“I came here,” he said slowly, “angry because you had played upon my sympathies and outwitted me. I schemed to gain an entrance to this house for no other reason. I shall leave it admiring you and Monmouth and hoping you will be happy.”
It was as though she could scarcely believe him.
“Then you will not tell him?” she exclaimed. “You will go without that for which you came?”
She did not understand his smile.
“I shall not tell him,” Anthony Trent declared. “As for the rest—we are quits, Madame.”
At the hour when the real Oscar Lindholm left Blackwells Island the pretender was lovingly setting the fourth jewel in the Benares lamp. It would have been difficult to find two happier men in all America that morning.
ANTHONYTRENTlooked about his well-furnished rooms with a certain merited affection. In a week he would know them no more. Already arrangements had been made to send the furniture to his camp on Kennebago. A great deal of the furniture Weems had gathered there was distressfully bad. Weems ran to gilt and brocade mainly.
As Trent surveyed his apartment it amused him to think that never was a flat in a house such as this furnished so well and at so great a cost. The things might seem modest enough at first glance. There was, for example, a steel engraving, after Stuart, of George Washington. A fitting and a worthy picture for any American’s room but hardly one which required a large amount of money to obtain.
None save Anthony Trent knew that behind the print was concealed one of the most beautiful examples of that flower of the Venetian Renaissance, Giorgione. A few months before the Scribblers’ Club had invited motion picture magnates to its monthly dinner. Only a few of these moulders of public taste had accepted. There were good enough reasons for declination. The subject incensed those who held that writers had no grudge against the “movies.” Others lacked speech-making ability in the English tongue. And there weresome high-stomached producers who feared the Scribblers’ fare might be unworthy.
One big man consented to speak. He was glib with that oratory which comes from successful selling. Before he had sprung into notoriety he had been a salesman in a Seventh Avenue store, one of those persuasive gentlemen who waylay passersby. His speech was, of course, absurd. It was interesting mainly as an example that intelligence is not always necessary in the making of big money.
It was when he began to speak of the material rewards that his acumen had garnered, that Anthony Trent awoke to interest. The producer told his hearers that they had assuredly read of the sale to an unnamed purchaser of a Giorgione. “I am that purchaser!” said the great man. “I give more money for it than—” his shrewd appraising eye went around the table. He saw eager unsuccessful writers, starveling associate editors and a motley company of the unarrived. There were a few who had gained recognition but in the main it was not a prosperous gathering as commerce reckons success. “I give more money for it,” he declared, “than all this bunch will make in their lifetime. It’ll be on view at the Metropolitan Museum next week when you boys can take an eyefull. It’s on my desk at this present moment in a plain wooden case. It ain’t a big picture; this Giorgione"—his “G” was wrongly pronounced—“didn’t paint ’em big. My wife don’t know anything about it but she’s got the art bug and she’ll get it to-morrow morning as her birthday present.”
However, the lady was disappointed. The wooden case was brought to the table and the magnate unwrappedit with his own fat fingers. Instead of the canvas representing a Venetian fête and undraped ladies, was the comic sheet of a Sunday paper. The motion picture magnate used his weekly news-sheet (produced in innumerable theatres) to advertise his loss by a production of the missing picture. It was good advertising and made the Venetian master widely known. But it still reposed behind the sphinx-like Washington.
The Benares lamp was naturally hispièce de résistance. Never in history had such value been gathered together in a lamp. Trent remembered seeing once in the British Museum a lamp from the Mosque of Omar at Jerusalem on which was inscribed, “The Painter is the poor and humble Mustafa.” As he looked at his own lantern he thought, “The Decorator is the unknown Anthony Trent.”
Collectors of china would have sneered at a single vase on the top of a bookcase. It was white enameled and had a few flowers painted on it. And the inscription told the curious that it was a souvenir of Watch Hill, R. I.
In reality it was the celebrated vase of King Senwosri who had gazed on it twenty-five centuries before Christ. Senator Scrivener had bought it at a great price in Cairo. Some day the white enamel which Trent had painted over the imperishable glass would be carefully removed and it would gladden his eyes in Maine where visitors would be infrequent.
There were a dozen curious things Trent looked at, things hidden from all eyes but his, which aroused exciting memories of a career he fully believed had drawn to a close. He doubted if ever a man in allthe history of crime had taken what he had taken and was yet personally unknown. Some day, if possible, he might be able to learn from the police what mental estimate they had formed of him. He must loom large in their eyes. They must invest him with a skill and courage that would be flattering indeed were he to learn of it. The occasional mentions of him he read in daily papers were too distorted to be interesting and McWalsh’s tribute to the unknown master was his only reward so far.
The life that was coming, was to be the life he desired. Leisure, the possession of books, the opportunity to wander as he chose through far countries when the war was over. And he liked to think that later he might find love. Often he had envied men with children. Well, he could offer the woman that he might find comforts that fiction would never have brought him. He was getting to have fewer qualms of conscience now. He often assured himself that he was honest by comparison with war profiteers. He had taken from the rich and had not withheld from the poor.
His immunity from arrest, the growing certainty that his cleverness had saved him from detection led him on this particular night to speculate upon his new life with an easy mind. He had been wise to avoid the dangers of friendship. He had been astute in selecting a woman like Mrs. Kinney who distrusted strangers. She believed in him absolutely. She looked to his comforts and cared for his health admirably. She would assuredly be happy in Maine.
And then he remembered that during the last week or so she had been strangely moody. She had sighedfrequently. She had looked at him constantly and gazed away when he met her eye. She was old, and the old were fanciful as he knew. Perhaps, after all she regretted leaving the New York which filled her with exquisite tremblings and fear. In Maine she would be lonely. She should have a younger woman to aid her with the house work. A physician should look her over. Trent was genuinely fond of the old woman.
He was thinking of her when she came into the room. Undoubtedly there was something unusual about her. There was no longer the pleasant smile on her face. He was almost certain she wore a look of fear. Instantly he sensed some danger impending.
“There’s a man been here three times to-day,” she began.
“What of it?” he demanded. So far as she could judge the news did not disconcert him.
“Is there anybody you might want to avoid?” she asked, and did not look at him as she spoke.
“A thousand,” he smiled. “Who was it?”
“He wouldn’t leave his name.”
“What was he like?”
“A man,” she told him, “sixty. Well dressed and polite but I didn’t trust him. He’ll be back at ten.”
It was now almost half past nine.
