“Come to my house to-night.Bring your contracts with you.Knapp.”
I was thrown into some perplexity by this order. For a little I suspected a trap, but on second thought this seemed unlikely. The office furnished as convenient a place for homicidal diversions as he could wish, if these were in his intention, and possibly a visit to Doddridge Knapp in his own house would give me a better clue to his habits and purposes, and a better chance of bringing home to him his awful crime, than a month together on the Street.
The clocks were pointing past eight when I mounted the steps that led to Doddridge Knapp's door. Doddridge Knapp's house fronted upper Pine Street much as Doddridge Knapp himself fronted lower Pine Street. There was a calmly aggressive look about it that was typical of the owner. It defied the elements with easy strength, as Doddridge Knapp defied the storms of the market. I had the fancy that even if the directory had not given me its position I might have picked it out from its neighbors by its individuality, its impression of reserve force.
I had something of trepidation, after all, as I rang the bell, for I was far from being sure that Doddridge Knapp was above carrying out his desperate purposes in his own house, and I wondered whether I should ever come out again, once I was behind those massive doors. I had taken the precaution to find a smaller revolver, “suitable for an evening call,” as I assured myself, but it did not look to be much of a protection in case the house held a dozen ruffians of the Terrill brand. However, I must risk it. I gave my name to the servant who opened the door.
“This way,” he said quietly.
I had hardly time as I passed to note the large hall, the handsome staircase, and the wide parlors that hung rich with drapery, but in darkness. I was led beyond and behind them, and in a moment was ushered into a small, plainly-furnished room; and at a desk covered with papers sat Doddridge Knapp, the picture of the Wolf in his den.
“Sit down, Wilton,” said he with grim affability, giving his hand. “You won't mind if an old man doesn't get up.”
I made some conventional reply.
“Sorry to disappoint you this afternoon, and take up your evening,” he said; “but I found some business that needed more immediate attention. There was a little matter that had to be looked after in person.” And the Wolf's fangs showed in a cruel smile, which assured me that the “little matter” had terminated unhappily for the other man.
I airily professed myself happy to be at his service at any time.
“Yes, yes,” he said; “but let's see your memoranda. Did you do well this afternoon?”
“No-o,” I returned apologetically. “Not so well as I wished.”
He took the papers and looked over them carefully.
“Thirty-one hundred,” he said reflectively. “Those sales were all right. Well, I was afraid you couldn't get above three thousand. I didn't get more than two thousand in the other Boards and on the Street.”
“That was the best I could do,” I said modestly. “They average at sixty-five. Omega got away from us this afternoon like a runaway horse.”
“Yes, yes,” said the King of the Street, studying his papers with drawn brows. “That's all right. I'll have to wait a bit before going further.” I bowed as became one who had no idea of the plans ahead.
“And now,” said Doddridge Knapp, turning on me a keen and lowering gaze, “I'd like to know what call you have to be spying on me?”
I opened my eyes wide in wonder.
“Spying? I don't understand.”
“No?” said he, with something between a growl and a snarl. “Well, maybe you don't understand that, either!” And he tossed me a bit of paper.
I felt sure that I did not. My ignorance grew into amazement as I read. The slip bore the words:
“I have bought Crown Diamond. What's the limit?Wilton.”
“I certainly don't understand,” I said. “What does it mean?”
“The man who wrote it ought to know,” growled Doddridge Knapp, with his eyes flashing and the yellow-gray mustache standing out like bristles. The fangs of the Wolf were in sight.
“Well, you'll have to look somewhere else for him,” I said firmly. “I never saw the note, and never bought a share of Crown Diamond.”
Doddridge Knapp bent forward, and looked for an instant as though he would leap upon me. His eye was the eye of a wild beast in anger. If I had written that note I should have gone through the window without stopping for explanations. As I had not written it I sat there coolly and looked him in the face with an easy conscience.
“Well, well,” he said at last, relaxing his gaze, “I almost believe you.”
“There's no use going any further, Mr. Knapp, unless you believe me altogether.”
“I see you understand what I was going to say,” he said quietly. “But if you didn't send that, who did?”
“Well, if I were to make a guess, I should say it was the man who wrote this.”
I tossed him in turn the note I had received in the afternoon, bidding me sell everything.
The King of the Street looked at it carefully, and his brows drew lower and lower as its import dawned on him. The look of angry perplexity deepened on his face.
“Where did you get this?”
I detailed the circumstances.
