What was it that rendered the figure so familiar?Page103.
He was a working man shabbily clothed, and wearing a dingy brown ulster and slouch hat. Between his feet was a much worn leather bag which obviously contained tools. His hair was gray and so was the grizzled beard that partially concealed his features. But it was none of these that held the boy's attention. Something in the way the fellow's collar was pulled up and his hat pulled down; something in the gesture with which he moved his hands to turn his paper aroused a vague memory. Fascinated, the lad watched.What was it that rendered the figure so familiar? He had never seen the man before in his life—he was certain of that. And yet, had he? And if so, where? What was the haunting association that held him spellbound and made it impossible for him to remove his gaze from this person whose features were almost entirely screened from view behind the outspread pages of the morningHerald?
Christopher looked away. Of course he didn't know the fellow. Why stare at him? But do what he would, back came his gaze to the same brown-ulstered traveler.
Then the bus lurched, stopped suddenly, and he knew! The man had lowered his paper, and as he turned his head to look out, the boy saw on his right cheek, almost concealed by hat and whiskers, a telltale scar.
The shock of the discovery was so great that it was with difficulty Chris checked a cry of surprise. Yes, it was the hero of the ring adventure—there could be no possible doubt of it. And yet, after all, was it? This person's hair was white and his whiskers too; he was shabby and wore spectacles. The lad began to doubt the conclusion to which he had leaped.
It couldn't be Stuart! A diamond robber would not be journeying about in an electric bus in broad daylight. Such a notion was absurd. Probably it was merely a mannerism that had suggested him.
Nevertheless Christopher continued to regard him attentively, studying the white hand with its long, slender fingers. It was a very clean hand for such a poorly dressed individual to boast. It did not look at all in keeping with the clumsy boots, the frayed trousers, the worn ulster, the battered satchel. It did not appear ever to have done a stroke of work in its life.
Suppose the hand was genuine, and the rest only a disguise? Suppose in reality this was Stuart, the criminal for whom both the Chicago and New York police were searching? Oh, it wasn't likely—it could not be likely. Why should a boy of his age hope to track down a thief when agencies such as these had failed? It was preposterous.
Yet, notwithstanding the argument, the doubt would persist. What if, after all, this was Stuart? Yet if it were, what should he do?
If he began to whisper his suspicious to McPhearson, the thief might overhear and, put on his guard, leave the vehicle; and should he call the conductor to his aid, the man would in all probability be unwilling to believe such a tale and refuse to act. Moreover, perhaps he had no authority to do so anyway.
Poor Christopher! His heart beat until it seemed as if the stranger opposite must hear its throbbing and take warning. If only it were possible to alight from the bus without exciting attention, maybe he and McPhearson could get an officer. He sadly wanted somebody's help and advice. The adventure was one he felt to be too big for him to handle alone.
Nevertheless were he even to suggest leaving the car he knew his companion would not only be surprised but would instantly voice aloud his consternation, and then, of course, the man behind the newspaper would hear.
Still, something must be done. The bus was whizzing on down the avenue, and at any moment his prey might take flight.
A mad resolve formed itself in his mind.
"I think we'll have to get out," he said suddenly. "I don't feel well."
McPhearson wheeled on him, amazed.
"What's the matter?"
"My—my—breakfast, I guess. Can you stop the car?"
"Do you mean you want to get out right here?"
"Yes. I'm dizzy. If I can get some air—"
"Not going to faint away, are you?" queried the Scotchman in consternation.
"I—no—I—guess not."
The kind old clockmaker slipped an arm about his shoulders.
"We'll get out at the next stop, sonny. Too bad you feel mean. It's probably the lurching and bumping of this infernal vehicle. You'll be all right when you get outside."
Without attracting anything more than passing notice, they found themselves in the street and saw the bus disappear down the avenue.
"Feel better?" interrogated McPhearson, anxiously.
"I'm all right. There's not a thing the matter with me. The trouble is that the man oppositeus was the chap who pinched that ring from Hollings."
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure. At any rate, it's worth tipping off headquarters. Where's there a telephone?"
"There's a drug store just across the street, Christopher. But hold on! What do you mean to do?"
The Scotchman's mind was at best a slow-moving machine, and now it appeared to be too stunned to move at all. Sensing that explanation and argument would delay him, Christopher dashed ahead, the clockmaker panting at his heels.
Fortunately he knew the number, for he had talked with the inspector before. Fortunately, too, he had a nickel in his pocket. Therefore he called headquarters, admonishing the operator to make haste.
A second later a reply came singing over the wire.
"Is Mr. Corrigan, the inspector, there?"
"Just gone out."
"Is Davis, his assistant, in?"
"Yes, sir."
"Rush him here. I want to speak to him."
"Who shall I—"
"No matter who. Get him here quick."
There must have been something in the tone that carried a command, for almost immediately a weak, panting voice answered:
"This—is—Davis, sir."
"I'm Christopher Burton, the son of—"
"Yes, sir, I get it."
"I've left at the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Fifty-seventh Street a bus numbered 1079 that's on its way down town; in it was a man that looked like Stuart. Know who I mean?"
"Jove! You bet I do! Well?"
"He was togged out in an old brown ulster, worn trousers, and boots that were all splashed with plaster or paint, and he had white hair, a white beard, a slouch hat, and a bag. It may not be he at all, you know; but his hands—say—hello—hello—Davis—hello—the darn operator's cut me off."
"Maybe not. More likely Davis hung up the 'phone."
"But I wasn't through," declared the boy indignantly.
"He'd got all he wanted, I imagine, and had to get to work."
"Perhaps so." Christopher, however, was not satisfied.
Moreover, now that the excitement of the incident was over and he began to look back on what he had done, it seemed madness. What right had he to turn the whole police force of the city of New York loose on a poor old working man, solely because his hands happened to be white! It was audacious. A pretty kind of a fool he'd feel if he had started them off on a false scent! They would not thank him. He had fumbled the affair from the beginning, and doubtless was continuing to fumble it.
All the elation died in his face, and noticing this,McPhearson, who loitered in the meantime at the door of the telephone booth, remarked:
"What's the trouble, son?"
"If I was onlysureit was Stuart."
"That's what I was trying to tell you, laddie, when you ran pell-mell in here to call the police. You ought to have made sure before you gave the information."
"But how could I?" retorted Christopher irritably. "I couldn't go up to the man and ask him politely whether he was the burglar who took a diamond ring from my father's shop, could I?"