“I don’t see everybody who calls,” he reminded her.
“You must see him,” she said seriously.
“Why?” he demanded.
“He said you would regret it if you did not.”
“Probably an enterprising salesman,” he returned with an appearance almost of boredom.
“No, he isn’t,” she said quickly.
There was no doubt that Mrs. Kinney was terribly in earnest. He affected the air of composure he did not feel.
“Who then?” Anthony Trent demanded.
“I think it’s the police,” she whispered.
Then suddenly she fell to weeping.
“Oh, Mr. Trent,” she said brokenly, “Iknow.”
“What?” he cried sharply, suddenly alert to danger, turned in that moment from the debonair careless idler to one in imminent risk of capture.
“About you,” she said.
“What about me?” he exclaimed impatiently.
“I know how you make your living. I didn’t spy on you, sir, believe me, I just happened on it.” Timidly she looked over to the Benares lamp gracefully swinging in its dim corner. “I know about that.”
For a moment Anthony Trent said nothing. A few minutes ago he had sat in the same chair as he now occupied congratulating himself on a new life that seemed so near and so desirable. Now he was learning that the little, shrinking woman, who so violently denounced crime and criminals, had found him out. What compromise could he effect with her? Was it likely that she was instrumental in denouncing him to the authorities, tempted perhaps by the rewards his capture would bring? For the moment it was useless to ask how she had discovered the lamp’s secret.
“What are you going to do?” he demanded. He was assuredly not going to wait for the police to arrest him if escape were possible. He might have to shut the old woman in a closet and make his hurried exit. He always had a large sum of money about him. Of late the banks had been aiding the governmentby disclosing the names of those depositors who invested sums of a size that seemed incompatible with their positions and ways of living. He feared to make such deposits that might lead to investigation and of late had secreted what money his professional gains had brought him.
“What am I going to do?” she echoed. “Why help you if I can.”
He looked at her, suspicion in his gaze. Her manner convinced him that by some means or other she had indeed stumbled upon what he had hoped was hidden. It was not a moment to ask her by what means she had done so. And, equally, it was no moment for denial.
“Why should you help me?” he demanded. He could not afford blindly to trust any one. “If you think you have found something irregular about me why do you offer aid? In effect you have accused me of being a criminal. Don’t you know there’s a law against helping one?”
“I’m one, too,” she said, to his amazement.
“Nonsense!” he snapped. He was too keen a judge of character to believe that this meek old creature had fallen into evil ways.
“Do you remember,” she said steadily—and he could see she was intensely nervous—“that I told you I had no children when I applied for this place?”
“Yes, yes,” he answered impatiently. It seemed so trivial a matter now.
“Well, I lied,” she returned, “I had a daughter at the point of death. I needed the position and I heard you telling other applicants you wanted some one with no ties.”
“That’s hardly criminal,” Anthony Trent declared.
“Wait,” she wailed, “I did worse. You remember when you furnished this place you sent me to pay for some rugs—nearly two hundred dollars it was?”
“And you had your pocket picked. I remember.”
“I took the money,” she confessed. “If I had not my girl would have been buried with the nameless dead.”
He looked at the sobbing woman kindly.
“Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Kinney. If only you had told me you could have had it.”
“I know that now,” she returned, “but then I was afraid.”
“You’ll stand by me notwithstanding that?” he pointed to the jeweled lamp.
“Why of course,” she said simply, and he knew she was genuine.
Almost as she spoke the bell rang.
“Go to the head of the stairs,” he commanded, “and I will let him in. Be certain to see how many there are. If there are two or more, call out that some men are coming. If it is the one who called before, say ‘the gentleman is here.’ Listen carefully. If there are two or more I shall get out by the roof. Meet me to-morrow by Grant’s Tomb at ten o’clock in the morning. You’ve got that?”
Mrs. Kinney was perfectly calm now and he was certain that her loyalty could be depended upon. Presently she called out, “The gentleman is here.”
Anthony Trent rose slowly from his chair by the window as his visitor entered. It was a heavily built man of sixty or so dressed very well. At a glance the stranger displayed distinguished urbanity.
“What a charming retreat you have here, Mr. Trent,” he observed.
“It is convenient,” said Anthony Trent shortly. The word “retreat” sounded unpleasantly in his ear. It had a sound of enforced seclusion. He continued to study the elder man. There was an inflection in his voice which we are pleased to term an “English accent.” And yet he did not seem, somehow, to be an Englishman. His accent reminded Trent of a man he had met casually two years before. It was at a Park riding school where he kept a saddle horse that he encountered him. From his accent he believed him to be English and was surprised when he was informed that it was Captain von Papen he had taken to be British. He learned afterwards that the Germans of good birth generally learned their English among England’s upper classes and acquired thereby that inflection which does not soothe the average American. This stranger had just such a speaking voice. Obviously then he was German and one highly connected. And at a day when German plots and intrigue engaged public attention what was he doing here?
“Mine is a business call,” said the stranger.
“You do not ask if this is a convenient hour,” Trent reminded him.
“My dear sir,” the other said smiling, “you must understand that it is a matter in which my convenience is to be consulted rather than yours.” The eyes that gleamed through the thick glasses were fixed on Trent’s face with a trace of amusement in them. The stranger had the look of one who holds the whiphand over another.
“I don’t admit that,” Anthony Trent retorted. “I don’t know your name or your errand and I’m not sure that I want to.”
“Wait,” said the other. “As for my name—let it be Kaufmann. As for my errand, let us say I am interested in a history of crime and want you to be a collaborator.”
“What qualifications have I for such an honor?”
Anthony Trent rammed his pipe full of Hankey and lit it with a hand that did not tremble. Instinctively he knew the other watched for signs of nervousness.
“You have written remarkable stories of crime,” Mr. Kaufmann reminded him. “I regret that the death of an Australian uncle permitted you to retire.”
“You will not think it rude, I hope,” Trent said with a show of politeness, “if I say that you seem to be much more interested in my business than I am in yours.”
“I admire your national trait of frankness,” Kaufmann smiled, “and will copy it. I am a merchant of Zurich, at Bahnhof street, the largest dyer of silk in Switzerland. This much you may find through your State Department if you choose.”
“And owing to lack of business have taken up a study of crime?” Trent commented. “Your frankness impresses me favorably, Mr. Kaufmann. I still do not see why you visit me at this hour.”