The anger that flashed in his eyes was more eloquent than the outbreak of curses I expected to hear.
“Um!” he said at last with a grim smile. “It's lucky, after all, that you had something besides cotton in that skull of yours, Wilton.”
“A fool might have been caught by it,” I said modestly.
“There looks to be trouble ahead,” he said, “There's a rascally gang in the market these days.” And the King of the Street sighed over the dishonesty that had corrupted the stock gamblers' trade. I smiled inwardly, but signified my agreement with my employer.
“Well, who wrote them?” he asked almost fiercely. “They seem to come from the same hand.”
“Maybe you'd better ask that fellow who had his eye at your keyhole when I left the office this noon.”
“Who was that?” The Wolf gave a startled look. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“He was a well-made, quick, lithe fellow, with an eye that reminded me of a snake. I gave chase to him, but couldn't overhaul him. He squirmed away in the crowd, I guess.”
The last part of my tale was unheard. At the description of the snake-eyed man, Doddridge Knapp sank back in his chair, the flash of anger died out of his eyes, and his mind was far away.
Was it terror, or anxiety, or wonder, that swept in shadow across his face? The mask that never gave up a thought or purpose before the changing fortunes of the market was not likely to fail its owner here. I could make nothing out of the page before me, except that the vision of Terrill had startled him.
“Why didn't you tell me?” he said at last, in a steady voice.
“I didn't suppose it was worth coming back for, after I got into the street. And, besides, you were busy.”
“Yes, yes, you were right: you are not to come—of course, of course.”
The King of the Street looked at me curiously, and then said smoothly:
“But this isn't business.” And he plunged into the papers once more. “There were over nine thousand shares sold this afternoon, and I got only five thousand of them.”
“I suppose Decker picked the others up,” I said.
The King of the Street did me the honor to look at me in amazement.
“Decker!” he roared. “How did you—” Then he paused and his voice dropped to its ordinary tone. “I reckon you're right. What gave you the idea?”
I frankly detailed my conversation with Wallbridge. As I went on, I fancied that the bushy brows drew down and a little anxiety showed beneath them.
I had hardly finished my account when there was a knock at the door, and the servant appeared.
“Mrs. Knapp's compliments, and she would like to see Mr. Wilton when you are done,” he said.
I could with difficulty repress an exclamation, and my heart climbed into my throat. I was ready to face the Wolf in his den, but here was a different matter. I recalled that Mrs. Knapp was a more intimate acquaintance of Henry Wilton's than Doddridge Knapp had been, and I saw Niagara ahead of my skiff.
“Yes, yes; quite likely,” said my employer, referring to my story of Wallbridge. “I heard something of the kind from my men. I'll know to-morrow for certain, I expect. I forgot to tell you that the ladies would want to see you. They have missed you lately.” And the Wolf motioned me to the door where the servant waited.
Here was a predicament. I was missed and wanted—and by the ladies. My heart dropped back from my throat, and I felt it throbbing in the lowest recesses of my boot-heels as I rose and followed my guide.
As the door swung open, my heart almost failed me. If there had been a chance of escape I should have made the bolt, then and there.
I had not counted on an interview with the women of Doddridge Knapp's family. I had, to be sure, vaguely foreseen the danger to come from meeting them, but I had been confident that it would be easy to avoid them. And now, in the face of the emergency, my resources had failed me, and I was walking into Mrs. Knapp's reception-room without the glimmer of an idea of how I should find my way out.
Two women rose to greet me as I entered the room.
“Good evening,” said the elder woman, holding out her hand. “You have neglected us for a long time.” There was something of reproach as well as civility in the voice.
Mrs. Doddridge Knapp, for I had no doubt it was she who greeted me, was large of frame but well-proportioned, and stood erect, vigorous, with an air of active strength rare in one of her years. Her age was, I supposed, near forty-five. Her face was strong and resolute, yet it was with the strength and resolution of a woman, not of a man. Altogether she looked a fit mate for Doddridge Knapp.
“Yes,” I replied, adjusting my manner nicely to hers, “I have been very busy.”
As she felt the touch of my hand and heard the sound of my voice, I thought I saw a look of surprise, apprehension and hesitation in her eyes. If it was there it was gone in an instant, and she replied gaily:
“Busy? How provoking of you to say so! You should never be too busy to take the commands of the ladies.”
“That is why I am here,” I interrupted with my best bow. But she continued without noting it:
“Luella wagered with me that you would make that excuse. I expected something more original.”