The absurdity of the question brought back his good humor.
"No. I grant that," McPhearson agreed. "Still you might have proceeded with a grain less speed. I always think an action can bear considering."
"But all actions can't be considered," was the crisp reply. Again an edge of sharpness had crept into the lad's voice.
"Well, well. Maybe no harm's done," the clockmaker hastened to say soothingly. "No doubt the police chase about on a hundred false clews a day. Their information can't always be right."
"You feel like a fool, though, if you give them the wrong clew."
"Yes, you do."
The promptness of the concession was anything but comforting. Obviously McPhearson felt that in the present instance, at least, the tip offeredhad been both valueless and absurd. A strained silence fell between them.
"I suppose we may as well hail another bus and get back to the store," the clock repairer at length suggested. "There's no good hanging round here."
Although he did not actually say in so many words that they had already wasted two fares, Christopher, well aware of his Scotch thrift, felt his manner implied it.
They did not say much during the ride down town. McPhearson was a bit ruffled and annoyed, and Christopher crestfallen and mortified. He was thinking, too, that he would have to confess to his father what he had so impulsively done, and receive from him more jeers and ridicule linked with probable admonitions to greater deliberation and caution in future. He hated to be preached at. Therefore he was entirely unprepared for the ovation that greeted his return to the shop.
Hollings was near the door when he went in and had evidently been waiting for him.
"Birdie is securely in his cage!" announced he, dropping his voice so that the thrilling tidings might not be overheard by customers close at hand.
"What?" gasped Christopher.
"Yes, he's bagged for fair! Your father is delighted. They're all upstairs waiting for you—Corrigan, Davis, and all. We're to go down to headquarters and identify the chap."
"Then it reallywasStuart!"
"Sure thing!" Hollings was actually tremblingwith joy. "Oh, I hope they'll find those diamonds on him! At least, they'll probably be able to make him tell where they are. If we can only get that ring back, I shall die happy."
"So you were right after all, Christopher," McPhearson put in.
"Apparently!"
The cry,"I told you so!"rose like a wave to the lad's lips and then as speedily receded. Why should he feel triumphant? Mistakes are always possible, and he might have been mistaken. Fortunately this time he had not been, that was all.
"I'm glad!" the clockmaker declared.
"So am I!" replied the boy modestly.
No further comment was made except as they went up in the elevator, the old man added:
"It's never amiss to have your eyes about you, son. The majority of folks might as well have two glass beads in their heads, so little do they really observe of what they see. To have your eyes open and your mouth shut isn't a bad notion."
It was like McPhearson to turn his praise into good council. He never flattered. Perhaps, too, it was just as well, for Christopher received that noon all the adulation that was good for him.
Corrigan, the big inspector, clapped him on the shoulders, calling him a little general; and Davis almost wrung his hand off. Even the silent Mr. Norcross announced he was a son to be proud of. As for Mr. Burton, Senior—well, he merely settled back into his office chair and beamed about him.
"I made no mistake when I christened thatboy Christopher Mark Antony Burton, fourth," announced he, as if every whit of responsibility for the boy's good judgment were traceable to his name. "He has the stuff in him—has had since babyhood."
But Mr. Inspector did not wholly agree.
"You've got to do more than have good blood in your veins," he asserted, with a hint of scorn. "The young one used his brains, he did, and used 'em quick without thanks to his ancestors. Had he loitered about and depended on his great-grandfather, Stuart would have got away."
There was a general laugh, in which even Mr. Burton, chagrined though he was, joined.
Afterward the two police officers, Christopher, his father, Mr. Rhinehart, and Hollings rolled away to headquarters to identify the captured diamond thief.
Yes, it was Stuart! There could be no possible doubt about that; nor, indeed, did the culprit attempt to deny his identity. Perhaps he realized that to do so would be futile. There he was in his wig, whiskers, glasses, ulster, and slouch hat; and the next moment, presto, valeted by Mr. Inspector, there he was in his fur coat—the elegant gentleman who had invaded Burton and Norcross' jewelry store!
Hollings recognized him in a twinkling and without a shade of hesitation singled him out from twelve other men; so, also, did Mr. Rhinehart and Christopher.
Poor Stuart! He was too genuine a sport to whine when he saw the game was up. On the contrary he assumed a good-natured, almost humorous stoicism, as if his capture were nothing more than a feature of the day's work. Only one fact regarding it did he appear to resent and that was that a person wary as himself should have been tracked down and trapped by a mere boy. Incontestably this wounded his pride. Nevertheless he tried valiantly to conceal his chagrin, maintaining throughout the ordeal of identification his jaunty pose and saluting Christopher, whom he instantlyremembered having seen on the car, with a mocking bow and a smile of admiration.
"It was a neat trick you played me, youngster," announced he, as the lad approached. "They will be annexing you to the staff here if you don't look out."
"I had to do it, you know," Christopher answered, half apologizing for the double-faced rôle he had played. "I'm not usually a squealer—honest, I'm not. But the diamonds belonged to my father, and I saw you take them."
"Of course, sonny, of course. I'm not kicking—it was a fair game," the big fellow returned without a shadow of anger. "So you saw me take them, did you? Why didn't you sing out at the time?"
"It all happened so quickly that I could hardly trust my eyes," was the response. "Besides, you looked so much like a gentleman that I couldn't believe you were just a—a—"
"Thief," cut in Stuart sharply, supplying the word at which the boy had halted. Nevertheless despite the glibness with which he uttered it, he cringed and a flood of telltale color rose to his hair. It was the first time he had exhibited the slightest feeling.
Uncomfortably Christopher nodded.
"Well, that's what I am, you see," continued the man who had now regained his former debonnaire manner, "so the next time look out and don't be taken in. There are gentlemen who are thieves, sonny, and then again there are thieves who are gentlemen—at least I hope so."
So unruffled was his temper, so brave the front he put on the inevitable, that as Christopher saw him led away between two guards a momentary pang of regret passed over him. If Stuart had only happened to have turned his talents to some profession besides diamond stealing, what a delightful acquaintance he might have proved.
But the next instant Corrigan, the head inspector, broke in on this reverie, and his words banished further repining:
"The scoundrel won't open his lips," declared he to Mr. Burton. "What he's done with those diamonds we can't find out. He's mum as an oyster. I hoped we might tempt him into making a clean breast of the matter—but not he! He's too hardened a chap for repentance, I reckon."