“We shall make it plain,” Mr. Kaufmann assured him cordially. “First let me tell you that my business is in danger. This dye situation is likely to ruin me. I have, or had, the formulae of the dyes I used. They were my property.”
“German formulae!” Trent exclaimed.
“Swiss,” Kaufmann corrected, “bought by me, and my property. They have been stolen from my partner by an officious amateur detective—one of your allies—and brought here. The ship should be in shortly. He will stay in New York a day or so before going to Washington. When he goes he will take with him my property, my dye formulae. He will enrich American dyers at my expense.”
“You can’t expect me to feel grieved about that,” Anthony Trent said bluntly.
“I do not,” said Kaufmann. “But I must have those formulae.” He leaned forward and touched Trent on the arm. “You must get them.”
Trent knocked the gray ashes from his pipe. The merchant of Zurich gazed into a face which wore amusement only. He was not to know the dismay into which his covert threat had thrown the younger man. Without doubt, Trent told himself, this stranger must have stumbled upon something which made this odd visit a logical one, some discovery which would be a sword over his head.
“In your own country,” said Trent politely, “I have no doubt you pass for a wit. To me your humor seems strained.”
Kaufmann smiled urbanely.
“I had hoped,” he asserted, “that you would not have compelled me to say again that youmustget them. I fancied perhaps that you would be sensitive to any mention of, shall we say, your past?”
“My past?” queried Trent blandly. He did not propose to be bluffed. Too often he had played that game himself. It might still be that this man, a Germanwithout question, had only guessed at his avocation and hoped to frighten him.
“Your past,” repeated the merchant. “The phrase has possibly too vague a sound for you. Let me say rather your professional activities.”
“I see,” Trent smiled, “you are interested in the writing of stories. My profession is that of a fiction writer.”
“You fence well,” Kaufmann admitted, “but I have a longer and sharper foil. I can wound you and receive never a scratch in return. You speak of fiction. Permit me to offer you a plot. Although a Swiss I have, or had, many German friends. We are still neutral, we of Switzerland, and you cannot expect us to feel the enmities this war has stirred up as keenly as you and your allies do.”
“That I have noticed,” Trent declared.
“Very well then. I have a close friend here, one Baron von Eckstein. You have perhaps heard of him—yes?”
Anthony Trent knitted his brow in thought.
“Married a St. Louis heiress, didn’t he?”
“A very delightful lady, and rich,” Kaufmann returned. “Charitable too, and loyal. My friends are all very loyal. Did you know that she donated ten fully-equipped ambulances to this country?”
“I saw it in the papers,” said Anthony Trent. And for the life of him he could not help smiling.
Mr. Kaufmann begged permission to light a cigar. It would have been difficult to find a more urbane or genial gentleman in all Switzerland.
“The Baron and Baroness von Eckstein are close friends.”
Since he offered no other remarks Anthony Trent spoke.
“And I am to derive a story from so slender a plot.”
“That is but the beginning,” Kaufmann assured him. “One night the Baroness had a very valuable necklace stolen. It was worth a great deal more than was supposed. Diamonds have gone up in price. She told me about it. In my native land I had some little skill as an amateur detective. She had been to a ball and had met many strangers. At my request she mentioned those to whom she had spoken at length. Among them was your name. That means nothing. There were twenty others. Now I come to another interesting thing. Do I entertain you?”
Anthony Trent simulated a yawn. He gave the appearance of one who listens because a guest in his house speaks and politeness demands it. In reality a hundred schemes went racing through his head and in most of them Herr Kaufmann played a part that would have made him nervous had he guessed it.
“Indeed yes,” Anthony Trent assured him. “Please continue.”
“Very well,” said the other cheerfully. “Next, my plot takes me to New Bedford. You know it?”
“A mill town I believe?”
“Many of the mills are owned by my friend Jerome Dangerfield who used to purchase my dyes. We are friends of thirty years. He was the owner of the celebrated Mount Aubyn ruby. It was stolen from him, knocked out of his very hands. A most mysterious case. You have heard of it?”
“I saw that ten thousand dollars was offered for the return of the stone and capture of the thief.”
“I made my little list of those to whom Dangerfield had talked during his stay at Sunset Park. Your name was there, Mr. Trent.”
“If you are thinking of writing it up,” Trent said kindly, “I must advise you that editors of the better sort rather frown on coincidence. Coincidence in fiction is a shabby old gentleman to-day with fewer friends every year. What next?”
“Nothing, now,” Kaufmann admitted readily. “Since then I have investigated you. I find you write no more; that you live well; that while your money supposedly comes from Australia you never present an Australian draft at your bank. Now, my dear Mr. Trent, I may misjudge you. Possibly I do. But in the interests of my friends the Baron and Baroness, to say nothing of my customer Jerome Dangerfield, I may be permitted to investigate any man whose way of living seems suspicious. I ought perhaps to put the matter into the hands of the police.”
“Have you?” Trent demanded sharply.
“Not yet. It may be that I shall when I leave here. You may be thinking what a fool I am to come here and tell you these startling things when you are so much younger and stronger than I. I should answer, if you asked me, that I have a permit to carry a revolver and that I have availed myself of it.”
Blandly he showed the other a .38 automatic Bayard pistol.
“You may be misjudged,” he said cordially. “If so I offer you the apology of a Swiss gentleman. But consider my position. Suppose we abide by the decision of the police.” He looked keenly at AnthonyTrent, “Are you willing to leave it to them? Shall I call up Spring 3100?”
Kaufmann gave Trent the idea that he knew very much more about his life than he had so far admitted. There was a certainty about the man that veiled disquieting things. If he knew the Von Ecksteins and Dangerfield as he claimed, it was one of those unfortunate coincidences which life often provides to humble supercilious editors like Crosbeigh. Police investigation was a thing Trent feared greatly. Under cross-examination his defense would fall abjectly. It was no good to inquire how Kaufmann had found out that he had never offered an Australian check at his bank. It was sufficient that his charge was true.
“It is rather late to bother the police,” he said smiling.
Kaufmann breathed relief, “Ah,” he said genially, “we shall make excellent collaborators, I can see that. To-day is Tuesday. On Thursday at this hour I shall come with particulars of what I expect you to do for us?”
“Us?” Trent exclaimed.
“Myself and my partners,” Kaufmann explained. “Yes, at this hour I shall come and you will serve your interest by doing in all things as I say. The alternative is to telephone police headquarters and say an elderly merchant from Zurich threatens you, slanders you, impels you to perform unpleasant offices.”