“I am very sorry,” I said, with a reflection of the bantering air she had assumed.
“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the younger woman, to whom my eyes had turned as Mrs. Knapp spoke her name. “How very unkind of you to say so, when I have just won a pair of gloves by it. Good evening to you!” And she held out her hand.
It was with a strong effort that I kept my self-possession, as for the first time I clasped the hand of Luella Knapp.
Was it the thrill of her touch, the glance of her eye, or the magnetism of her presence, that set my pulses beating to a new measure, and gave my spirit a breath from a new world? Whatever the cause, as I looked into the clear-cut face and the frank gray eyes of the woman before me, I was swept by a flood of emotion that was near overpowering my self-control.
Nor was it altogether the emotion of pleasure that was roused within me. As I looked into her eyes, I had the pain of seeing myself in a light that had not as yet come to me. I saw myself not the friend of Henry Wilton, on the high mission of bringing to justice the man who had foully sent him to death. In that flash I saw Giles Dudley hiding under a false name, entering this house to seek for another link in the chain that would drag this girl's father to the gallows and turn her life to bitterness and misery. And in the reflection from the clear depths of the face before me, I saw Imposter and Spy written large on my forehead.
I mastered the emotion in a moment and took the seat to which she had waved me.
I was puzzled a little at the tone in which she addressed me. There was a suggestion of resentment in her manner that grew on me as we talked.
Can I describe her? Of what use to try? She was not beautiful, and “pretty” was too petty a word to apply to Luella Knapp. “Fine looking,” if said with the proper emphasis, might give some idea of her appearance, for she was tall in figure, with features that were impressive in their attractiveness. Yet her main charm was in the light that her spirit and intelligence threw on her face; and this no one can describe.
The brightness of her speech did not disappoint the expectation I had thus formed of her. It was a finely-cultivated mind that was revealed to me, and it held a wit rare to woman. I followed her lead in the conversational channel, giving but a guiding oar when it turned toward acquaintances she held in common with Henry Wilton, or events that had interested them together.
Through it all the idea that Miss Knapp was regarding me with a hidden disapproval was growing on me. I decided that Henry had made some uncommon blunder on his last visit and that I was suffering the penalty for it. The admiration I felt for the young woman deepened with every sentence she spoke, and I was ready to do anything to restore the good opinion that Henry might have endangered, and in lieu of apology exerted myself to the utmost to be agreeable.
I was unconscious of the flight of time until Mrs. Knapp turned from some other guests and walked toward us.
“Come, Henry,” she said pointedly, “Luella is not to monopolize you all the time. Besides, there's Mr. Inman dying to speak to her.”
I promptly hated Mr. Inman with all my heart and felt not the slightest objection to his demise; but at her gesture of command I rose and accompanied Mrs. Knapp, as a young man with eye-glasses and a smirk came to take my place. I left Luella Knapp, congratulating myself over my cleverness in escaping the pitfalls that lined my way.
“Now I've a chance to speak to you at last,” said Mrs. Knapp.
“At your service,” I bowed. “I owe you something.”
“Indeed?” Mrs. Knapp raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“For your kind recommendation to Mr. Knapp.”
“My recommendation? You have a little the advantage of me.”
I was stricken with painful doubts, and the cold sweat started upon me. Perhaps this was not Mrs. Knapp after all.
“Oh, perhaps you didn't mean it,” I said.
“Indeed I did, if it was a recommendation. I'm afraid it was unconscious, though. Mr. Knapp does not consult me about his business.”
I was in doubt no longer. It was the injured pride of the wife that spoke in the tone.
“I'm none the less obliged,” I said carelessly. “He assured me that he acted on your words.”
“What on earth are you doing for Mr. Knapp?” she asked earnestly, dropping her half-bantering tone. There was a trace of apprehension in her eyes.
“I'm afraid Mr. Knapp wouldn't think your recommendations were quite justified if I should tell you. Just get him in a corner and ask him.”
“I suppose it is that dreadful stock market.”
“Oh, madam, let me say the chicken market. There is a wonderful opportunity just now for a corner in fowls.”
“There are a good many to be plucked in the market that Mr. Knapp will look after,” she said with a smile. But there was something of a worried look behind it. “Oh, you know, Henry, that I can't bear the market. I have seen too much of the misery that has come from it. It can eat up a fortune in an hour. A dear friend saw her home, the house over her head, all she possessed, go in a breath on a turn of the cards in that dreadful place. And her husband left her to face it with two little children. The coward escaped it with a bullet through his head, after he had brought ruin on his home and family.”
