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THE WEB OF THE GOLDEN SPIDER

by

FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT

Author of "Joan of the Alley," etc.

Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Charles M. Relyea







[Illustration: "_With pretty art and a woman's instinctive desire to
please, she had placed the candle on a chair and assumed something of a
pose._" [Page 20]]



New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers

Copyright, 1909
by Small, Maynard & Company
(Incorporated)

Entered at Stationers' Hall

The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A.




  TO
  MY WIFE




CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                                         PAGE
        I THE CLOSED DOOR OPENS                                      1
       II CHANCE PROVIDES                                           13
      III A STRANGER ARRIVES                                        28
       IV THE GOLDEN GOD SPEAKS                                     40
        V IN THE DARK                                               53
       VI BLIND MAN'S BUFF                                          63
      VII THE GAME CONTINUES                                        75
     VIII OF GOLD AND JEWELS LONG HIDDEN                            89
       IX A STERN CHASE                                            100
        X STRANGE FISHING                                          113
       XI WHAT WAS CAUGHT                                          124
      XII OF LOVE AND QUEENS                                       136
     XIII OF POWDER AND BULLETS                                    149
      XIV IN THE SHADOW OF THE ANDES                               164
       XV GOOD NEWS AND BAD                                        172
      XVI THE PRIEST TAKES A HAND                                  185
     XVII 'TWIXT CUP AND LIP                                       200
    XVIII BLIND ALLEYS                                             214
      XIX THE SPIDER AND THE FLY                                   225
       XX IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF QUESADA                              237
      XXI THE HIDDEN CAVE                                          253
     XXII THE TASTE OF ROPE                                        265
    XXIII THE SPIDER SNAPS                                         274
     XXIV THOSE IN THE HUT                                         286
      XXV WHAT THE STARS SAW                                       296
     XXVI A LUCKY BAD SHOT                                         308
    XXVII DANGEROUS SHADOWS                                        320
   XXVIII A DASH FOR PORT                                          330
     XXIX THE OPEN DOOR CLOSES                                     341




ILLUSTRATIONS

                                                                  PAGE

  With pretty art and a woman's instinctive
  desire to please, she had placed the candle on
  a chair and assumed something of a pose.              _Frontispiece_

  "For the love of God, do not rouse her. She
  sees! She sees!"                                                  46

  Minute after minute, Stubbs stared at this
  sight in silence.                                                278

  Sorez stared straight ahead of him in a frenzy.
  Then the shadow sprang, throwing his arms about
  the tall figure.                                                 304




THE WEB OF THE GOLDEN SPIDER




CHAPTER I

_The Closed Door Opens_


In his aimless wanderings around Boston that night Wilson passed the
girl twice, and each time, though he caught only a glimpse of her
lithe form bent against the whipping rain, the merest sketch of her
somber features, he was distinctly conscious of the impress of her
personality. As she was absorbed by the voracious horde which shuffled
interminably and inexplicably up and down the street, he felt a sense
of loss. The path before him seemed a bit less bright, the night a bit
more barren. And although in the excitement of the eager life about
him he quickly reacted, he did not turn a corner but he found himself
peering beneath the lowered umbrellas with a piquant sense of hope.

Wilson's position was an unusual one for a theological student. He was
wandering at large in a strange city, homeless and penniless, and yet
he was not unhappy in this vagabondage. Every prowler in the dark is,
consciously or unconsciously, a mystic. He is in touch with the
unknown; he is a member of a universal cabal. The unexpected, the
impossible lurk at every corner. He brushes shoulders with strange
things, though often he feels only the lightest breath of their
passing, and hears only a rustle like that of an overturned leaf. But
he knows, either with a little shudder and a startled glance about or
with quickened pulse and eager waiting.

This he felt, and something, too, of that fellowship which exists
between those who have no doors to close behind them. For such stand
shoulder to shoulder facing the barrier Law, which bars them from the
food and warmth behind the doors. To those in a house the Law is
scarcely more than an abstraction; to those without it is a tyrannical
reality. The Law will not even allow a man outside to walk up and down
in the gray mist enjoying his own dreams without looking upon him with
suspicion. The Law is a shatterer of dreams. The Law is as eager as a
gossip to misinterpret; and this puts one, however innocent, in an
aggressive mood.