"His pal, Tony, may have them."
"No doubt," acquiesced the chief. "The two probably have a cache where they stow their loot."
"I wish we could find it."
"So do I, with all my heart. We may, too, if we succeed in running down the other chap," Corrigan returned. "I shan't give up hope with Mr. Christopher on the job."
"I fancy my son isn't going into the business of tracking down criminals permanently," Burton, Senior, retorted a bit stiffly.
"Like enough not," came tartly from Corrigan.
"Still, he can keep his peepers open, eh, youngster?"
He smiled down upon Christopher from beneath his shaggy brows, and Christopher smiledback. There was something very likeable about Corrigan.
"I'll look alive," grinned the boy. "Only of course you know this kill was just a fluke."
The modest words evidently pleased the inspector.
"That's all right," said he. "You may make another. Who knows?"
He patted the lad's shoulder encouragingly and in friendly fashion added:
"Nobody bags a diamond robber every day."
They went out—Mr. Burton, his son, and the two clerks.
"We may as well go to luncheon now," announced Christopher's father, when the men had left them. "Where shall we go? We'll have a real celebration in honor of Stuart's capture."
"Poor Stuart!" murmured the lad.
"Mercy on us! Surely you are not regretting that you landed him in jail."
"No-o. Still, I'm sorry for him."
"Of course. We're always sorry to see a person of his ability go wrong. But he has only himself to thank for his fate. He might have known at the outset where he would bring up. They all are trapped sooner or later."
"I suppose so."
"Come, come, son! Don't go wasting any romantic sympathy on Stuart—or whatever his name is. He wouldn't appreciate it. Why, he would rob us again to-morrow if he got the chance," the head of the firm asserted harshly.
"Probably he would."
"You know he would."
"Y-es. But he was such a good sport."
"He knew there was nothing to be gained by whining and making himself disagreeable."
Nevertheless, in spite of his father's arguments, Christopher could not entirely put the unlucky Stuart out of his mind. Nor did the fried scallops, grilled sweet potatoes, and salad which his father ordered for him wholly blot out a lurking depression or the haunting memory of the criminal's face. It took two chocolate ice creams and an ample square of fudge cake to dispel his gloom and bring his spirits back to their accustomed cheerfulness.
By the time he and his father returned to the store, however, they were practically normal, and he ascended to the fourth floor to hunt up McPhearson, who amid the general excitement he had left somewhat abruptly.
"Well, so you landed your light-fingered friend, did you, laddie?" remarked the Scotchman.
"Mr. Corrigan did."
"It was thanks to you, I guess."
"Partly!"
"Humph! You don't seem very triumphant about it." The old man peered at the boy over the top of his glasses.
"I'm not. It made me sick—the whole thing."
"I know, sonny—I know. But we can't have such persons about," McPhearson said gently. "Of course you are sorry to put a fellow behind the bars, but—"
"He was so darned decent about it—and soplucky," exclaimed Christopher. "Why, he was almost a gentleman."
The sentence ended in a tremulous laugh.
"No doubt he may have started out to be a gentleman—poor chap—and then got on the wrong track. Well, you did what was right. You know that."
"I hope so," was the dull answer.
"We'll not talk about it any more. Come, let's shift the subject to something else."
"To clocks?"
"Aren't you tired of clocks?"
"No. Are you?"
"I never get tired of them," smiled McPhearson. "If I did, it would be fatal. They are my daily bread."
"And mine, too, for that matter," rejoined Christopher.
"Perhaps," admitted the Scotchman. "Still you do not subsist wholly on clocks. Your bread is studded with pearls, emeralds, and rubies."
The fancy pleased the boy, and he laughed.
"Rather indigestible eating," he protested.
"And yet you look fit as a king."
There was a moment's pause; then the man said:
"Well, if we are to talk clocks, where shall we begin?"
"Anywhere you like," returned the lad, with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Suppose, then, since you are so docile and accommodating, we leap to somewhere near the year 1650, when the inspiration to attach thepallets of the escapement to the pendulum rod, thereby making the escapement horizontal, came almost simultaneously to an Englishman named Harris and a Dutchman named Huyghens. These, together with the later ideas of anchor escapement evolved by Graham, put clocks, within the span of a few years, on an almost modern basis. Other improvements such as using steel springs in place of weights and the perfecting of movements have of course been made since; but this period covers the time of most vital improvement in the art of clockmaking. At this time, too, some of the finest of old English watches and clocks were made. Thomas Tompion, sometimes called the father of English clock making, took his place at the head of these, and to this day beautiful old clocks that are still in service testify to his skillful workmanship."
"What sort of clocks did he make?" inquired Christopher with interest.
"Just about every design of the period—bracket clocks similar to those of Richard Parsons'; long-case, or what we call grandfather, clocks; even brass clocks with projecting dials; and in addition, the greater part of the finest watches turned out at this time were of his making. There were few who could equal him. Possibly Daniel Quare and Joseph Knibb made clocks as good, but they certainly made no better. Were you to visit Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle, you would find there wonderful chiming grandfather clocks made by this same Thomas Tompion. They are genuine treasures and wouldbring almost any price. So remember, in journeying through the world, if you ever run across a clock or a watch made by Thomas Tompion, you are looking at a very fine bit of handicraft."
"I'm afraid I never shall," Christopher shook his head.
"One never can tell where his path through life will take him," McPhearson said. "For example, I never expected my wanderings would lead me from Glasgow to America. Nor, probably, did Stuart dream when he woke up to-day that his morning ride in a Fifth Avenue bus would land him in jail. So you must not despair of seeing London and some of Thomas Tompion's clocks. Moreover, should you go there, I hope you will hunt up in Westminster Abbey the grave of this famous man."
"Was he buried at Westminster? Why, I thought only kings, queens, poets, and great people had places there," Christopher ventured, a trifle incredulous.