She shuddered as she looked about her, as though in fancy she saw herself turned from the palace into the street.
“Mr. Knapp is not a man to lose,” I said.
“Mr. Knapp is a strong man,” she said with a proud straightening of her figure. “But the whirlpool can suck down the strongest swimmer.”
“But I suspect Mr. Knapp makes whirlpools instead of swimming into them,” I said meaningly.
“Ah, Henry,” she said sadly, “how often have I told you that the best plan may come to ruin in the market? It may not take much to start a boulder rolling down the mountain-side, but who is to tell it to stop when once it is set going?”
“I think,” said I, smiling, “that Mr. Knapp would ride the boulder and find himself in a gold mine at the end of the journey.”
“Perhaps. But you're not telling me what Mr. Knapp is doing.”
“He can tell you much better than I.”
“No doubt,” she said with a trace of sarcasm in her voice.
“And here he comes to do it, I expect,” I said, as the tall figure of the King of the Street appeared in the doorway opposite.
“I'm afraid I shall have to depend on the newspapers,” she said. “Mr. Knapp is as much afraid of a woman's tongue as you are. Oh,” she continued after a moment's pause, “I was going to make you give an account of yourself; but since you will tell nothing I must introduce you to my cousin, Mrs. Bowser.” And she led me, unresisting, to a short, sharp-featured woman of sixty or thereabouts, who rustled her silks, and in a high, thin voice professed herself charmed to see me.
She might have claimed and held the record as the champion of the conversational ring. I had never met her equal before, nor have I met one to surpass her since.
Had I been long in the city? She had been here only a week. Came from down Maine way. This was a dear, dreadful city with such nice people and such dreadful winds, wasn't it? And then she gave me a catalogue of the places she had visited, and the attractions of San Francisco, with a wealth of detail and a poverty of interest that was little less than marvelous.
Fortunately she required nothing but an occasional murmur of assent in the way of answer from me.
I looked across the room to the corner where Luella was entertaining the insignificant Inman. How vivacious and intelligent she appeared! Her face and figure grew on me in attractiveness, and I felt that I was being very badly used. As I came to this point I was roused by the sound of two low voices that just behind me were plainly audible under the shrill treble of Mrs. Bowser. They were women with their heads close in gossip.
“Shocking, isn't it?” said one.
“Dreadful!” said the other. “It gives me the creeps to think of it.”
“Why don't they lock him up? Such a creature shouldn't be allowed to go at large.”
“Oh, you see, maybe they can't be sure about it. But I've heard it's a case of family pride.”
I was recalled from this dialogue by Mrs. Bowser's fan on my arm, and her shrill voice in my ear with, “What is your idea about it, Mr. Wilton?”
“I think you are perfectly right,” I said heartily, as she paused for an answer.
“Then I'll arrange it with the others at once,” she said.
This was a bucket of ice-water on me. I had not the first idea to what I had committed myself.
“No, don't,” I said. “Wait till we have time to discuss it again.”
“Oh, we can decide on the time whenever you like. Will some night week after next suit you?”
I had to throw myself on the mercy of the enemy.
“I'm afraid I'm getting rather absent-minded,” I said humbly. “I was looking at Miss Knapp and lost the thread of the discourse for a minute.”
“That's what I was talking about,” she said sharply,—“about taking her and the rest of us through Chinatown.”
“Yes, yes. I remember,” I said unblushingly. “If I can get away from business, I'm at your service at any time.”
Then Mrs. Bowser wandered on with the arrangements she would find necessary to make, and I heard one of the low voices behind me:
“Now this is a profound secret, you know. I wouldn't have them know for the world that any one suspects. I just heard it this week, myself.”
“Oh, I wouldn't dare breathe it to a soul,” said the other. “But I'm sure I shan't sleep a wink tonight.” And they moved away.
I interrupted Mrs. Bowser to explain that I must speak to Mrs. Knapp, and made my escape as some one stopped to pass a word with her.
“Oh, must you go, Henry?” said Mrs. Knapp. “Well, you must come again soon. We miss you when you stay away. Don't let Mr. Knapp keep you too closely.”