Kaufmann smiling benignly backed toward the door. He closed it behind him. A little later Anthony Trent saw him on the sidewalk five stories below.
He started as he heard footsteps behind him. It was Mrs. Kinney.
“Was it anything serious?” she asked.
“I’m afraid it was,” he answered. “I want you to go up to Kennebago with me to-morrow afternoon. I shall take only my personal baggage. The furniture can wait. The apartment will be locked up.”
She spoke with a certain hesitation.
“I listened to what he was saying, Mr. Trent.”
“I hoped you would,” he answered, “I may need a witness.”
“Don’t you think it would be wiser to wait and do what he wants you to?”
“Perhaps,” retorted her employer, “but I don’t see how he can find me out in Kennebago. Who knows about it but you and Weems? You haven’t mentioned it to any one and Weems isn’t anxious his financial condition should be suspected. And, beside that, he’s in Los Angeles. I shall pay the rent of this flat up till Christmas and tell the agent I may be back for a few days any time. I must leave the furniture.” He looked about him regretfully. “That could be traced easily enough.” He decided to take the Benares lamp, Stuart’s picture of Washington, the vase of King Senwosri, and one or two things of price. They could go in his trunks.
“But, sir,” Mrs. Kinney persisted timidly, “if he finds you out it may go badly with you and it wouldn’t be difficult to get what he wants.”
“Perhaps not,” he said gravely, “but if I were to do one such thing for them they would use me continually.”
“But he only wants his dye formulae,” she reminded him.
“Don’t you understand,” he said, “that he is a German spy and wants me to betray my country?”
ANTHONYTRENTrode into Kennebago by the corduroy road from Rangely. It took longer but it seemed a less likely way of being seen than if he had taken the train to Kennebago. It had been his intention before Kaufmann had come across his horizon to make the call upon Mr. Westward his first action. As he stood at the window of the big dining room he could see the genial angler, and John his guide, rowing over to the edge of a favorite pool. There he sat in the stern, rod in hand, no doubt thinking of the chapter he was writing on the “Psychology of Trout.”
For years Anthony Trent had looked forward to days like this in his new home. But the thrill of it was gone. He had hoped to look over the lake to the purple hills beyond with a serenity of mind that might now never be his. How much did Kaufmann know? Would he lodge information with the police? Dare he? Probably he would not dare to call. But anonymous information of so important a character would speedily bring detectives on his trail. Beyond a question he should have bought a camp on some far Canadian lake under another name, and reached it by devious ways.
He had betrayed much ingenuity in bringing himself, Mrs. Kinney and their baggage, to Kennebagoas it was. Successions of taxis from hotel to station, and from station to hotel, crossing his own tracks a half dozen times would make pursuit difficult. He had no way of estimating Kaufmann’s skill at following a clue. But the man had impressed him, Anthony Trent, who had foiled so many.
Next morning he determined to fish and was attending to his rods with the loving care of the conscientious angler when a knock came at the door. It opened on to the big screened piazza.
“Come in,” he shouted, thinking Mrs. Kinney wished to consult him.
Instead there entered Mr. Westward who greeted him heartily. It was indeed an honor, for the piscatorial expert called upon few.
“Glad to see you, my dear fellow,” said Westward, shaking him by the hand. “I happened to meet a friend of yours who was coming to see you and lost his way so I’ve brought him along.”
Kaufmann also wrung his hand. He seemed no less delighted to see Trent than had been Mr. Westward.
“What a charming retreat you have here,” he exclaimed cordially.
There followed a conversation concerning trout and salmon which under normal conditions would have been delightful to Trent. Kaufmann was affable, genial, and talked of the finny spoils of his native lakes. It was only when Westward’s erect form had disappeared down the path that his manner became forbidding.
“Why did you leave New York?” he snapped.
“Because I chose to,” said the other.
“What a fool! what a fool!” cried Kaufmann, “and how fortunate that I am good tempered.”
“Why?” Trent demanded.
“Because I might have had you investigated by the police. Instead I followed you here—not without difficulty I admit—and renew my offer.” He looked about the luxurious house that was miscalled a “camp.” It was not the kind of home a man would lose willingly. “I ask very little. I only want a certain package of letters which a man who lands to-morrow in New York has in his possession. One so skilled as you can get it easily. You have presence, education, ready wit. I confess it is difficult for me to believe you have sunk so low.”
Anthony Trent flushed angrily.
“There are lower depths yet,” he exclaimed.
“Yes?” the other returned, “as for instance?”
“Your sort of work!” he cried. “Do you suppose I imagine you to be a Swiss silk merchant of Bahnhof street?”
Kaufmann threw back his head and laughed.
“My passport recently vised by your State Department is made out to Adolf Kaufmann of Zurich. I have Swiss friends in New York and Chicago who will identify me.”
“Naturally,” said Trent, “simple precautions of that sort would have to be taken. That’s elementary.”
“Let us get back to business,” said the other, “I want those papers. Will you get them for me? Think it over well. You may say you will not. You may say you prefer to remain here in this delightful place and catch trout. Let us suppose that you say you defy me. What happens? You lose all chance tolook at trout for ten, fifteen, twenty years accordingly as the judge regards your offenses. I have mentioned only two crimes to you. Of these I have data and am certain. There are two others in which I can interest myself if necessary. I do not wish to bother myself with you after you do as I command. Get me the papers and you may remain here till you have grand-children of marriageable age. Is it worth defying me, Mr. Trent?”
The younger man groaned as he thought it over. The fabric he had made so carefully was ready to fall apart. Kaufmann went on talking.
“The man you must follow is called Commander Godfrey Heathcote, of the British Navy. On his breast he wears the ribbons of the Victoria Cross—a blue one for the Navy—and the red ribbon, edged with blue, of the Distinguished Service Order. He is a man much of your build but has straw colored hair and light blue eyes. He walks with a limp owing to a wound received at the Zeebrugge affair. He is supposed to be over here to stay with relatives who have a place on the James River. He leaves for Washington soon where his business is with the Secretary of the Navy. The papers I want are in a pigskin cigarette case, old and worn. You’d better bring the case in its entirety.”
Kaufmann rattled off his instructions in a sure and certain manner. Evidently he had no fear of being denied.
“Isn’t it unusual for an English naval commander to carry trade secrets about with him?” Trent demanded.