"Usually they do, but Thomas Tompion well merited the honor due him, I assure you. To begin with, he was no ordinary tradesman. He was a person of culture who all his life associated with the foremost philosophers and mathematicians of his day. So widely was his ability recognized that he was made leading watchmaker to the court of Charles II. Now, although timekeepers had vastly improved, they were still pretty faulty, experimental contrivances, whose outside trappings counted with the public far more than did their interior mechanism. Tompion changedall this. Seizing upon all that was good offered by the inventors preceding him, he carefully re-proportioned the various parts and produced English clocks and watches that were at once the pride and despair of his brother craftsmen. Watches were something of an avocation with him, for his primary trade was in clocks, to which for many years he devoted his entire labor. Probably, however, the problems a watch presented won his interest and led him to try his skill in this new field, with the result that he was soon making watches that as far surpassed his associates' as did his clocks. He made a watch for the king, the fame of which traveled to France and prompted the Dauphin to order two like it. These watches all had two balances and balance springs fashioned after the scheme Hooke had worked out. They also, like most of Tompion's timekeepers, had an hour and a minute hand. One more innovation which he presented (and it was a very practical one) was the numbering of his watch movements for purposes of identification—a plan very generally followed since by present-day workmen. And yet all this which I have told you does not give you half an idea of what Tompion really was."
McPhearson paused thoughtfully.
"Thomas Tompion stood for something more than any of these things. He was a genuine lover of his art, and when we see or read of the many kinds of clocks and watches he produced, we cannot but feel the joy he had in making them. He made, for example, a marvellous clock that would run a year without winding, which William IIIhad in his bedroom at Kensington Palace, it having been left to him by the Earl of Leicester. This clock, although small, struck the hours and quarter-hours, and was of ebony with silver mountings. And to prove to you that it was no novelty timepiece to be used merely for ornament, I will tell you that now, after a hundred and fifty years, it is still running and faithfully doing its duty."
"Who owns it?" queried Christopher.
"It has for a century and a half been in the possession of the family of Lord Mostyn and so famous has been its history that this nobleman has kept the names of those who have wound it during the last hundred years."
"All sorts of bigwigs, I suppose," put in Christopher.
"A list of celebrated persons, you may be sure."
"Was Ebenezer on it?" Christopher chuckled mischievously.
"Most likely he would have been had he not been so busy winding Mr. Hawley's treasures," replied the Scotchman, smiling at the jest. "Then in 1695 Tompion made a very fine traveling striking and alarm watch with case beautifully chased. The Pump Room at Bath boasts a tall clock of his make—a present from him to the city in acknowledgment of the benefits he derived from its mineral waters. There are also examples of his craft in famous clock collections both here and in England, the Wetherfield collection owning eighteen made by him."
"And did his tall clocks have weights?"
"Yes, their driving power was a big leadweight. The clock at Bath has a thirty-two-pound weight of lead which drops monthly six feet."
"Is it only wound each month?"
"That's all. Some of these tall clocks made by Tompion ran a year without winding. Nor must you get the impression that clocks and watches were the only things this remarkable mechanic produced, for at Hampton Court is a barometer of his construction, proving him to be a master of more intricate science than the mere art of time-keeping. In fact many of his clocks show the days and the months, as well as the difference between sun time and mean time."
"I don't quite understand what mean time is. Isn't all time alike?"
"Mercy, no! Sun time and our time are two quite different things. Some day I will tell you why. Of this Thomas Tompion, although he lived long ago, was well aware. You see, therefore, he was no ordinary uneducated clockmaker. What wonder that he and George Graham, one of the illustrious pupils he trained, should have been buried together at Westminster Abbey!"
"You haven't told me anything about Graham."
"He was a nephew of Tompion and a very clever craftsman whose clocks did honor to his teacher.Honest George Graham, he was called—not a bad way to come down through history. Personally I would rather have that handle before my name than to haveLordorDukeprecede it and I fancy George Graham was of a type who felt that way too! So devoted were he and Tompion and so closely linked was their work thatwhen Graham died, the grave of Tompion was opened in order that the two men might be buried together. Then a stone was made reading:
Here lies the body of Mr. Tho. Tompion who departed this life the 20th of November 1713 in the 75th year of his age.Also the body of George Graham of London watchmaker and F.R.S. whose curious inventions do honour to ye British genius whose accurate performances are ye standard of Mechanic Skill. He died ye XVI of November MDCCLI in the LXXVIII year of his age.
Here lies the body of Mr. Tho. Tompion who departed this life the 20th of November 1713 in the 75th year of his age.
Also the body of George Graham of London watchmaker and F.R.S. whose curious inventions do honour to ye British genius whose accurate performances are ye standard of Mechanic Skill. He died ye XVI of November MDCCLI in the LXXVIII year of his age.
"Now a bit of interesting history is attached to this stone. Several years after it had been put in place a younger generation came along who knew very little of either Tompion or his pupil Graham, and seeing the large tablet, some of them decided to take it up and put instead smaller stones with only the inscriptions:
Mr. T. Tompion 1713Mr. G. Graham 1751
upon them. Perhaps the authorities felt the big stone took up too much room; or perhaps they felt it heaped undue honor on two men who in their estimation were really nothing but tradesmen; or, worse yet, perhaps they had forgotten all Tompion and Graham did for the rest of us. However that may be, in 1842 a Bond Street watchmaker had loyalty and courage enough to protest, and throughthe late Dean Stanley the old stone, fortunately uninjured, was hunted up and reinstated in its original position, thereby proving that England does not after all forget her debt to these splendidly intelligent workmen."
"I'm glad the first stone was put back," Christopher asserted. "Who on earth would ever know from the skimpy marking on the other one who Mr. T. Tompion or Mr. G. Graham were?"
"Probably very few persons—only those, most likely, who had made a study of clocks. To my mind it is far better to remind the ignorant who perhaps never heard of Tompion or Graham, to hold their memory in grateful respect. Possibly, too, the inscription on the tablet may prompt the casual passer-by to look up what these two men did, and if so a keener appreciation of them will be established."
"I shall go and see that stone if I ever go to London," Christopher declared.
"Do, laddie. And see some of their clocks, too. Graham was a clever, broadly educated man, who worked out many astronomical instruments in addition to his clockmaking. When you view either his handiwork or that of Tompion, you will see the product of master craftsmen. And in the meantime don't forget Daniel Quare, Samuel Knibb, or AhasuerusFromanteel, who although unhonored by stones in the Abbey, are well worthy of being remembered."
Withina day or two Christopher was once more reminded of the diamond robbery by having Corrigan call up the firm and announce that Stuart, wanted in Chicago for the rifling of a safe, had been taken west under guard.
"As yet," concluded the inspector, "we have made no progress toward the recovery of the ring. It has neither put in its appearance at any of the pawnshops nor have we been able to trace the stones. We do not, however, despair of getting some clew and shall still keep on the lookout."