I professed myself happy to come whenever I could find the time, and looked about for Luella. She was nowhere to be seen. I left the room a little disappointed, but with a swelling of pride that I had passed the dreaded ordeal and had been accepted as Henry Wilton in the house in which I had most feared to meet disaster. My opinion of my own cleverness had risen, in the language of the market, “above par.”
As I passed down the hall, a tall willowy figure stepped from the shadow of the stair. My heart gave a bound of delight. It was Luella Knapp. I should have the pleasure of a leave-taking in private.
“Oh, Miss Knapp!” I said. “I had despaired of having the chance to bid you good night.” And I held out my hand.
She ignored the hand. I could see from her heaving bosom and shortened breath that she was laboring under great agitation. Yet her face gave no evidence of the effort that it cost her to control herself.
“I was waiting for you,” she said in a low voice.
I started to express my gratification when she interrupted me.
“Who are you?” broke from her lips almost fiercely.
I was completely taken aback, and stared at her in amazement with no word at command.
“You are not Henry Wilton,” she said rapidly. “You have come here with his name and his clothes, and made up to look like him, and you try to use his voice and take his place. Who are you?”
There was a depth of scorn and anger and apprehension in that low voice of hers that struck me dumb.
“Can you not answer?” she demanded, catching her breath with excitement. “You are not Henry Wilton.”
“Well?” I said half-inquiringly. It was not safe to advance or retreat.
“Well—! well—!” She repeated my answer, with indignation and disdain deepening in her voice. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
“What should I say?” I replied quietly. “You make an assertion. Is there anything more to be said?”
“Oh, you may laugh at me if you please, because you can hoodwink the others.”
I protested that laughter was the last thing I was thinking of at the moment.
Then she burst out impetuously:
“Oh, if I were only a man! No; if I were a man I should be hoodwinked like the rest. But you can not deceive me. Who are you? What are you here for? What are you trying to do?”
She was blazing with wrath. Her tone had raised hardly an interval of the scale, but every word that came in that smooth, low voice was heavy with contempt and anger. It was the true daughter of the Wolf who stood before me.
“I am afraid, Miss Knapp, you are not well tonight,” I said soothingly.
“What have you done with Henry Wilton?” she asked fiercely. “Don't try to speak with his voice. Drop your disguise. You are no actor. You are no more like him than—”
The simile failed her in her wrath.
“Satyr to Hyperion,” I quoted bitterly. “Make it strong, please.”
I had thought myself in a tight place in the row at Borton's, but it was nothing to this encounter.
“Oh, where is he? What has happened?” she cried.
“Nothing has happened,” I said calmly, determining at last to brazen it out. I could not tell her the truth. “My name is Henry Wilton.”
She looked at me in anger a moment, and then a shadow of dread and despair settled over her face.
I was tempted beyond measure to throw myself on her mercy and tell all. The subtle sympathy that she inspired was softening my resolution. Yet, as I looked into her eyes, her face hardened, and her wrath blazed forth once more.
“Go!” she said. “I hope I may never see you again!” And she turned and ran swiftly up the stair. I thought I heard a sob, but whether of anger or sorrow I knew not.
And I went out into the night with a heavier load of depression than I had borne since I entered the city.
The wind blew strong and moist and salt from the western ocean as I walked down the steps into the semi-darkness of Pine Street. But it was powerless to cool the hot blood that surged into my cheeks in the tumult of emotion that followed my dismissal by Luella Knapp. I was furious at the poor figure I had cut in her sight, at the insults I had been forced to bear without reply, and at the hopelessness of setting myself right. Yet, more than all was I sick at heart at the dreadful task before me. My spirit was bleeding from every stab that this girl had dealt me; yet I had to confess that her outburst of rage had challenged my admiration even more than her brightness in the hour that had gone before. How could I go through with my work? How could I bear to overwhelm her with the sorrow and disgrace that must crush on her if I proved to the world the awful facts that were burned on my brain?
Resolve, shame, despair, fought with each other in the tumult in my mind as I passed between the bronze lions and took my way down the street. I was called out of my distractions with a sudden start as though a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me. I had proceeded not twenty feet when I saw two dark forms across the street. They had, it struck me, been waiting for my appearance, for one ran to join the other and both hastened toward the corner as though to be ready to meet me.
I could not retreat to the house of the Wolf that loomed forbiddingly behind me. There was nothing to do but to go forward and trust to my good fortune, and I shifted my revolver to the side-pocket of my overcoat as I stepped briskly to the corner. Then I stopped under the lamp-post to reconnoiter.