“Why keep up the farce?” Kaufmann exclaimed.“You, too, are a man of the world. You realize you are in my power and must do as you are bid.”
“Must I?” Trent answered with a frown. “I am asked to play the traitor to my country and you expect me to accept without hesitation.”
“Why not?” Kaufmann returned. “Would you be the first that fear of exposure has led into such ways? If I were to tell you how we—” he paused a moment and then smiled—“how we silk merchants of Switzerland have used our knowledge of the black pages of men’s lives or the indiscretions of well known women, you would understand more readily how we obtain what we want.”
“I understand,” said Anthony Trent gloomily. He was a case in point.
“And you will save yourself?”
“I don’t know,” said Trent hesitating. But he knew that Kaufmann had made such threats as these to others and had gained his desires. “What’s in those papers?”
“Dye formulae,” smiled the elder man.
Anthony Trent looked at him angrily. His nerves were on edge. Plainly Kaufmann felt it unwise to stir the smouldering passion in him.
“England,” he informed the other, “has recently reorganized the mine fields outside Sheerness at the mouth of the Thames. Commander Heathcote, who is here ostensibly to recuperate from wounds, is chosen to carry the plans to the Navy Department. There you have all I know.”
“But that’s treachery!” Trent cried.
“What’s England to you,” Kaufmann answered, “oryou to England? I’m not asking you to take American plans.”
“It’s the same thing now,” Trent persisted. “We’re allies and what’s treachery to one is treachery to the other.”
“Admirable!” Kaufmann sneered, “admirable! But I invite you to come down to mother earth. You are not concerned with the affairs of nations. You are concerned only with your own safety which is the nearer task. You get those plans or you go to prison. You realize my power. I need you. You may ask why I have gone to this trouble to take you, a stranger, more or less into my confidence. Very well. I shall tell you. My own men are working like slaves in your accursed internment camps and I am alone who had so many to command.”
“Alone,” said Anthony Trent in an altered voice and looked at him oddly.
Kaufmann observed the look and laughed.
“I am a mind reader,” he said cheerfully, “I will tell you what is passing through your brain. You are wondering whether if those strong hands of yours get a grip of my throat your own troubles, too, would not be at an end. No, my friend, I still have my Bayard with me. And why run the risk, if you should overpower me, of being tried for murder? What I ask of you is very little. Remember, also, that I have but to say the word and you land in prison.”
“You’d go with me,” Trent exclaimed.
“I think not,” smiled Kaufmann. “Jerome Dangerfield and others would vouch for me whereas I fear you would be friendless. And even if I were interned how would that help you? Be sensible and get readyto accompany me to New York on the five o’clock train. I have your reservations.”
It was not easy to explain things to Mrs. Kinney. Trent told her that his suspicions of Kaufmann’s German sympathies were wrong. He said he was compelled to get the dye formulae and would return within a few days.
“I shall come too,” Mrs. Kinney observed. “I left a lot of my things at the flat and I shall need them.”
It seemed to Trent that she was not deceived by his words; and while he would have preferred to leave her in Maine he could think of no reason for keeping her there if she wished to leave. All the way he was gloomy. To Kaufmann’s sallies he made morose answers. Presently the so-called Swiss left him alone. But Trent could not escape the feeling that his every action was watched. He was to all intents and purposes bond servant to an enemy of his country.
“Just a final word,” said Kaufmann as they neared the 125th street station.
“What else?” Trent said impatiently. He was filled with disgust with himself and of hatred for the German.
“Remember that the cigarette case which holds my formulae is a long flat one holding twelve cigarettes. On it is stamped ‘G.H.’ He does not secrete it as you think but exposes it carelessly to view. I advise you to go straight to your apartment and await my letter. It is necessary for me to find out particulars which it might be unwise for you to do. I don’t want you to fall under suspicion.”
“You are very thoughtful,” sneered Trent. He knew well enough that he had a value in Kaufmann’s eyes which would be destroyed were he to come under police supervision. That this was the only case where he was to be used was unlikely. Having used him once he would be at their command again. But would he? Anthony Trent sat back in his chair deep lines on his drawn white face. This was the reward of the life he had led. And the way to break from Kaufmann’s grip was to run the risk of the long prison term, or—the taking of a life. And even were he to come to this Kaufmann might be only one of a gang whose other members might command his services.
“I shall send you a message by telephone if it is still in your flat. It is? Good. That simplifies matters. Wait until you receive it and then act immediately.”
Anthony Trent disregarded the outstretched hand and cordial smile, when a minute or so later, the train pulled into the Grand Central. He hailed a taxi and drove to his rooms utterly obsessed with his bitter thoughts. It was not until he pulled up the shades and glanced about the place that he remembered Mrs. Kinney. He had forgotten her. But he relied on her common sense. Sooner or later she would come. Meanwhile he must wait for Kaufmann’s telephone message.
The message arrived before the woman. “To-morrow,” said Kaufmann, “your friend leaves for Washington. He is staying at the Carlton and goes to his room after dinner. He will be pleased to see you. To-morrow night I shall call upon you soon after dark.”
The Carlton was the newest of the hotels, the most superbly decorated, the hotel that always disappointed thenouveau richebecause so little goldleaf had beenused in the process. Anthony Trent had spent a night or two in every big hotel the city boasted. In a little note book there were certain salient features carefully put down, hints which might be useful to him. Turning to the book he read it carefully. He was already acquainted with the general lay-out of the hotel which had been generously explained in the architectural papers.
The hotel detectives were men of whom he liked to learn as much as possible. The house detective, the head of them, was Francis Xavier Glynn who felt himself kin to Gaboriau because of his subtle methods. He would often come to the hotel desk and register talking in a loud tone about his Western business connections. He dressed in what he assumed was the Western manner. To his associates this seemed the height of cunning. As a matter of fact the high class crook who prefers the high class hotel knew of it and was amused. Clarke was Trent’s informant. The old editor had pointed him out to the younger man one day when they had met near enough to the hotel’s café entrance to go in and have a drink.
As a rule Trent made elaborate plans for the successful carrying out of his work. But here he was suddenly told to engage in a very difficult operation. Disguises must be good indeed to stand the glare of hotel corridors and dining rooms. He decided to go and trust to some plan suggesting itself when the moment arrived.
