

Laughingly alluding to their first meeting, he always insisted on paying with a ten-dollar bill, and the state of Lila’s cash drawer became a standing joke between them. Lila wondered a little about the mysterious telegrams; in fact, she wondered about everything connected with him — and knew nothing.

She even wondered why she was interested in him; why she looked forward to the sight of his face and the sound of his voice. For her innocence was that of inexperience and ignorance — the purest if not the best. It led her into a score of charming deceptions, of which, however, she herself was always the victim.

One of these had to do with the bouquet of roses.

In the first place, no girl likes to receive flowers unless she knows who gives them to her. So, on the first appearance of the glorious vase, Lila had set about discovering its source.

Let us not be too harsh on the poor little messenger boy. It is true that he had promised Dougherty not to tell, but if you blame him severely for his betrayal of the confidence it merely proves that you know nothing of the charm of Lila’s smile.

It would have coaxed a secret from the Sphinx herself. Thus she became aware that the roses were the gift of the Erring Knights, furnished by each in his turn.

Then one morning, about a week after the first appearance of Knowlton, she decided that her information was not sufficiently definite. Observe the effect of love! Ordinarily Lila was the most open and straightforward creature in the world. But see the cunning of her procedure!

“Jimmie,” she said to the messenger boy, “the roses yesterday were the most beautiful shade I have ever seen. Do you know who got them?”

“What’s today — Saturday?” Jimmie asked.

“Yes. Yesterday was Friday.”

“Then it was Mr. Driscoll.”

“Oh!” Lila hesitated. “And who — who gets them on Thursday?”

“Mr Dumain — Frenchy.”

“And on Wednesday?”

Jimmie remained silent and eyed her keenly.

“Mr. Knowlton’s day is Saturday,” he said finally. “That’s today.”

Lila blushed a rosy pink.

“Jimmie!” she exclaimed.

“Aw, come off! Don’t you think I know nothin’?” said the boy. Only a boy — or a woman — could have guessed it.

Lila was silent. But that evening she took the bouquet of roses home with her. As to what she did with them after she got them there, you must guess for yourself. Unlike Jimmie, I can keep a secret.

A month passed uneventfully.

Dumain improved his play at billiards till he threatened to take part in a tournament; Jennings reported daily concerning his contract with Charles Frohman; Knowlton continued to spend his ten-dollar bills on telegrams at Lila’s desk, and Driscoll spouted the classics on all occasions. Dougherty and Booth held down their chairs and talked philosophy.

Since the day of Knowlton’s introduction, Sherman, who had always been barely tolerated by the others, had increased his attentions to Lila to a point where they were noticed by several of the others. But, as Driscoll said, they regarded him as harmless.

Had Lila cared to speak she could have told them that which would have caused them to think differently; but she bore his troublesome attentions in silence. And if she had but known the depth of his treachery and the strength of his passion for her, she would have feared him, instead of merely despising him, and avoided many a poignant hour of sorrow and anxiety.

But Sherman cleverly concealed his real nature and treacherous designs under an appearance of blunt frankness. It must be admitted that the others were easily deceived. But then what cause had they for suspicion? We learn of the presence of the deadly rattlesnake only when we hear his warning rattle, and Sherman, like the serpent, was waiting silently for the time to spring.

It was Dumain who first noticed that Lila carried home the bouquet of roses on Saturday evening. These Frenchmen have an eye for such things. He watched and discovered that this compliment was paid on Saturdays only.

Now Dumain was not exactly jealous. The mere fact that Lila exhibited a preference for Knowlton’s roses did not disturb him; but the question was, what had Knowlton done to bring about such a state of affairs? For it was evident to Dumain that Knowlton must have done or said something thus to have installed himself in the first place in Lila’s affections.

Of course, Dumain was mistaken. A girl gives her heart not to a man’s actions or words, but to the man himself. Knowlton was innocent of any treachery to the Erring Knights. He was not to blame for the vagaries of Dan Cupid.

But when, for the fourth Saturday in succession, he saw Lila carefully place the roses in a large paper bag and leave the hotel with the bag under her arm, he could contain himself no longer. He called to Knowlton, who was talking with the Venus at the cigar stand.

Knowlton walked over to him in a secluded corner of the lobby.

“I want to talk to you,” said Dumain.

“Fire away!” said Knowlton.

“It is about zee roses.”

“Roses?”

“Yes. Zee roses you gave to Miss Williams.”

“What about them?”

Dumain pointed toward Lila’s desk.

“You see. Zee vase is empty.”

“Why, so it is,” said Knowlton. “I wonder — that’s funny.”

“Very funny.” said Dumain sarcastically. “Now, where are they?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you mean to say you don’t know?”

“I don’t know.”

Dumain eyed him incredulously.

“Well, zen, I tell you,” he said finally. “Miss Williams took zem home.”

Knowlton seemed surprised.

“Miss Williams took them home?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Well, they are hers, aren’t they? Hasn’t she a right to do as she pleases with them? Why do you trouble me about it?”

“Because she pay zat compliment to no one but you,” said Dumain impressively.

“What? How — only to me?”

“She never take any roses home but yours. She does it now for — oh, a month. And what does zat mean? It means you’re a traitor. It means you’ve deceived us. It means you are trying to make zee impression on Mees Williams, and I am afraid you succeed.”

Knowlton appeared to be touched. His face colored, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. Was it possible that this evidence of an interest in him on the part of Miss Williams found a corresponding thrill in his own breast?

Suddenly he smiled — a smile of genuine amusement.

“Dumain,” he said, “you fellows are the limit. You’re not only amusing — you’re extremely dense. I would be very happy indeed if I could believe that Miss Williams had singled me out for the distinction you mention; but the real cause of her seeming preference is only too evident.”

“Well?”

“Every evening,” Knowlton continued, “Miss Williams’s roses are left to adorn the lobby of this hotel. It is by her order, as you know. But as she is at home on Sunday she wants them on that day for herself.

“So every Saturday evening she takes them home. That must be the correct explanation. She can’t even know that I bought them.”

Dumain’s little round face was filled with light.

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “What an ass am I! Forgive me, Knowlton. Zen she doesn’t care for you?”

“I’m afraid not.” Knowlton smiled. But the smile was not an easy one.

“And you haven’t been trying to—”

“My good fellow,” Knowlton interrupted him, “as long as I am an Erring Knight I shall act only in the role of protector.”