The two men who had roused my apprehensions did not offer to cross the street, but slackened their pace and strolled slowly along on the other side. I noted that it seemed a long way between street-lamps thereabouts. I could see none between the one under which I was standing and the brow of the hill below. Then it occurred to me that this circumstance might not be due to the caprice of the street department of the city government, but to the thoughtfulness of the gentlemen who were paying such close attention to my affairs. I decided that there were better ways to get down town than were offered by Pine Street.
To the south the cross-street stretched to Market with an unbroken array of lights, and as my unwary watchers had disappeared in the darkness, I hastened down the incline with so little regard for dignity that I found myself running for a Sutter Street car—and caught it, too. As I swung on to the platform I looked back; but I saw no sign of skulking figures before the car swept past the corner and blotted the street from sight.
The incident gave me a distaste for the idea of going back to Henry Wilton's room at this time of the night. So as Montgomery Street was reached I stepped into the Lick House, where I felt reasonably sure that I might get at least one night's sleep, free from the haunting fear of the assassin.
But, once more safe, the charms of Luella Knapp again claimed the major part of my thoughts, and when I went to sleep it was with her scornful words ringing in my ears. I awoke in the darkness—perhaps it was in but a few minutes—with the confused dream that Luella Knapp was seized in the grasp of the snake-eyed Terrill, and I was struggling to come to her assistance and seize him by his hateful throat. But, becoming calm from this exciting vision, I slept soundly until the morning sun peeped into the room with the cheerful announcement that a new day was born.
In the fresh morning air and the bright morning light, I felt that I might have been unduly suspicious and had fled from harmless citizens; and I was ashamed that I had lacked courage to return to Henry's room as I made my way thither for a change of clothes. I thought better of my decision, however, as I stepped within the gloomy walls of the house of mystery, and my footfalls echoed through the chilling silence of the halls. And I lost all regret over my night's lack of courage when I reached my door. It was swung an inch ajar, and as I approached I thought I saw it move.
“I'm certain I locked it,” was my inward comment.
I stopped short and hunted my revolver from my overcoat pocket. I was nervous for a moment, and angry at the inattention that might have cost me my life.
“Who's there?” I demanded.
No reply.
I gave a knock on the door at long reach.
There was no sound and I gave it a push that sent it open while I prudently kept behind the fortification of the casing. As no developments followed this move, I peeped through the door in cautious investigation. The room was quite empty, and I walked in.
The sight that met my eyes was astonishing. Clothes, books, papers, were scattered over the floor and bed and chairs. The carpet had been partly ripped up, the mattress torn apart, the closet cleared out, and every corner of the room had been ransacked.
It was clear to my eye that this was no ordinary case of robbery. The search, it was evident, was not for money and jewelry alone, and bulkier property had been despised. The men who had torn the place to pieces must, I surmised, have been after papers of some kind.
I came at once to the conclusion that I had been favored by a visit from my friends, the enemy. As they had failed to find me in, they had looked for some written memoranda of the object of their search.
I knew well that they had found nothing among the clothing or papers that Henry had left behind. I had searched through these myself, and the sole document that could bear on the mystery was at that moment fast in my inside pocket. I was inclined to scout the idea that Henry Wilton had hidden anything under the carpet, or in the mattress, or in any secret place. The threads of the mystery were carried in his head, and the correspondence, if there had been any, was destroyed.
As I was engaged in putting the room to rights, the door swung back, and I jumped to my feet to face a man who stood on the threshold.
“Hello!” he cried. “House-cleaning again?”
It was Dicky Nahl, and he paused with a smile on his face.
“Ah, Dicky!” I said with an effort to keep out of my face and voice the suspicions I had gained from the incidents of the visit to the Borton place. “Entirely unpremeditated, I assure you.”
“Well, you're making a thorough job of it,” he said with a laugh.
“Fact is,” said I ruefully, “I've been entertaining angels—of the black kind—unawares. I was from home last night, and I find that somebody has made himself free with my property while I was away.”
“Whew!” whistled Dicky. “Guess they were after you.”
I gave Dicky a sidelong glance in a vain effort to catch more of his meaning than was conveyed by his words.
“Shouldn't be surprised,” I replied dryly, picking up an armful of books. “I'd expect them to be looking for me in the book-shelf, or inside the mattress-cover, or under the carpet.”
Dicky laughed joyously.
“Well, they did rather turn things upside down,” he chuckled. “Did they get anything?” And he fell to helping me zealously.