Looking up at the sodden sky from beneath a dripping slouch hat,
Wilson was keenly alive to this. Each rubber-coated officer he passed
affected him like an insolent intrusion. He brought home all the
mediocrity of the night, all the shrilling gray, all the hunger, all
the ache. These fellows took the color out of the picture, leaving
only the cold details of a photograph. They were the men who swung
open the street doors at the close of a matinee, admitting the stale
sounds of the road, the sober light of the late afternoon.

This was distinctly a novel viewpoint for Wilson. As a student he had
most sincerely approved of the Law; as a citizen of the world behind
the closed doors he had forgotten it. Now with a trace of uneasiness
he found himself resenting it.

A month ago Wilson had thought his life mapped out beyond the
possibility of change, except in its details; he would finish his
course at the school, receive a church, and pursue with moderate
success his task of holding a parish up to certain ideals. The death
of the uncle who was paying his way, following his bankruptcy, brought
Wilson to a halt from even this slow pace. At first he had been
stunned by this sudden order of Fate. His house-bleached fellows had
gathered around in the small, whitewashed room where he had had so
many tough struggles with Greek roots and his Hebrew grammar. They
offered him sympathy and such slight aid as was theirs. Minor
scholarships and certain drudging jobs had been open to him,--the
opportunity to shoulder his way to the goal of what he had thought his
manifest destiny. But that night after they had gone he locked the
door, threw wide his window, and wandered among the stars. There was
something in the unpathed purple between the spear points which called
to him. He breathed a fresher air and thrilled to keener dreams.
Strange faces came to him, smiling at him, speaking dumbly to him,
stirring unknown depths within him. He was left breathless, straining
towards them.

The day after the school term closed he had packed his extension
valise, bade good-bye to his pitying classmates, and taken the train
to Boston. He had only an indefinite object in his mind: he had once
met a friend of his uncle's who was in the publishing business; and he
determined to seek him on the chance of securing through him work of
some sort. He learned that the man had sold out and moved to the West.
Then followed a week of hopeless search for work until his small hoard
had dwindled away to nothing. To-day he found himself without a cent.

He had answered the last advertisement just as the thousand windows
sprang to renewed life. It was a position as shipping clerk in a large
department store. After waiting an hour to see the manager, a
double-chinned ghoul with the eyes of a pig, he had been dismissed
with a glance.

"Thank you," said Wilson.

"For what?" growled the man.

"For closing this door," answered Wilson, with a smile.

The fellow shifted the cigar stub which he gripped with yellow teeth
between loose lips.

"What you mean?"

"Oh, you wouldn't understand--not in a thousand years. Good-day."

The store was dry and warm. He had wandered about it gazing at the
pretty  garments, entranced by the life and movement about him,
until the big iron gates were closed. Then he went out upon the
thoroughfare, glad to brush shoulders with the home-goers, glad to
feel one with them in the brilliant pageant of the living. And always
he searched for the face he had met twice that day.

The lights glowed mellow in the mist and struck out shimmering golden
bars on the asphalt. The song of shuffling feet and the accompaniment
of the clattering hansoms rang excitedly in his ears. He felt that he
was touching the points of a thousand quick romances. The flash of a
smile, a quick step, were enough to make him press on eagerly in the
possibility that it was here, perhaps, the loose end of his own life
was to be taken up.

As the crowd thinned away and he became more conspicuous to the
prowling eyes which seemed to challenge him, he took a path across the
Public Gardens, and so reached the broader sweep of the avenue where
the comfortable stone houses snuggle shoulder to shoulder. The lower
windows were lighted behind drawn shades. Against the stubborn stone
angles the light shone out with appealing warmth. Every window was
like an invitation. Occasionally a door opened, emitting a path of
yellow light to the dripping walk, framing for a second a man or a
woman; sometimes a man and a woman. When they vanished the dark always
seemed to settle down upon him more stubbornly.