"I suppose you have no track of Tony—Stuart's accomplice, either?" inquired Mr. Burton over the wire.
"None, I am sorry to say."
With a sigh of discouragement the senior partner hung up the receiver.
"I guess the incident is as good as closed," remarked he. "In my opinion we can bid good-by to those diamonds and accept our burglar insurance with thankfulness that our loss was not greater."
"But Stuart's pal may show up yet, Dad," ventured the optimistic Christopher, who chanced at the moment to be in the office.
"I doubt it." Skeptically Mr. Burton shook hishead. "More likely he has decided New York is too hot for him and has left town for pastures new."
"He may be lying low," asserted the habitually silent Mr. Norcross.
"Possibly."
Nevertheless, despite his acquiescence, Mr. Burton returned to his letters with an air indicative that at least, so far as he was concerned, the possibility he granted was an exceedingly remote one—too remote to merit further consideration.
And indeed it did appear to be so until one day, like a meteor out of the heavens, a grimy communication postmarked Chicago was brought to Christopher, who in a fit of boredom was roaming aimlessly about the lamp department.
"I guess this is meant for you, Mr. Christopher," announced the messenger, whose duty it was to distribute the store mail. "Funny way to address it, though. You'd take it for a valentine:
Mr. Burton's sonCare Burton and Norcross, Jewellers,New York City."
Mr. Burton's sonCare Burton and Norcross, Jewellers,New York City."
"That's me all right," cried Christopher, forgetting in his excitement and curiosity such a trivial incidental as grammar.
He took the letter, regarding with amusement its disreputable appearance.
"Humph! They didn't waste very dressy stationery on me, did they?" laughed he.
"It isn't deckle-edge paper with a ducal seal, ifthat is what you're expecting," grinned the boy, not unwilling to air his knowledge of such matters.
As with an impish grimace he disappeared Christopher tore open the envelope he held and drew from it a single crushed manilla sheet on which was scrawled:
I told you it was not impossible for a thief to be a gentleman, and to prove it, I am tipping you off about that ring. I wouldn't do this either for your father or for Corrigan, but you're such a decent little chap I'd like you to have the thing back again. Besides, as I am in quod for a long term, the sparklers will do me no good. At 184 Speedwell St. (Suite 6) I hold a room under the name of Carlton. You will find the loot hidden in the flooring under a narrow board between the radiator and the window. The police will be only too glad to help you reclaim it. There are a few other trinkets there too they will like to have. The stuff is all mine. I quarreled with my pal after the affair at your father's store, and since then have been playing a lone game. Good luck to you, little chap. Maybe if I'd started out with your chance, I should not be where I am to-day. I wish to Heaven I had.
I told you it was not impossible for a thief to be a gentleman, and to prove it, I am tipping you off about that ring. I wouldn't do this either for your father or for Corrigan, but you're such a decent little chap I'd like you to have the thing back again. Besides, as I am in quod for a long term, the sparklers will do me no good. At 184 Speedwell St. (Suite 6) I hold a room under the name of Carlton. You will find the loot hidden in the flooring under a narrow board between the radiator and the window. The police will be only too glad to help you reclaim it. There are a few other trinkets there too they will like to have. The stuff is all mine. I quarreled with my pal after the affair at your father's store, and since then have been playing a lone game. Good luck to you, little chap. Maybe if I'd started out with your chance, I should not be where I am to-day. I wish to Heaven I had.
Twice Christopher read the letter, his eyes wide, and his throat a bit choky with emotion. To say he was surprised at the contents of the strange communication would have been to put it mildly. Not only was he astounded, he was somewhat incredulous. And yet, overmastering this disbelief was a certainty that the writer of the letter was speakingthe truth. Urged on by some whim of his own, some impulse so subtle it defied analysis, Stuart was returning the property he had stolen. Perhaps remorse had overtaken him; perhaps shame; or possibly these gentler motives did but mingle with the realization that the gems, as he himself asserted, would now be useless to him. At any rate, repentant or not, here he was giving them back to their rightful owner!
What wonder the letter needed neither salutation nor signature to identify its sender? That Stuart had penned the note and contrived to find some one he could trust to mail it was obvious. And yet Christopher, fingering it, could not but speculate as to how it had struggled to freedom. Through what strange hands had it passed,—what mazes of strategy and concealment? Ah, it was futile to attempt to trace its devious trail. Here it was in his possession, and with a sudden inrush of joy, his bewildered senses stirred to action, and he hastened with his tidings to his father's office, where he burst in on Mr. Burton in the act of dictating a letter:
"Oh, Dad!" ejaculated he. "I've the biggest sort of a surprise for you. He's written me! Think of that! Written to say where it is."
"Christopher!" thundered his father. "What do you mean by dashing in here like a madman and interrupting my work? Have you forgotten this is my private office? Offer your apologies to me and to Miss Elkins and then sit down and wait until I am at leisure."
"I'm sorry, Dad. I was so excited that—"
"There, there! That will do. You don't need to tell me you are excited. Pray calm yourself and sit down quietly until I am at liberty to hear what you have to say."
"Yes, sir."
Crestfallen, the boy sank into a big leather chair in a dim corner of the room.
"and in reply advise you that shipment billed to us via S.S.George Washingtonhas been received, and is in every way satisfactory. We will remit payment as usual through our Amsterdam brokers."Appreciating your courteous and reliable service, I remain,Truly yours,Christopher Mark Antony Burton, third."
"and in reply advise you that shipment billed to us via S.S.George Washingtonhas been received, and is in every way satisfactory. We will remit payment as usual through our Amsterdam brokers.
"Appreciating your courteous and reliable service, I remain,
Truly yours,Christopher Mark Antony Burton, third."
Mr. Burton came to a stop and leaned back in his massive mahogany chair.
"There, Miss Elkins, get that off immediately," ordered he. "Also the two cablegrams I dictated. That will be all at present. Now, Christopher, suppose you give me your mighty tidings."
A faint note of sarcasm, not lost on the boy, echoed in the words, and with enthusiasm quenched, the lad silently produced his note and laid it on his father's desk.
"What's this?" Mr. Burton asked.
"You can read it."
"A vilely dirty scrap of paper. What have you been doing with it—cleaning your shoes?"
"It was that way when it came."
"Came? Came from whom?"