He registered as Conway Parker of York, Pennsylvania and the grip which the boy carried to his room had on it “C.P. York, Pa.” Trent had given a couple of dollars for it at a second hand store. It dulledsuspicions which might have been aroused where the bag and initials glaringly new. It was part of Francis Xavier Glynn’s plan to have the hotel boys report hourly on any unusual happening.
As Trent had waited to register he noted the name he was looking for, Commander Heathcote, had a room on the 17th floor. Parker was assigned to one on the seventh. Directly the boy had left Anthony Trent started to work. He found just cause of offense so far as the location of his room went. It was an inside room and the heat of the day made it oppressive. Commander Heathcote, as he found by taking a trip to the seventeenth floor, had an outside room. A further investigation proved that immediately over the Commander’s room was an unoccupied suite. To effect the exchange was not easy. Trent could not very well dictate the location of the room or betray so exact a knowledge of hotel topography without incurring suspicion. But at last the thing was done. The gentleman from York wanted a sitting room, bedroom and bath and obtained it immediately over those of the naval officer.
He passed Heathcote in the dining room, and looked at him keenly. The two men were of a height. Heathcote was broader. Trent instantly knew him for that fighting type characterized by the short, straight nose, cleft chin and light blue eyes. It was a man to beware of in an encounter. He limped a little and walked with a cane. And while he waited for hishors d’œuvreshe took out a long pigskin cigarette case. It was within ten feet of the man who had come to steal it. For a wild moment he wondered whether it were possible to lunge for it and make his escape. A momentlater he was annoyed that such a puerile thought had visited him. It meant that his nerves were not under their usual control.
After dinner two or three men spoke to the Commander as he limped toward the elevator. One, a British colonel, shook hands heartily and congratulated him on the V.C. Another, a stranger evidently, tried to get him into conversation. Trent noted that the Commander, although courteous to a degree, was not minded to make hotel acquaintances. He declined a drink and refused a cigar by taking out his cigarette case. The stranger looked at it curiously.
“Seen some service, hasn’t it?” the affable stranger remarked and took it from the owner’s hand.
“A very old pal,” said the naval man. Trent had observed the slight hesitation before he had permitted it to leave his hand. “I wouldn’t lose it for a lot.”
Trent stood ready. It might be that this thick skinned stranger was after the same loot as he. But he handed it back and strolled off to the café where he joined a group of perfectly respectable business men from Columbus, O.
As most travelers in first class hotels know, the eighteenth story of the Carlton looks across a block of fashionable private houses on its north side. There is on that account no possibility of any prying stranger gazing into its rooms from across the way. Towering above these lesser habitations the Carlton looms inaccessible, austere, remote.
In the grip which had once belonged to the unknown “C. P. of York, Pa.” Anthony Trent had put the kit necessary for a short stay. There was also certain equipment without which certain nervoustravelers rarely stray from home. For example there was a small axe. In a collision at sea many are drowned who might escape did not the impact have the effect of jamming the doors of their state rooms. The axe in the hands of the thoughtful voyager could be used to hack through thin planking to freedom. There was also a small coil of high grade rope, tested to three hundred pounds. In case of fire the careful traveler might slide to earth. Not, of course, from an eighteenth floor.
At half past one that night it was very dark and cloudy. A light rain dropped on dusty streets and there was silence. Tying his line to the firm anchorage of a pipe in the bath room Anthony Trent began his work. He was dressed in a dark blue suit. He wore no collar and on his hands were dark gray gloves. Below him was the green and white striped awning that protected Commander Heathcote’s windows. It was almost certain that an Englishman would sleep with windows open.
It was not difficult for a gymnast to slide down the rope head foremost. When Trent could touch the top of the Heathcote awning he took a safety razor blade from his lips and cut a slit across it sufficiently wide to admit his head and shoulders.
It was not a descent which caused much trouble. There was the chance that the rope might break. He wondered through how many awnings he would plunge before consciousness left him.
Heathcote was asleep. By a table near the bed was an ash tray, matches, Conrad’s “Youth” and the cigarette case. And lying near was the stout cane which the man who was wounded in that splendid attack onZeebrugge used to aid himself in his halting walk.
Trent, with the case in his pocket, walked to the door. It was not his intention to make the more hazardous climb up to his room when so easy a way of getting there presented itself. It was locked and barred.
In his room he sat and looked at what he had taken. It represented, so Kaufmann said, his freedom from arrest. It contained plans of vital importance to the allies. They could only be used by the enemy to bring destruction to those who fought for right. And what punishment would be given the wounded hero for losing what was entrusted to him? For an hour Trent sat there looking at the pigskin case. And gradually what had seemed an impossible sacrifice to make, came to be something desirable and splendid. Anthony Trent had never been able to regard his career as one justified by circumstances. There burned in his breast the spark of patriotism more strongly than he knew. He had fought his fight and won. His eyes were moist as he thought of his father, that old civil war soldier who had been wounded on Gettysburg’s bloody field and walked always with a limp like the English sailor beneath.
When he opened the door Heathcote was still slumbering. He replaced the case as nearly in the position he found as he could. In that moment Anthony Trent felt he could look any man in the face.
He was still slumbering when Commander Heathcote awoke. Presently the officer saw that the door was unbarred and as investigation proved, unlocked.
“I’d have sworn,” muttered the Commander, “that I locked and barred it.”
AThis apartment, which he reached by noon, he found a note from Mrs. Kinney advising him that she would not be back until late. A salad would be found in the ice box. But his appetite had deserted him and strong tea and crackers sufficed him. The feeling of exaltation which had carried him along was now dying down leaving in its place a grim, dogged determination. He saw now very clearly that the time was come to pay for his misdeeds. Dimly he had felt that some day there would have to be a reckoning. He had never thought it so near.
It would not have been difficult to make his escape from the man who threatened. With his swift motor he could cross some sparsely peopled border district into Canada. Or he could drop down into South or Central America and there wait until the years brought safety or he had deteriorated in fibre as do most men of his race in tropic sloth.
The thing that kept him was a chivalrous, burning desire to capture Kaufmann. Anthony Trent wondered how many men weaker than he had been forced to betray their country as he had very nearly done. And the knowledge that he had even considered such baseness for a moment awakened a deep smouldering wrath in his mind that needed for its outlet someexpression of physical force. Kaufmann was strongly built and rugged but it would hardly be a smiling suave spy that he would drag before the police. At least they would go down to ruin together.
