Her Forbidden Knight Read Free Page B

surprised by the sight of a floral offering which flamed like a beacon on the top of her desk. She regarded it in wonder while taking off her coat and hat, and glanced up in time to receive a knowing smirk from the hotel clerk. Then she saw the three conspirators observing her furtively with self-conscious indifference. She smiled at them pleasantly, reached up for the vase, and buried her face in the velvet petals. Then, replacing the vase, she seated herself at her desk and picked up a book.
    “Gad!” exclaimed Dougherty in high delight. “She kissed ’em! D’ye see that? And say, d’ye notice how they match the pink on her cheeks?”
    “My dear fellow,” said Driscoll, “that won’t do. It’s absolutely poetical.”
    “Well, and what if it is?” Dougherty was lighting a cigarette at the taper at the cigar stand. “Can’t a prizefighter be a poet?”
    “If you are talking of the poetry of motion, yes. But this is the poetry of e-motion.”
    Miss Hughes, the Venus at the cigar stand, tittered.
    “You Erring Knights are funny,” she observed. “Who bought the roses?”
    “Us what?” said Dougherty, ignoring the question. “What kind of knights did you say?”
    “Erring Knights.”
    “She means knights errant,” put in Driscoll.
    “I do not,” denied Miss Hughes.
    “It’s a pun. Erring Knights.”
    “Well,” said Dougherty, “and why not? I like the title.”
    And the title stuck. The lobby loungers of the Hotel Lamartine, purveyors of roses and protectors of beauty in distress, shall henceforth be designated by it.
    They formed a curious community. What any one of them might have attempted but for the restraining presence of the others may only be conjectured. Collectively, they became the bulwark of innocence; individually, they were—almost anything.
    There was Pierre Dumain, palmist and clairvoyant, with offices just around the corner on Twenty-third Street, a little garrulous Frenchman who always had money.
    Tom Dougherty, ex-prizefighter, bookmaker, and sport, who was generally understood to be living under the shadow of a secret.
    Bub Driscoll, actor and philosopher, about whom there was known just one fact: he had floored Tom Dougherty.
    Billy Sherman, newspaper reporter (at intervals), who was always broke and always thirsty.
    Sam Booth, typewriter salesman, who was regarded as somewhat inferior because he rose every morning at nine o’clock to go to work.
    Harry Jennings, actor, who was always just going to sign a contract to play leads for Charles Frohman.
    What a collection of Broadway butterflies for a young girl to accept as protectors and friends! And yet—you shall see what came of it.
    For something over a month the roll of membership remained as given above; then, on a day in October, a candidate presented himself for election.
    The corner of the lobby preempted by the Erring Knights was that farthest from the Broadway entrance, opposite the telegraph desk. It was partially hidden from the front by two massive marble pillars, and contained an old worn leather lounge, three or four chairs, and a wide window seat.
    This corner had been so long occupied by a dozen or so of the oldest habitués that the advent of a stranger within its sacred precincts was held to be an unwarranted intrusion. This opinion was usually communicated to the stranger with speed and emphasis.
    Here it was, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, that Driscoll, Sherman, and Dougherty were seated, discoursing amiably.
    Sherman, a tall, dark man, with a general air of assertiveness, was explaining the deficiencies and general inutility of the New York press.
    The door opened; Dumain approached. At his side was a stranger, whom he introduced to the others as Mr. Knowlton.
    “I believe I’ve met Mr. Knowlton before,” said Sherman, extending a hand.
    “You have the advantage of me,” said the newcomer politely.
    Sherman was silent, but gazed at him curiously as he turned to Driscoll.
    They conversed.