"Read it and see."
"But the thing has neither beginning nor end. Was it meant for you?"
"Yes, sir. It came through the mail."
Taking the envelope from his pocket, Christopher placed it beside the letter.
Mr. Burton, however, did not heed either object.
Instead, with deliberation, he took off his glasses, wiped them and put them back on his nose. Then he lighted a fresh cigar. Even an observer less keen than his son could have detected that the major portion of his mind was still occupied by the cablegrams and dictation that had previously engaged him, and that he anticipated no very vital disclosures from the morsel of grimy paper he so gingerly took up.
Slowly he read it. Then the boy, watching, saw his figure become tense, and a flash of amazement light his eyes.
"Great Heavens!" cried he, startled out of his customary dignity. "It's from Stuart. Why didn't you say so at once?"
"I tried to tell you."
"Yes, yes. I know! But I had no idea you had anything as important as this to say. If you had only explained—"
"I was going to, only you—"
"Well, we won't stop to discuss all that now. I'll call Corrigan immediately. I don't suppose there is any chance but the note is genuine. Why, it would be a seven-days' wonder if we should get those stones back. The insurance money was nocompensation for them. We could not buy three such perfectly matched diamonds had we ten times their price. Of course there is a possibility this letter may be a fake, but somehow I've a feeling it is real. We'll consult Corrigan and see what he says."
Mr. Burton reached for the telephone.
"Hello! Give me Plaza 77098.—Is Mr. Corrigan there?—Just going out?—Catch him before he leaves, and tell him, please, that Mr. Burton wishes to speak with him." A pause followed, in which Mr. Burton nervously drummed on his desk. Then he leaned forward expectantly. "Mr. Corrigan? This is Mr. Burton speaking. I've some news for you. My son has this morning received from Chicago a letter purporting to come from Stuart and giving the location of that ring.—Of course it may be—What's that?—You are on your way up to this vicinity? That will be very nice then.—Yes, eleven will suit us all right. Good-by."
"He is coming up, is he?"
"Yes. He happened to be coming, anyway. A queer thing—that letter. I hardly know what to think about it."
"Nor I."
"I certainly never heard of a thief relenting and returning his spoils."
"I'm afraid he doesn't—usually," smiled Christopher.
"Then why do it this time?" mused Burton, Senior, pondering the mystery.
"You've got me, unless, as Stuart himself explains,he is in for a long prison term and knows the diamonds won't do him any good."
"But he could leave them where they are and run the chance of finding them when he gets out. If they are well concealed it is unlikely anybody would discover them. I don't get it at all."
Scowling, Mr. Burton lapsed into a silence so forbidding that Christopher dared not interrupt it, and accordingly the two sat without speaking until Mr. Corrigan was announced.
It took not a moment to see the inspector was more than wontedly excited.
"Where is this remarkable communication?" demanded he without preliminary. "Humph! Looks as though it had been through the wars, doesn't it! A scrap of paper some convict had concealed, most likely, together with the stump of a pencil. Those fellows are pretty clever; and Stuart probably got some chap whose sentence was up to mail it when he went out. He would hardly risk sending information like this by anybody except one of his own kind. And even then he would have to be pretty certain his messenger could be trusted. It was taking a big chance. Sometimes, however, there is honor among thieves."
"Do you think the letter is genuine?" inquired Mr. Burton.
"How, genuine? That it tells the truth, you mean? Yes, I do. I think Stuart was prompted to return the ring for the very reasons he states—he took a fancy to Christopher, and he saw the diamonds would now be of no use to him."
"But he could have left them where they are."
"For a term of ten or twelve years? But think, Mr. Burton, of the changes liable to take place in that time. The building might be torn down and replaced by another, or it might be converted into a business block; or, again, fire might destroy it. In any of these cases the jewels would be lost to Stuart. Moreover, even if he tried to recover them years hence, it might be very difficult to do so. He weighed all these considerations, you may be sure, before he sent that letter. Still I am not sure they were the factors primarily influencing him. He liked Christopher and evidently wished to do him a good turn. Such men as he often have soft streaks in them—impulses for good."
"You mean to follow up the clew then?"
"Mean to follow it up? Man alive! Certainly I do. And what is more, I mean to lose no time in doing it," answered Corrigan, rising.
"I wish—" began Christopher, and then stopped.
"You wish you could go along?" asked the inspector, turning toward the lad with a friendly smile.
"That is what I was going to say—yes."
"Well, we'll take you. I think you've earned the right to be in at the finish."
"Really!" cried Christopher.
"Sure thing."
"Do you think he'd better go?" Mr. Burton queried, instantly anxious. "You hardly know what you are going to get into. It may be a trap of some sort. Suppose, as a matter of revenge, there were a bomb under the floor."
"I'm not doing any worrying on that score," responded the inspector. "Had Stuart sent the note to you or to me, I should be on my guard; but as it has come to Christopher, I have no fears. Of course, however, I shall take every precaution."
"I hope so, for the sake of every one concerned."
"Oh, I shall be careful, Mr. Burton. Don't you worry about that. I have my eye teeth cut."
"When do you mean to take up the affair?"
"This minute! As soon as I can get my men together and the necessary formalities disposed of."
"Am I to go right along with you?" Christopher leaped to his feet.
"Yes. Fetch your hat and coat. I'll take care of the boy, Mr. Burton. Have no concern about him. It is only natural he should wish to see this job through, having been mixed up in it from the first. Besides, remember we have him to thank for every clew we have succeeded in getting. It was he who witnessed the robbery; he who trapped and identified Stuart; he who now furnishes us with the whereabouts of the loot. You wouldn't deprive him of seeing the end of the drama, would you?"
"No-o," answered Mr. Burton slowly. "Still, it is no place for him. He's been mixed up with criminals and police stations ever since he came into this store. I didn't bring him here for any such purpose. Why, he has secured more knowledge of thieves and prisons during the last few weeks than he would have gathered together in a lifetime."
"He may be the wiser for it, too. Have you thought of that? Crime isn't very attractive when one sees this side of it."
"That is true," agreed Burton, Senior.
"Let Christopher alone, Mr. Burton. What he has seen won't hurt him. It has been a grim, sad adventure in which it would be hard to find one alluring feature."
"I guess that is true. Certainly evil has not triumphed."