“Not that I can find out,” I replied. “Nothing of value, anyhow.”
“Not any papers, or anything of that sort?” asked Dicky anxiously.
“Dicky, my boy,” said I; “there are two kinds of fools. The other is the man who writes his business on a sheet of paper and forgets to burn it.”
Dicky grinned merrily.
“Gad, you're getting a turn for epigram! You'll be writing for theArgonaut, first we know.”
“Well, you'll allow me a shade of common sense, won't you?”
“I don't know,” said Dicky, considering the proposition doubtfully. “It might have been awkward if you had left anything lying about. But if you had real good sense you'd have had the guards here. What are you paying them for, anyhow?”
I saw difficulties in the way of explaining to Dicky why I had not ordered the guards on duty.
“Oh, by the way,” said Dicky suddenly, before a suitable reply had come to me; “how about the scads—spondulicks—you know? Yesterday was pay-day, but you didn't show up.”
I don't know whether my jaw dropped or not. My spirits certainly did.
“By Jove, Dicky!” I exclaimed, catching my breath. “It slipped my mind, clean. I haven't got at our—ahem—banker, either.”
I saw now what that mysterious money was for—or a part of it, at all events. What I did not see was how I was to get it, and how to pay it to my men.
“That's rough,” said Dicky sympathetically. “I'm dead broke.”
It would appear then that Dicky looked to me for pay, whether or not he felt bound to me in service.
“There's one thing I'd like explained before a settlement,” said I grimly, as I straightened out the carpet; “and that is the little performance for my benefit the other night.”
Dicky cocked his head on one side, and gave me an uneasy glance.
“Explanation?” he said in affected surprise.
“Yes,” said I sternly. “It looked like a plant. I was within one of getting a knife in me.”
“What became of you?” inquired Dicky. “We looked around for you for an hour, and were afraid you had been carried off.”
“That's all right, Dicky,” I said. “I know how I got out. What I want to know is how I got in—taken in.”
“I don't know,” said Dicky anxiously. “I was regularly fooled, myself. I thought they were fishermen, all right enough, and I never thought that Terrill had the nerve to come in there. I was fooled by his disguise, and he gave the word, and I thought sure that Richmond had sent him.” Dicky had dropped all banter, and was speaking with the tone of sincerity.
“Well, it's all right now, but I don't want any more slips of that sort. Who was hurt?”
“Trent got a bad cut in the side. One of the Terrill gang was shot. I heard it was only through the arm or leg, I forget which.”
I was consumed with the desire to ask what had become of Borton's, but I suspected that I was supposed to know, and prudently kept the question to myself.
“Well, come along,” said I. “The room will do well enough now. Oh, here's a ten, and I'll let you know as soon as I get the rest. Where can I find you?”
“At the old place,” said Dicky; “three twenty-six.”
“Clay?” I asked in desperation. Dicky gave me a wondering look as though he suspected my mind was going.
“No—Geary. What's the matter with you?”
“Oh, to be sure. Geary Street, of course. Well, let me know if anything turns up. Keep a close watch on things.”
Dicky looked at me in some apparent perplexity as I walked up the stair to my Clay Street office, but gave only some laughing answer as he turned back.
But I was in far from a laughing humor myself. The problem of paying the men raised fresh prospects of trouble, and I reflected grimly that if the money was not found I might be in more danger from my unpaid mercenaries than from the enemy.
Ten o'clock passed, and eleven, with no sign from Doddridge Knapp, and I wondered if the news I had carried him of the activities of Terrill and of Decker had disarranged his plans.
I tried the door into Room 16. It was locked, and no sound came to my ears from behind it.
“I should really like to know,” I thought to myself, “whether Mr. Doddridge Knapp has left any papers in his desk that might bear on the Wilton mystery.”
I tried my keys, but none of them fitted the lock. I gave up the attempt—indeed, my mind shrank from the idea of going through my employer's papers—but the desire of getting a key that would open the door was planted in my brain.
Twelve o'clock came. No Doddridge Knapp had appeared, and I sauntered down to the Exchange to pick up any items of news. It behooved me to be looking out for Doddridge Knapp's movements. If he had got another agent to carry out his schemes, I should have to prepare my lines for attack from another direction.
Wallbridge was just coming rapidly out of the Exchange.
“No,” said the little man, mopping the perspiration from his shining head, “quiet as lambs to-day. Their own mothers wouldn't have known the Board from a Sunday-school.”