Then as the clock boomed ten he saw her again. Through the mist he saw
her making her uncertain way along the walk across the street,
stopping every now and then to glance hesitatingly at the lighted
windows, pause, and move on again. Suddenly, from the shadow of the
area way, Wilson saw an officer swoop down upon her like a hawk. The
woman started back with a little cry as the officer placed his hand
upon her arm. Wilson saw this through the mist like a shadow picture
and then he crossed the road. As he approached them both looked up,
the girl wistfully, the officer with an air of bravado. Wilson faced
the vigorous form in the helmet and rubber overcoat.

"Well," growled the officer, "what you doin' round here?"

"Am I doing anything wrong?"

"That's wot I'm goneter find out. Yer've both been loafin' here fer an
hour."

"No," answered Wilson, "I haven't been loafing."

"Wot yer doin' then?"

"Living."

Wilson caught an eager look from the shadowed face of the girl. He
met the other eyes which peered viciously into his with frank
aggressiveness. He never in his life had felt toward any fellow-creature
as he felt towards this man. He could have reached for his throat.
He drew his coat collar more closely about his neck and unbuttoned the
lower buttons to give his legs freer play. The officer moved back a
little, still retaining his grip on the girl's arm.

"Well," he said, "yer better get outern here now, or I'll run you in,
too."

"No," answered Wilson, "you'll not run in either of us."

"I won't, eh? Move on lively----"

"You go to the devil," said Wilson, with quiet deliberation.

He saw the night stick swing for him, and, throwing his full weight
against the officer, he lifted his arm and swung up under the chin.
Then he seized the girl's hand.

"Run," he gasped, "run for all you're worth!"

They ran side by side and darted down the first turn. They heard the
sharp oath, the command, and then the heavy beat of the steps behind
them. Wilson kept the girl slightly ahead of him, pushing and
steadying her, although he soon found that she was quite as fleet as
he himself was. She ran easily, from the hips, like one who has been
much out of doors.

Their breath came in gasps, but they still heard the heavy steps
behind them and pushed on. As they turned another corner to the left
they caught the sharp bark of a pistol and saw the spat of a bullet on
the walk to the right of them. But this street was much darker, and
so, while there was the added danger from stumbling, they felt safer.

"He's getting winded," shouted Wilson to her. "Keep on."

Soon they came to a blank wall, but to the left they discovered an
alley. A whiff of salt air beat against their faces, and Wilson knew
they were in the market road which led along the water front in the
rear of the stone houses. He had come here from the park on hot days.
There were but few lights, and these could not carry ten yards through
the mist. Pressing on, he kept at her back until she began to totter,
and then he paused.

"A little further," he said. "We'll go on tiptoe."

They stole on, pressing close to the wall which bounded the small back
yards, making no more noise than shadows. Finally the girl fell back
against him.

"You--you go on!" she begged.

Wilson drew her to his side and pressed back against one of the wooden
doors, holding his breath to listen. He could barely make out the
sodden steps and--they were receding.

The mist beat in damply upon their faces, but they could not feel it
in the joy of their new-found freedom. Before them all was black, the
road indistinguishable save just below the pale lights which were
scarcely more than pin pricks in black velvet. But the barrier behind
seemed to thrust them out aggressively.

Struggling to regain his breath, Wilson found his blood running freer
and his senses more alert than for years. The night surrounding him
had suddenly become his friend. It became pregnant with new
meaning,--levelling walls, obliterating beaten man paths, cancelling
rusty duties. In the dark nothing existed save souls, and souls were
equal. And the world was an uncharted sea.

Then in the distance he detected the piercing light from a dark
lantern moving in a circle, searching every nook and cranny. He knew
what that meant; this road was like a blind alley, with no outlet.
They had been trapped. He glanced at the girl huddling at his feet
and then straightened himself.

"They sha'n't!" he cried. "They sha'n't!"

He ran his hand along the door to the latch. It was locked; but he
drew back a few steps and threw his full weight against it and felt it
give a trifle.

"They'll hear us," warned the girl.

Though the impact jarred him till he felt dizzy, he stumbled forward
again; and yet again. The lock gave and, thrusting the girl in, he
swung the door to behind them.

They found themselves in a small, paved yard. Fumbling about this,
Wilson discovered in the corner several pieces of joist, and these he
propped against the door. Then he sank to the ground exhausted.

In spite of his bruised body