"It never does—in the long run," declared Corrigan emphatically. "I've seen the thing over and over again, and have followed the history of most of the men we have tracked down. Sooner or later they are brought to justice. In the meantime they lead the lives of hunted foxes, never knowing a safe or peaceful moment. Some may call that happiness, but I don't. When you make of yourself an outlaw and cut yourself off from the big universe of decent people, you sentence yourself to a pretty wretched, lonely life. Even the worst of criminals often wish themselves back into that world they have left behind them, and which they know for a certainty they never can enter again."
"Stuart seemed to in his letter."
"That's exactly what I mean. Even Stuart, who has been at this sort of thing since he was a young lad, isn't contented with the lot he has chosen. Could he start over, he would follow the other path. He as good as says so himself. They are all like that when you get them at their best moments. That is why I am so sure this note toChristopher tells the truth. It is the voice of Stuart sighing for what might have been."
"Have you any idea where this street he mentions is?" interrogated Mr. Burton.
"Oh, yes. It is up in Harlem. A very decent locality. We shall have no trouble. Doubtless the people of whom he hired his room thought him a gentleman. He could ape one when he tried. Moreover, he had a good deal of the gentleman in him. Probably were we able to dig out his ancestry, we should find he came of excellent parentage. He's a gentleman gone wrong."
"It's a pity."
"It's worse than that, Mr. Burton. It is a tragedy," declared Corrigan, as he and Christopher went out.
Onehundred eighty-four Speedwell Street proved to be a trim, well-kept apartment leased by a clerk in one of the large dry-goods houses and occupied by himself, his wife, his sister and two children. The family was of French descent and was thrifty and respectable. In order to make both ends of their slender income meet they had taken as a boarder Mr. Carlton (alias Stuart) whom they had found to be a delightful addition to the household.
"Yes, indeed! We know Monsieur Carlton well," replied the pretty little wife in response to Corrigan's inquiries. "He is charming. Such a gentleman and so kind to the children! But he is away just now. In fact, we have heard nothing from him for several days and were becoming a trifle worried by his silence. I hope no ill has befallen him." Apprehensively her eye traveled with questioning gaze over the inspector's blue uniform.
"I am afraid your boarder will not be back for some time," responded he not unkindly.
"Something has happened to him then.Mon Dieu!I am sorry—sorry! The children will break their hearts crying. Has he been hurt? Or maybe he is ill?"
"No, it is nothing of that sort. Later I will explain it all to you. He sent us to get something he had left here."
"To be sure. Come in, won't you? Ah, I am glad he is not sick! See, this is his room. We gave him our best one because he liked it and could pay."
"May I bring in some men who accompanied me?" asked Corrigan gently.
"Surely! Whatever you wish you may do since you are Mr. Carlton's friend. But I do not at all understand what is the trouble. Can't you—"
"By and by, madam, you shall know."
"It must, of course, be as you wish," agreed the tiny French woman with a smile. "I know nothing about it. Why should I interfere? Will you and your companions please step this way?" Then with surprise, "What, more police?"
"Yes. But you must not be afraid," the inspector declared reassuringly. "We want nothing of you. Only what Mr.—"
"Carlton—"
"Mr. Carlton sent us to secure," concluded Corrigan.
"Eh,bien! Enter then. This is the way. It is here Mr. Carlton sleeps. A pleasant room, you see. Books, magazines, and even a plant in bloom. He is fond of flowers."
"I am not surprised," murmured Corrigan with a shrug. "A gentleman—as I asserted. The radiator is here, Tim. That must be the board. Take it up carefully so not to splinter it and deface the flooring. No doubt it will come easily."
"The floor—you are not going to tear up the floor!" cried the woman excitedly.
"Only one board," was the soothing answer. "We shall do no injury to your premises."
"But surely Mr. Carlton would not hide things away under the floor; only thieves do that." She laughed a tremulous, half-frightened laugh at the absurdity of the jest.
"How about it, Tim? Is it coming?" questioned Corrigan, ignoring the pleasantry.
"It stirs, sir; but it is not so loose as you might expect. Didn't Blake bring a chisel?"
"Yes, it's here. Why not run a knife down that crack and see if you can't raise the board a little. If you can lift it enough to slip something under it will come up," directed the chief.
"It's coming now, sir. There, we have it!"
"Take out all those wads of tissue paper."
"Here they are, sir."
"Any more?"
"I reckon not, sir."
"Still, you'd better make sure. Run your hand in at each end as far as you can reach."
"There's nothing there, sir. A beam goes along where those nails are."
"You are sure there is no other opening?"
"Certain of it."
"Nevertheless, I'll have a look myself."
"To be sure, Mr. Corrigan," the officer replied, stepping aside.
Carefully the chief stooped down and explored the chasm with his hand.
"You're right, Tim; there is nothing more," assertedhe. "We have everything we came after, I guess."
"I am glad to hear that," put in the French woman with returning confidence. "Mr. Carlton will, I am sure, be pleased that you found what he sent you for. But what a strange place for him to store his property! Things of value, no doubt, which he treasured and feared might be lost. Have you any idea when he will be back? Perhaps if you would give me his address I might write him a letter—that is, if you think—" She halted timidly.
For the fraction of a second Corrigan was silent as if he winced at performing the duty before him.
"I am afraid, madam," responded he at last, "that Mr. Carlton will not return; nor, I fear, will you wish him back when you know the circumstances under which he has disappeared. Suffice it to say we come vested with authority to take possession of his personal effects. After to-day there will be no need for you to reserve his room."
"You mean he is not to return at all—never?" asked the woman in an awe-stricken voice.
Corrigan nodded.
Weakly the woman dropped into a chair, a sudden light of pained understanding breaking over her face.
"You mean Mr. Carlton—"
"That was not his real name," interrupted the officer. "He went under several names. Stuart is the one the police know him by. He was a professional diamond thief."
"No, no! I cannot believe it," protested the loyal little creature stoutly. "Why, he was all kindness to us. When my husband was ill he nursed him for a whole week, day and night. He gave toys to the children, did errands, and often brought us fruit or candy. Are you sure there is no mistake? Certainly we should know if he were a bad man."
"Alas, my good woman, the proofs we hold in our hands are so convincing as to leave not the slightest possibility for error. There were, you see, two Carltons—the kind, friendly gentleman you knew; and the clever, experienced criminal with whom the police were acquainted. Most of us are a combination of various selves. This man had two sharply contrasting individualities and unfortunately it was the baser of them that dominated. He has a long prison record behind him."