I inquired about Omega.
“Flat as a pancake,” said the little man. “Nothing doing.”
“What! Is it down?” I exclaimed with some astonishment.
“Lord bless you, no!” said Wallbridge, surprised in his turn. “Strong and steady at eighty, but we didn't sell a hundred shares to-day. Well, I'm in a rush. Good-by, if you don't want to buy or sell.” And he hurried off without waiting for a reply.
So I was now assured that Doddridge Knapp had not displaced me in the Omega deal. It was a recess to prepare another surprise for the Street, and I had time to attend to a neglected duty.
The undertaker's shop that held the morgue looked hardly less gloomy in the afternoon sun than in the light of breaking day in which I had left it when I parted from Detective Coogan. The office was decorated mournfully to accord with the grief of friends who ordered the coffins, or the feelings of the surviving relatives on settling the bills.
“I am Henry Wilton,” I explained to the man in charge. “There was a body left here by Detective Coogan to my order, I believe.”
“Oh, yes,” he said: “What do you want done with it?”
I explained that I wished to arrange to have it deposited in a vault for a time, as I might carry it East.
“That's easy done,” he said; and he explained the details. “Would you like to see the body?” he concluded. “We embalmed it on the strength of Coogan's order.”
I shrank from another look at the battered form. The awfulness of the tragedy came upon me with hardly less force than in the moment when I had first faced the mangled and bleeding body on the slab in the dead-room. Again I saw the scene in the alley; again his last cry for help rang in my ears; again I retraced the dreadful experiences of the night, and stood in the dim horror of the morgue with the questioning voice of the detective echoing beside me; and again did that wolf-face rise out of the lantern-flash over the body of the man whose death it had caused.
The undertaker was talking, but I knew not what he said. I was shaking with the horror and grief of the situation, and in that moment I renewed my vow to have blood for blood and life for life, if law and justice were to be had.
“We'll take it out any time,” said the undertaker, with a decorous reflection of my grief upon his face. “Would you like to accompany the remains?”
I decided that I would.
“Well, there's nothing doing now. We can start as soon as we have sealed the casket.”
“As soon as you can. There's nothing to wait for.”
The ride to the cemetery took me through a part of San Francisco that I had not yet seen. Flying battalions of fog advanced swiftly upon us as we faced the West, and the day grew pale and ghostlike. The gray masses were pouring fast over the hills toward which we struggled, and the ranks thickened as we drew near the burial-place.
I paid little attention to the streets through which we passed. My mind was on the friend whose name I had taken, whose work I was to do. I was back with him in our boyhood days, and lived again for the fleeting minutes the life we had lived in common; and the resolve grew stronger on me that his fate should be avenged.
And yet a face came between me and the dead—a proud face, with varying moods reflected upon it, now gay, now scornful, now lighted with intelligence and mirth, now blazing with anger. But it was powerless to shake my resolve. Not even Luella Knapp should stand between me and vengeance.
“There's the place,” said the undertaker, pointing to the vault. “I'll have it opened directly.”
The scene was in accord with my feelings. The gray day gave a somber air to the trees and flowers that grew about. The white tombstones and occasional monuments to be seen were sad reminders of mortality.
Below me stretched the city, half-concealed by the magic drapery of the fog that streamed through it, turning it from a place of wood and stone into a fantastic illusion, heavy with gloom and sorrow.
It was soon over. The body of Henry Wilton was committed to the vault with the single mourner looking on, and we drove rapidly back in the failing light.
I had given my address at the undertaker's shop, and the hack stopped in front of my house of mystery before I knew where we were. Darkness had come upon the place, and the street-lamps were alight and the gas was blazing in the store-windows along the thoroughfares. As I stepped out of the carriage and gazed about me, I recognized the gloomy doorway and its neighborhood that had greeted me on my first night in San Francisco.
As I was paying the fare, a stout figure stepped up to me.
“Ah, Mr. Wilton, it's you again.”
I turned in surprise. It was the policeman I had met on my first night in San Francisco.
“Oh, Corson, how are you?” I said heartily, recognizing him at last. I felt a sense of relief in the sight of him. The place was not one to quiet my nerves after the errand from which I had just come.
“All's well, sor, but I've a bit of paper for ye.” And after some hunting he brought it forth. “I was asked to hand this to ye.”
I took it in wonder. Was there something more from Detective Coogan? I tore open the envelope and read on its inclosure: