



Produced by Duncan Harrod







FELIX O'DAY

By F. Hopkinson Smith




Chapter I



Broadway on dry nights, or rather that part known as the Great White
Way, is a crowded thoroughfare, dominated by lofty buildings, the
sky-line studded with constellations of  signs pencilled in fire.
Broadway on wet, rain-drenched nights is the fairy concourse of the
Wonder City of the World, its asphalt splashed with liquid jewels afloat
in molten gold.

Across this flood of frenzied brilliance surge hurrying mobs, dodging
the ceaseless traffic, trampling underfoot the wealth of the Indies,
striding through pools of quicksilver, leaping gutters filled to the
brim with melted rubies--horse, car, and man so many black silhouettes
against a tremulous sea of light.

Along this blinding whirl blaze the playhouses, their wide
portals aflame with crackling globes, toward which swarm bevies of
pleasure-seeking moths, their eyes dazzled by the glare. Some with heads
and throats bare dart from costly broughams, the mountings of their
sleek, rain-varnished horses glittering in the flash of the electric
lamps. Others spring from out street cabs. Many come by twos and threes,
their skirts held high. Still others form a line, its head lost in
a small side door. These are in drab and brown, with worsted shawls
tightly drawn across thin shoulders. Here, too, wedged in between shabby
men, the collars of their coats muffling their chins, their backs to the
grim policeman, stand keen-eyed newsboys and ragged street urchins, the
price of a gallery seat in their tightly closed fists.

Soon the swash and flow of light flooding the street and sidewalks
shines the clearer. Fewer dots and lumps of man, cab, and cart now cross
its surface. The crowd has begun to thin out. The doors of the theatres
are deserted; some flaunt signs of "Standing Room Only." The cars still
follow their routes, lunging and pausing like huge beetles; but much of
the wheel traffic has melted, with only here and there a cab or truck
between which gold-splashed umbrellas pick a hazardous way.

With the breaking of the silent dawn, shadowed in a lonely archway or
on an abandoned doorstep the wet, bedraggled body of a hapless moth is
sometimes found, her iridescent wings flattened in the mud. Then for a
brief moment a cry of protest, or scorn, or pity goes up. The passers-by
raise their hands in anger, draw their skirts aside in horror, or kneel
in tenderness. It is the same the world over, and New York is no better
and, for that matter, no worse.


On one of these rain-drenched nights, some ten years or more ago, when
the streets were flooded with jewels, and the sky-line aflame, a man in
a slouch hat, a wet mackintosh clinging to his broad shoulders, stood
close to the entrance of one of the principal playhouses along this
Great White Way. He had kept his place since the doors were opened, his
hat-brim, pulled over his brow, his keen eye searching every face that
passed. To all appearances he was but an idle looker-on, attracted by
the beauty of the women, and yet during all that time he had not moved,
nor had he been in the way, nor had he been observed even by the door
man, the flap of the awning casting its shadow about him. Only once had
he strained forward, gazing intently, then again relaxed, settling into
his old position.

Not until the last couple had hurried by, breathless at being late, did
he refasten the top button of his mackintosh, move clear of the nook
which had sheltered him, and step out into the open.

For an instant he glanced about him, seemed to hesitate, as does a bit
of driftwood blocked in the current; then, with a sudden straightening
of his shoulders, he wheeled and threaded his way down-town.

At Herald Square, he mounted with an aimless air a flight of low steps,
peered though the windows, and listened to the crunch of the presses
chewing the cud of the day's news. When others crowded close he stepped
back to the sidewalk, raising his hat once in apology to an elderly dame
who, with head down, had brushed him with her umbrella.

By the time he reached 30th Street his steps had become slower. Again
he hesitated, and again with an aimless air turned to the left, the rain
still pelting his broad shoulders, his hat pulled closer to protect his
face. No lights or color pursued him here. The fronts of the houses were
shrouded in gloom; only a hall lantern now and then and the flare of
the lamps at the crossings, he alone and buffeting the storm--all others
behind closed doors. When Fourth Avenue was reached he lifted his head
for the first time. A lighted window had attracted his attention--a
wide, corner window filled with battered furniture, ill-assorted china,
and dented brass--one of those popular morgues that house the remains of
decayed respectability.

Pausing automatically, he glanced carelessly at the contents, and was
about to resume his way when he caught sight of a small card propped
against a broken pitcher. "Choice Articles Bought and Sold--Advances
Made."

Suddenly he stopped. Something seemed to interest him. To make sure that
he had read the card aright, he bent closer. Evidently satisfied by his
scrutiny, he drew himself erect and moved toward the shop door as if
to enter. Through the glass he saw a man in shirt-sleeves, packing. The
sight of the man brought another change of mind, for he stepped back
and raised his head to a big sign over the front. His face now came into
view, with its well-modelled nose and square chin--the features of a
gentleman of both refinement and intelligence. A man of forty--perhaps
of forty-five--clean-shaven, a touch of gray about his temples, his eyes
shadowed by heavy brows from beneath which now and then came a flash
as brief and brilliant as an electric spark. He might have been a civil
engineer, or some scientist, or yet an officer on half pay.

"Otto Kling, 445 Fourth Avenue," he repeated to himself, to make sure of
the name and location. Then, with the quick movement of a man suddenly
imbued with new purpose, he wheeled, leaped the overflowed gutter, and
walked rapidly until he reached 13th Street. Half-way down the block
he entered the shabby doorway of an old-fashioned house, mounted to the
third floor, stepped into a small, poorly furnished bedroom lighted by a
single gas-jet, and closed the door behind him. Lifting his wet hat
from his well-rounded head, with its smoothly brushed, closely trimmed
hair--a head that would have looked well in bronze--he raised the edge
of the bedclothes and from underneath the narrow cot dragged out a flat,
sole-leather trunk of English make. This he unlocked with a key fastened
to a steel chain, took out the tray, felt about among the contents, and
drew out a morocco-covered dressing-case, of good size and of evident
value, bearing on its top a silver plate inscribed with a monogram and
crest. The trunk was then relocked and shoved under the bed.

At this moment a knock startled him.

"Come in," he called, covering the case with a corner of the cotton
quilt.

A bareheaded, coarse-featured woman with a black shawl about her
shoulders stood in the doorway. "I've come for my money," she burst out,
too angry for preliminaries. "I'm gittin' tired of bein' put off. You're
two weeks behind."

"Only two weeks? I was afraid it was worse, my dear madame," he answered
calmly, a faint smile curling his thin lips. "You have a