"Ciel!" The woman clasped her hands in horror. "But why?" exclaimed she. "He did not need to steal. He always had plenty of money."
"That was how he got it."
For a while she seemed too stunned to say more; then she whispered:
"And where is he now?"
"Serving a prison sentence for a crime in Chicago."
"It is terrible—terrible! Oh, my husband will be sad to hear this; and my sister too. Poor fellow! I can scarcely believe it. Suppose the neighbors were to hear we had been housing a burglar—they would not speak to us."
"No one will know unless you yourself tell them," the inspector answered.
"Ah, you may be sure I shall not do that," was the instant response. "Not even my children will I tell. They were fond of Mr. Carlton."
"Let them remain so. It can do no harm. In fact, no doubt the man they loved merited their affection," answered the inspector. "I wish he had been just that and nothing else."
"And so do I—with all my heart!"
In the meantime, while Corrigan had been occupied with Stuart's landlady two bluecoats had been ransacking the closet and searching the contents of a trunk that stood in the room. Here they had brought to light a bag of tools and a variety of garments, hats, and wigs evidently used as disguises.
As they now displayed these trophies before the eyes of the bewildered French woman, the last vestige of hope she had cherished vanished and she burst into tears.
"Alas, alas!" sobbed she. "He was a bad man. I am convinced of it now. And yet I cannot believe he was entirely bad."
"No one is all bad—thank Heaven," the chief responded, as he gathered together the things that had been found, sent his men below, and having said farewell, closed the door upon the weeping French woman. Then, as he and Christopher went soberly downstairs, he added:
"Poor woman—she was all cut up. Everybody who goes wrong breaks somebody's heart. He's bound to. The destinies of all of us are soentangled with other persons that there is no such thing as living only to ourselves. Consider, for example, how many individuals this Stuart came in contact with—your father, yourself, Hollings, Rhinehart, and these unlucky French people. He might as well have touched those lives for good as for evil. And we are only a small part of the men and women he has run up against during his existence. When I think of that, it turns me pretty sober. The influence each of us exerts reaches a so much wider circle than we realize that it certainly behooves us to make the power we hold as strong for good as we are able, doesn't it?"
Christopher nodded gravely. Little more was said until the Burton and Norcross store was reached, where, parting from their blue-uniformed companions, Christopher and the inspector ascended to the firm's private offices. Here on the desk of the senior partner Corrigan proceeded to unwrap and display the treasure he had recovered. There was a sparkling diamond pendant, two or three broaches, a sapphire-studded bracelet, and the much-lamented and long-sought-for ring.
"You can identify it, can you, Mr. Burton?" questioned the officer, as he passed it over for examination.
"Anywhere on earth, I believe," replied the jeweler. "The setting has not even been disturbed. Nevertheless, to make certainty more sure, let us send for Hollings and for Rhinehart, our expert."
"By all means."
Mr. Burton touched a bell and gave the order and while waiting for it to be obeyed sat regarding the heap of flashing baubles lying before him.
"Somebody beside ourselves will rejoice to see their property coming back," mused he. "I wonder who these other things belong to. That pendant is a very fine one."
"Without looking up the description I am fairly certain the pendant is one lost by a guest at the Biltmore. We have been on the hunt for it some time. The other jewels may also belong to the same party. Quite a list of missing articles was given us. I have it down at headquarters."
"Well, if the owners are as much gratified to see their diamonds returning as we are—"
The opening of the door cut short further comment and Hollings and Mr. Rhinehart came into the room. It was evident from their manner they had no inkling as to why they had been summoned and the former employee, fearful of another disaster, was pallid with apprehension.
"Ever see this ring before, Hollings?" questioned Mr. Burton, whirling round in his swivel chair and extending the jewel.
"My soul, sir! You don't mean—" He stopped, speechless.
"What do you say, Mr. Rhinehart?"
"It certainly looks like our property," declared the more cautious clerk. "If it is, the identification letters BNC will be found scratched inside the band of the ring. Have you a glass there?"
"Mr. Rhinehart isn't going to commit himselfwithout a microscope," chuckled the inspector. "He is dead right too."
"I wish to verify the stones as well as the setting," replied the expert.
"I guess in this case your stones are genuine enough. Stuart hadn't much chance to tamper with them. Nevertheless, it can do no harm to make sure," Corrigan said.
Opening a drawer Mr. Burton produced a powerful glass which he handed to Rhinehart who went to the light and carefully scanned the scintillating gems.
"Flawless and of the first water!" exclaimed he, after a tense pause. "The setting hasn't been touched, so there is practically no danger of substitution."
"You mean we have actually got the ring back—diamonds and all?" put in Hollings, as if unable to make real the miracle.
"We have—thanks to Mr. Corrigan," was Mr. Burton's reply.
"Thanks to young Christopher, you mean, sir," smiled the chief protestingly.
"What can I do to thank you?" cried Hollings. "I said I would give anything I possessed if those diamonds could be reclaimed and I'm ready to live up to my promise."
"Pooh, pooh!" laughed Corrigan. "I've no wish for payment, man. To win out in this game is payment enough for me. Besides, the police are not allowed to accept money, you know. An officer of the law gets his satisfaction in clearing up a crime and locating the loot. Until he can dothat his mind is never at peace. This day's stroke has enabled me to wipe two mysteries that have balked me off my slate and go to bed to-night with at least that many less on my mind."
He rose.
"Well, Chief, all I can say is that we are very grateful to you," declared Mr. Burton.
He would have said more had not the inspector raised his hand with a forbidding gesture.
"It's all right, sir. I'm fully as glad as you to see your property safely returned. If you have any thanks to bestow, pass them on to your son, for without him the missing diamonds might never have been located."
Then turning toward the boy he added:
"Should you want a job on the force, youngster, come down to headquarters. A lad who can win the hearts of criminals and coax them into voluntarily returning their ill-gotten gains would be an immense asset in our business."
Shaking hands all round and clapping Christopher affectionately on the shoulder, the chief went out.
"Better put that ring back in the show case, Hollings," concluded Mr. Burton. "I don't need to caution you to keep an eye on it, I guess."
"You bet you don't!" was the fervent ejaculation. Then Hollings blushed to the roots of his hair at having thus addressed the great Mr. Burton.
But for once that worthy appeared to forget his dignity and, becoming human, he laughed like a boy of ten.