At ten thirty the bell rang. But the feeble steps that made their weary ascent were those of Mrs. Kinney. When first he flung open the door he hardly recognized her. As a rule neat and quietly dressed in black she was to-night wearing the faded gingham dress she used for rough work, a dress he had seldom seen. She wore no hat; instead a handkerchief was on her head. She looked for all the world like some shabby denizen of the city’s foreign quarters.
“Are you expecting him?” she demanded.
“Yes,” he said dully. It was a shock not to meet him when he was nerved to the task.
She looked at him with a certain triumph in her face that was not unmixed with affection.
“He will never come here again.”
“What do you mean?” he cried.
“He’s dead.” It was curious to note the flash of her usually mild eye as she said it. For a moment he thought the old woman was demented. But her voice was firm.
“I followed him on his way here,” she went on. “I found out where he lived. As he crossed Eighth avenue at 34th street I told people he was a German spy. There were a lot of soldiers on their way to the Pennsylvania station and they started to run after him. Then a man tripped him up but he got to his feet and crossed the road in front of a motor truck.”
“You are certain he was killed?”
“I waited to make sure,” she said simply. “Nobodyknew it was I who started calling him a spy.”
There was a pause of half a minute. The knowledge of his safety was almost too much for Trent after his hours of suspense.
“I suppose you know,” he said huskily, “that you’ve probably saved my life. I didn’t do as he wanted me to. I was prepared to denounce him to the police.”
“But they’d have got you, too,” she said.
“I know,” he returned. “I’d thought of that.”
“Oh, Mr. Trent!” she cried, “Oh, Mr. Trent!” Then for the second time in the years he had known her she fell into a fit of weeping.
When she was recovered and had taken a cup of strong tea she explained how it was she had tracked Kaufmann to his home. She had slipped away from Trent at the Grand Central when he was too much worried to notice it. Kaufmann walked the half dozen blocks to his rooms in the house occupied by a physician on Forty-eighth street, just west of Fifth avenue. Applying for work Mrs. Kinney was engaged instantly for two days a week. The need for respectable women was so great that no references were asked. She was thus free of the house and regarded without suspicion.
She worked there the whole day but learned nothing from the cook and waitress of Mr. Kaufmann. He rented the whole of the second floor and had a fad for keeping it in order himself. It saved them trouble. The maids said, vaguely, he was in the importing business and very wealthy.
It was while Kaufmann went down to sign for a registered letter that Mrs. Kinney slipped into theroom. There was nothing in the way of papers or documents that she could see.
Because he could not bear investigation, Anthony Trent telephoned to the Department of Justice as he had done in the case of Frederick Williams. He felt certain that Kaufmann was a highly placed official. But there was no newspaper mention of the raid. Trent was not to know that no news was allowed to leak out for the reason that matters of enormous importance were discovered. He was right in assuming Kaufmann to be a personage. The mangled body was buried in the Potters’ Field and those lesser men depending on the monetary support and counsel of Kaufmann were thrown into confusion. His superiors in Germany, when later they found the Allies in possession of certain secrets, assumed their agent to be interned. Altogether Mrs. Kinney deserved her country’s thanks.
“And now shall we go back to Kennebago?”
“Not yet,” he said smiling a little gravely. “Not yet. It may be I shall never see Kennebago again.”
She looked at him startled. The affairs of the past week had been a great strain to her.
“I’m going to enlist,” he said.
Before Trent went to enlist, he had an understanding with Mrs. Kinney as to the Kennebago camp. She was to live there and keep the house and gardens in good order until he returned. He had none of those premonitions of disaster which some who go to war have in abundance. Now that the danger of his arrest was gone and Kaufmann could never again entrap him he felt cheerful and lighthearted.
“I shall come back,” he told the old woman, “I feel it in my bones. But if not there will be enough for you to live on. I am seeing my lawyer about it this morning.”
On the way to the recruiting station, Trent met Weems.
“What branch are you going in?” he asked upon learning of Trent’s plans.
“Where I’m most needed,” Trent said cheerfully. “Infantry I guess.”
“You can get a commission right away,” Weems cried, a sudden thought striking him. “It was in last night’s papers. It said that men holding the B.S. degree were wanted and would be commissioned right off the reel. You’re a B.S. You wait a bit. Be an officer instead of an enlisted man. I bet the food’s better.”
He was a little piqued that Anthony Trent betrayed so little pleasure at the news. It so happened that Trent had given a deal of thought to this very thing. And his decision was to allow the chance of a commission to go. There was a strain of quixotism about him and a certain fineness of feeling which went to make this decision final. He loved his country in the quiet intense manner which does not show itself in the waving of flags. To outward appearances and to the unjudging mind, Weems would seem the more loyal of the two. Weems wore a flag in his buttonhole and shouted loudly his protestations and yet had made no sacrifice. Trent was to offer his life quietly, untheatrically. And he wanted to wear no officer’s uniform in case his arrest or discovery would bring reproach upon it. In his mind he could see headlines in the paper announcing that an officer of the United States Army was a notorious—he shuddered at the word—thief. And again, there was no certainty in his mind that he would give up his mode of life. In the beginning he had set out to obtain enough money to live in comfort. That, long ago, had been achieved. Then the jewels to adorn his lamp occupied his mind and now the game was in his blood. He wanted his camp for recreation but it would not satisfy wholly. When the war was over there would be Europe’s fertile fields to work upon.
There were many things to aid him in his feeling that the turning over of a new leaf would be useless. Nothing could ever undo what he had done. Try as he might he would never face the world an honest man. He would go to war. He would be a good soldier.
It was in the infantry that they needed men and Camp Dix received him with others. So insignificant a thing was one soldier that he presently felt a sense of security that had been denied him for years.
The experiences he went through in Camp were common to all. They were easier to him than most because of his perfection of physical condition. On the whole it was interesting work but he was glad when he marched along the piers of the Army Transport Service, where formerly German lines had docked, and boarded theLeviathan. Private Trent was going “over there.”
It was common knowledge that the regiments would not yet be sent to France. What they had learned at Camp Dix would be supplemented by a post-graduate course in England.
Curiously enough Trent found himself on the Sussex Downs, those rolling hills of chalk covered with short springy aromatic grasses and flowers. Here were a hundred sights and sounds that stirred his blood. Five generations of Trents had been born in America since that adventurous younger son had set out for the Western world. The present Anthony was coming back to the ancient home of his family under the most favorable circumstances. He was coming back with his mind purged of ancient enmities fostered so long by Britain’s foes to further alien causes; coming back to a country knit to his own by bonds that would not easily be broken.
It was curious that he should find himself here on the high downs because it was from this county of Sussex that the Trents sprang. Not far from Lewes was an old house, set among elms, which hadbeen theirs for three hundred years. When he was last in England he had made a pilgrimage to it only to find its owner salmon fishing in Norway. The housekeeper had shown him over it, a big rambling house full of odd corridors and unexpected steps and he had never failed to think of it with pride. On that visit he had been disappointed to find the village church shut; the sexton was at his midday dinner.
Trent had been under canvas only a few days when he obtained leave for a few hours and set out to the church. He counted three Anthony Trents whose deeds were told on mural tablets. One had been an admiral; one a bishop and the third a colonel of Dragoons at Waterloo. He sauntered by the old house and looked at it enviously. “If I bought that,” he thought, “I would settle down to the ways of honest men.”
He shrugged his shoulders. There were many things yet to be done. It was only since he had been in England and seen her wounded that he realized what none can until it is witnessed, the certainty that there must be much suffering before the end is achieved.
The men in his company were not especially congenial. They were friendly enough but their interests were narrow. Trent was glad when the training period was over and he embarked in the troop train for Doveren routeto the Western front. He made a good soldier. More than one of his mates said he would wear the chevrons before many weeks but he was anxious for no such distinction.
At the time his regiment arrived in France the American troops were at grips with the enemy. It was the first time that they held as a unit part ofthe line. The Germans, already making their retreat, left in the rear nests of machine gunners to hamper the pursuers. To clear these nests of hornets, to search abandoned cellars and buildings where men or bombs might be lying in wait was a task far more deadly than participation in a battle. Only iron-nerved men, strong to act and quick to think, were needed. There was a day when volunteers were asked for. Anthony Trent was the first man to offer himself. Under a lieutenant this band of brave men went about its dangerous task. The casualties were many and among them the officer.
He had made such an impression on his men and they had gained such favorable mention for gallant conduct that there was a fear lest the new officer might be of less vigorous and dashing nature. It was work, this nest clearing danger, that Trent liked enormously. He had come to know what traps the Hun was likely to set, the tempting cigar-box, the field glasses, the fountain-pen the touching of which meant maiming at the least. And against some of these trapped men Trent revived his old football tackle and brought them startled to the ground. It was the most stirring game of his life.
But one look at the new officer changed his mood. He looked at his lieutenant and his lieutenant looked at him. And the officer licked his lips hungrily. It was Devlin whom he had laughed at in San Francisco. Instinctively the men who observed this meeting sensed some pre-war hatred and speculated on its origin. Recollecting himself Trent saluted.
“So I’ve got a thief in my company,” Devlinsneered. “I’ll have to watch you pretty close. Looting’s forbidden.”
It was plain to the men who watched Devlin’s subsequent plan of action that he was trying to goad the enlisted man into striking him. In France the discipline of the American army was taking on the sterner character of that which distinguished the Allies.
No task had ever been so difficult for Anthony Trent as this continual curb he was compelled to put upon his tongue. Devlin had always disliked him. He was maddened at the thought that Trent had taken the Mount Aubyn ruby from under his nose. It was because of this, Dangerfield had discharged him from a lucrative position. And in the case of the Takowaja emerald it was Anthony Trent who had laughed at him. Many an hour had Devlin spent trying to weave the rope that would hang him. And in these endeavors he had gathered many odds and ends of information over which he chuckled with joy.
But first of all he wanted to break his enemy. There was no opportunity of which he did not take advantage. Ordinarily his superior officers would have witnessed this policy and reprimanded him; but conditions were such that their special duties kept Devlin and his men apart from their comrades. Devlin was a good officer and credit was given him for much that Trent deserved.
It chanced one night that while they waited for a little wood to be cleared of gas, Devlin and Trent sat within a few feet of one another. It was an opportunity Devlin was quick to seize.
“Thought you’d fooled me in ’Frisco, didn’t you?”
Trent lighted a cigarette with exasperating slowness.
“I did fool you,” he asserted calmly. “It is never hard to fool a man with your mental equipment.”
“Huh,” Devlin grunted, “you’ve got the criminal’s low cunning, I’ll admit that, Mr. Maltby of Chicago.”
He made a labored pretence of hunting for his cigarette case.
“Gone!” he said sneering; “some one’s lifted it but I guess you know where it is. Oh no, I forgot. You weren’t a dip, you were a second story man. Excuse me.”
He kept this heavy and malicious humor going until Trent’s imperturbability annoyed him.
“What a change!” he commented presently. “Me the officer and you the enlisted man who’s got to do as I say. You with your fast auto and your golf and society ways and me who used to be a cop.”
Winning no retort from his victim he leaned forward and pushed Trent roughly. He started back at the white wrath which transfigured the other’s face.
“Look here, Devlin,” Trent cried savagely, “you want me to hit you so you can prefer charges against me for striking an officer and have me disciplined. Listen to this: if you put your filthy hand on me again I won’t hit you, I’ll kill you.”
Towering and threatening he stood over the other. Devlin, who knew men and the ways of violence, looked into Trent’s face and recognized it was no idle threat he heard.
“That would be a hell of a fine trick,” he said, a little unsteadily, “to empty your gun in my back.”
“You know I wouldn’t do it that way,” Trent retorted.“Why should I let you off so easily as that?”
“Easily?” Devlin repeated.
“When I get ready,” Trent said grimly, “I shall want you to realize what’s coming to you.”
“Is that a threat?” Devlin demanded.
Trent nodded his head.
“It’s a threat.”
Devlin thought for a moment.
“I’ll fix you,” he said.
“How?” Trent inquired. “You’ve tried every way there is to have me killed. If there’s a doubtful place where some boches may be hiding with bombs whom do you send to find out? You send Private Trent. I’m not kicking. I volunteered for the job. I came out to do what I could. My one disappointment is that my officer is not also a gentleman.”
Devlin’s face was now better humored.
“I’ll fix you,” he said again, “I’ll see Pershing pins a medal on you all right.”
Trent wondered what he meant. And he wondered why for a day or two Devlin goaded him no more. Instead he looked at him as one who knew another was marked down for death and disgrace. It was inevitable that Anthony Trent could never know how near to discovery he was. The odds are against the best breakers of law. The history of crime told him that the cleverest had been captured by some trifling piece of carelessness. Had Devlin some such clue, he wondered?