“My Dear Bentham: Am seizing the first opportunity since my return from China to tell you I have succeeded in getting hold of the secret records of the organization known as the ‘Yellow Tong.’ That the tong means mischief you will see by the papers that I am sending you by safe hands. You will not get them for a day or two, perhaps, because I am fairly certain there are agents of the Yellow Tong in New York now who are ready to go to any extreme to get those records. In fact, I have been told that Sang Tu himself is in the city—doubtless in disguise. As you know, he is the head of the tong, and as unscrupulous as he is able. When these records come to you, keep them safely until you see me. No one knows that I intend to transfer them to your custody, and because of that I feel they will be safe with you until it shall come time to transfer them to Washington. Until I see you, for a long talk, I remain, as ever, your faithful friend,Andrew Anderton.”
“My Dear Bentham: Am seizing the first opportunity since my return from China to tell you I have succeeded in getting hold of the secret records of the organization known as the ‘Yellow Tong.’ That the tong means mischief you will see by the papers that I am sending you by safe hands. You will not get them for a day or two, perhaps, because I am fairly certain there are agents of the Yellow Tong in New York now who are ready to go to any extreme to get those records. In fact, I have been told that Sang Tu himself is in the city—doubtless in disguise. As you know, he is the head of the tong, and as unscrupulous as he is able. When these records come to you, keep them safely until you see me. No one knows that I intend to transfer them to your custody, and because of that I feel they will be safe with you until it shall come time to transfer them to Washington. Until I see you, for a long talk, I remain, as ever, your faithful friend,
Andrew Anderton.”
That was all. It was evident to Nick Carter that the writer feared to trust too much to paper and ink, and that he had a great deal more to tell which he meant to communicate by word of mouth.
“The records have not come, I suppose?” asked Nick.
“Not yet. Moreover, I don’t know how he is sending them. I shall be glad to get them, for he has told me just enough in this letter to assure me that the rec[Pg 38]ords will be full of important information, both to the government and to science. As for Sang Tu, I never saw that individual. I am told he belongs to a powerful Manchu family, and that, before China became a republic, he exercised great influence at Peking. Now that my friend Anderton is dead, I suppose I shall have to take the responsibility of handling these records.”
“And the danger,” said Nick gravely.
“You mean from the Yellow Tong?”
“Yes, and particularly from Sang Tu. By the way, do you happen to know a certain Professor Tolo, a Japanese?”
“I never met him, but I have heard of him. He has not been in New York long. I hear that he is a very able man, and that his knowledge of the whole Orient is regarded as wonderful. Do you know anything about him?”
“I have seen him,” replied Nick carelessly. “Well, I won’t stay any longer, professor. I knew that these records were not to be found in Mr. Anderton’s library, and I also had heard that he brought them with him.”
“Oh, did you?” asked the professor, rather surprised. “I don’t see how it was that you——”
“My dear Mr. Bentham,” responded Nick, with a smile. “You know that I am employed to make many secret investigations. It came in my way to find out about these records, and when I heard that Mr. Anderton was dead, I looked through his study for these valuable papers. I was worried because they were not there. Now that I know you have them, I feel safer. Would you permit me to use your telephone? Then I won’t trouble you any longer.”
“Trouble me?” protested Bentham. “That’s a nice thing for you to say, Carter. I haven’t ever had you in my house before, and now you are apologizing for being here. I’ll get even with you by never coming to your place,” he added, smiling. “There’s the phone. Go ahead!”
Nick took up the instrument, and soon had Patsy Garvan on the wire. He had listened not more than a few seconds, when he suddenly shouted back into the transmitter, in an agitated tone:
“All right, Patsy! I’ll come over there at once. Keep quiet till I come.”
He put the receiver on the hook, and, with a hasty “Good-by, professor. I’ll see you later,” dashed for the door.
“Wait a moment,” cried Bentham. “What’s the trouble?”
“No trouble at all!” shouted back Nick. “But I believe I’m going to find out something about the Yellow Tong.”
Half an hour later he was flying up the stairs to the study of Andrew Anderton. He found Patsy Garvan striding up and down the room in a state of intense excitement.
“Where is he?” asked Nick, as he ran into the room.
“In that tool house, or whatever the place is, in the back yard,” was Patsy Garvan’s answer, as he ran to one of the windows and flung it wide open.
The rope ladder that Chick had used the night before, and which was again coiled up in its place on the fire-escape balcony, was brought into use. Nick Carter did[Pg 39]not hesitate now, nor did he care who saw his movements. He was first over the high fence into the next yard, but he had hardly alighted on the soft earth of the flower bed when Patsy Garvan was by his side.
“Shoot—to kill!” was Nick Carter’s brief order, as he ran to a brick structure at the end of the yard. “We’ve got to make sure of those rascals this time.”
The brick building looked like a garage, but as there was no way for a motor car to be got into this yard, Nick knew it could not be used for that purpose. One glance showed him that it was old, and that the brickwork was shaky. There was a door and one window. The window was barred.
Nick decided, after a brief survey, that the bars could be torn loose with some exertion, and he seized one of them with both hands and pulled with all his might. If the detective had not been a man of extraordinary muscular power, perhaps he could not have made the bar yield. As it was, he pulled it out of one end after a few minutes’ labor. Then it was comparatively easy to get the other end out.
This left him room to crawl through. As he dropped to the floor, he saw somebody lying on the floor, bound hand and foot, and with a cloth fastened over his mouth, so that he could not utter a sound.
Two or three slashes with his knife, and off came the ropes. At the same time he loosened the suffocating cloth. Then he lifted Chick to his feet. To his joy, he saw that his assistant was not hurt. He was standing up without aid, although obviously he felt very stiff.
“Where are they, Chick? In the house?”
“Yes. There are three of them. Sun Jin, the man with the scars, and another chink.”
“And who is the third?” asked Nick Carter.
“Professor Tolo, of course. I tell you, chief, that Jap is one of the worst citizens I ever saw out of jail. He’s going to get us all if we don’t watch out.”
“Is he?” came grimly from the great detective. “I think not. The electric chair will get him.”
“It ought to, I believe. But he’s smart enough not to do his own job. He never has anything to do with the actual use of the crossed needles, and he is smart enough to make it hard to bring anything definite against him.”
While Chick was speaking, he was digging at the lock with his pocketknife, and it was not long before he shot back the lock and pulled the door open.
Patsy Garvan met them as they went out, and, with his usual recklessness where his emotions were concerned, threw his arms around Chick’s shoulders, and shouted, in a powerful voice:
“Good old scout! They didn’t get you! I saw them, and I would have come over the fence right then if the chief hadn’t phoned me to wait. Come on, everybody! This is where we get the Yellow Tong and hang it on the fence to dry, inside out! Wow! Bring on your chinks!”
It was impossible to keep Patsy quiet, as both Nick Carter and Chick well knew. Now that his blood was up, he must be allowed to have his fling, regardless of who might hear him.
“Don’t try the door,” warned Chick. “They have it locked and barred. But you can get through the kitchen window by just breaking the glass and reaching in to the catch.[Pg 40]”
“We’ll cut a hole. That will be better than making a crash by breaking it,” said Nick.
He took from his portable kit of tools a glazier’s diamond, and cut a square hole in the glass as neatly as if it were his regular business. He pinched the piece of glass with his nimble fingers before it could fall to the floor inside, and had the catch pushed back almost in the same movement. The next moment he was in the kitchen, pistol in hand, while his two assistants also came through.
So far they had not heard a sound in the house. Yet there could be no question that somebody was there, for only just before Patsy Garvan had seen the three men carrying Chick’s bound figure down the yard, to deposit it in the brick tool house.
These three men might have gone out by the front door. But, according to Patsy, the caretaker was still there, because he had come out only a minute before Nick opened the study door. Patsy had watched him from the window, and had seen him go down the yard to look at the outside of the tool house. Then he had sauntered back, lighted a pipe, and gone into the house, smoking, as if he had no intention of moving away—for a while, at all events.
“We’ve got to get that caretaker, first of all,” whispered Nick.
He opened the door of the kitchen that led to the other part of the house, closely followed by his two assistants.
There was a dark hall which seemed to run through to the front door, and the three explorers crept along till they got to another door. When they opened this, they were startled by a rush of sunlight. It gave out upon the little, paved yard in front of the house, with the avenue beyond.
Standing in the yard and leaning over the iron railings, as he puffed at a pipe so strong that it polluted the whole block, was the caretaker. He was enjoying the leisurely panorama of the early morning, apparently with nothing on his mind.
Nick pulled his assistants back to the dark hall, and locked and bolted the door in silence.
“He didn’t see us, and we don’t want him to come in,” he whispered. “We will look through the house. I don’t believe those fellows have gone out. It is my opinion they intended to go out to the tool house later and dispose of you, Chick.”
“Very likely,” assented Chick coolly. “I don’t care what they intended, now that I know they won’t be able to do it. I’m going upstairs.”
“Not without me,” grunted Patsy.
Cautiously they crept up to the main floor, and went into the dining room, the door of which was a little way open. The curtains were drawn at the window, but there was enough light for them to see that the furniture was all shrouded in denim, and that the pictures on the walls had been covered with sheets.
The effect was ghostly, but it was natural enough. The owners of the house wanted their belongings to be kept as fresh as possible while they were away.
The other rooms on this floor were also wrapped in cloths, and all were so silent that it was difficult to imagine them full of life and brightness, as probably they were when the family was at home.
To the next floor went the three investigators, and there they found a handsome drawing-room in front[Pg 41]and two smaller rooms behind, that probably were used as a cardroom and my lady’s special sitting room.
“That’s a fine grand piano over there,” observed Patsy, in a whisper. “Gee! I’d like to hear some ragtime on that.”
Patsy Garvan had a way of being incongruous without knowing it. When an idea came into his head, he was liable to give it utterance, regardless of where he might be.
The piano, covered all over with an immense sheet that hung down on all sides, had attracted his attention to such a degree that it seemed to fascinate him. He tiptoed over the luxurious rugs on the polished floor of the drawing-room until he was close to the piano, and he put his hands on it.
“Say, chief!” he whispered. “I’m just going to open this music box and see how it looks inside.”
“Come away!” hissed Chick. “Are you crazy?”
But Patsy either did not hear, or he would not heed. Throwing up the sheet, as well as the rich, brocaded cover underneath, he opened the front of the piano, exposing the keyboard, and the magnificent, pearl-inlaid music desk. Then he spread his fingers over the keys, as if about to play.
Patsy was a fair performer on the piano, as well as on several other instruments. He could hardly resist trying this valuable piano. Only the fear that there might be others in the house besides his two companions, who would perhaps catch them unawares if he were to make a sound on the instrument, held him back.
With a sigh, he put down the lid, and was turning away, when he happened to glance around the side of the piano. It stood across a corner of the room, leaving a space behind, besides diagonal corners on either side.
Without a word, Patsy flung himself into the three-cornered space at the back of the piano, and instantly there was an uproar that made it quite superfluous for Nick and Chick to keep silence any longer.
Patsy struggled out to the middle of the drawing-room. In either hand he held a Chinaman!
“Come on, Chick! Take one of these!” he shouted. “I’ve got the guy with the white ear. You take the other one! Look out! Behind you!” he added, in a shriek.
It was well that he had uttered this warning. Two other Chinamen had come from the shadows of the other rooms, and each held a knife uplifted.
Before they could bring the knives down, Nick Carter had shot out his left fist and felled one, while Chick floored the other.
But this was not the end of the battle. The two men Patsy had seized at the back of the piano took advantage of the diversion to break away from him, and the next moment he was dashing down the stairs, after them.
The front door was their objective, but it had been locked and bolted just as had the one in the basement that Nick Carter had secured. It was against this door that the fight came to an issue.
Patsy Garvan did not hesitate to rush in. He slammed one of the Chinamen on the chin and crumpled him up. It made him smile with satisfaction as he noted that it was the one with the scarred ear.
Before he could give attention to the other man, that snarling individual had drawn something from the folds[Pg 42]of his blue blouse that glistened evilly in the half light of the hall.
Whatever it was, Patsy determined not to wait for it. Letting fly with his right fist—and missing, as the Chinaman ducked, he seized him by the throat with the other hand. There was a gurgling hiss, and then the fellow went down on top of his fellow rascal.
A scream—loud, long drawn out, and unearthly—came from the man with the scarred ear, who was underneath, and the awful cry was echoed by the Chinaman on top. Then both were still.
Patsy Garvan stood looking at them in astonishment, when Nick Carter came down with a rush and ran to the help of his petrified assistant.
“Got ’em, Patsy?”
“I think so. But they seemed to give out all at once, without me touching them. That is, after I’d slung this one on top of the other.”
Nick Carter did not answer, but a look of understanding came into his keen eyes, as he pulled the top Chinaman off of his comrade and laid him on his back. Then he took out his pocket flash and turned it first on one senseless figure, and then the other.
Deeply embedded in the chest of the underneath man—the Chinaman with the scarred ear and the burned finger, from which the rag had been removed—were the poisoned crossed needles with which the detective had become so strangely familiar in the last two days.
He hastily tore open the front of the blouse and shirt away from the chest of the other. There were the two little marks which showed that he, too, had died from the same horrible death as his companion.
“It’s clear enough,” said Nick quietly. “When you flung this man on top of the other, the needles were driven into both of them. It was poetic justice. The murder of Andrew Anderton has been avenged.”
“This one with the scarred ear is the fellow who actually killed Mr. Anderton, wasn’t he?” asked Patsy.
“Yes, I have ample proof of that. This other man was concerned in it, too. The only thing I want now is to get the archconspirator—the man who arranged the murder—Sang Tu.”
“You mean Professor Tolo, don’t you?” asked Patsy.
“It may turn out to be the same thing,” returned Nick Carter. “We shall have to find that out later. Hello, Chick!” he called up the stairs. “Have you got those two fellows, all right?”
“Yes,” replied Chick. “I have handcuffs on both of them. What am I to do with them now?”
“I’ll go out and grab that caretaker. Then I’ll bring him in and make him telephone to the police station for a patrol wagon. I don’t know how deep he is in this thing. He can explain that to the police.”
“Why don’t you telephone, yourself, chief?” asked Chick. “They’d probably pay more attention to you than to the old man.”
“Yes, and they’d question me more than I care for, too,” replied Nick. “I don’t want to answer questions until I am face to face with the man who asks them. This case isn’t wound up yet, you know.”
THE END.
“The Forced Crime; or, Nick Carter’s Brazen Clew,” will be the title of the long, complete story which you will read in the next issue, No. 152, of theNick Carter[Pg 43]Stories, out August 7th. In the forthcoming story you will find more of the adventures of the famous detective in running down the members of the Yellow Tong. Then, too, you will also find several articles of interest, together with an installment of the serial now appearing.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 148 ofNick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
“I’m a fine sort of lover,” Owen muttered to himself, with a mirthless laugh, as he left the post office, and proceeded to the residence of the Reverend Doctor Moore. “A man ought to believe in the girl he loves, no matter who else he has to doubt in order to do so; yet here I am giving the preference to Pop Andrews, refusing to believe that there’s any possibility of his being a liar and a thief, when I know very well that either that must be the case, or else Dallas must be guilty.”
But although he argued this with himself, Owen realized that it was not a matter of sentiment, but of cold logic, which had caused him to decide in favor of the veteran letter carrier.
In a very despondent frame of mind, Owen rang the doorbell of the clergyman’s house, hoping that the reverend gentleman might be able to tell him something—some little detail which he had not thought to mention to Superintendent Henderson—which might put an entirely new complexion on the case, and enable him to solve the mystery without accusing either Dallas or the letter carrier.
He found that Doctor Moore was a pleasant little man, several years past middle age, with a kindly smile and an air of unworldliness which the inspector was not surprised to find in a man who would send a hundred-dollar note in an unregistered letter.
Owen explained the object of his call, and the clergyman readily agreed to give him all the assistance he could in solving the mystery.
“In the first place,” said Owen, “did anybody know, doctor, that you were sending this money through the mail? I mean to say, was anybody aware of the fact before you dropped the letter in the box? Some dishonest person might have followed you, and fished the letter out of the box as soon as you stepped away?”
“No,” answered Doctor Moore. “I don’t think that’s possible. I didn’t mention the fact that I was sending that money to anybody—not even to Mrs. Moore.”
“And you are quite sure that it went into the box all right? Some people are very careless, you know, when they mail letters. Sometimes, instead of going into the box, the letter slips to the sidewalk unnoticed.”
“No, I am quite sure that wasn’t the case with me,” the clergyman replied smilingly. “I remember that I was particularly careful to see that the letter went to the bottom of the box. I even took the precaution of peering into the slot after I had deposited it, to make sure that it had gone all the way down. I know letters some[Pg 44]times stick in the slot cover, and, as this one contained money, I was especially careful in that respect.”
“And you are equally positive that it was a pink envelope, are you, doctor? It couldn’t possibly have been any other color?”
“I am quite certain that it was pink. To prove to you that I couldn’t possibly be mistaken on that point, I might repeat to you a little pun I made to the young lady who gave me the envelope. I said to her: ‘I guess the person who receives this will consider it the pink of perfection.’ Now, it stands to reason I couldn’t have made that pun if the envelope had been of any other color, doesn’t it?”
“The young lady who gave you the envelope?” repeated Owen, seizing quickly upon these words. “May I ask you to explain what you mean by that, sir? Who was this young lady?”
The clergyman smiled. “Why, yes, to be sure! How stupid of me! I am afraid that when I answered you a little while ago that nobody knew of my intention to mail the hundred-dollar bill, I was not quite accurate. On second thought, there was one person who saw me put the money into the envelope.”
“And who was that person?” demanded Owen eagerly.
“The young lady who gave me the envelope; she is employed as a typewriter in my friend Mr. Sammis’ office. It would be quite out of the question, of course, to suspect her of fishing the letter out of the box.”
The clergyman laughed lightly.
Owen did not echo his laugh. He stared at him in astonishment. “You mean to tell me, doctor, that you got that envelope from her?”
“Yes; let me explain how that happened: You see, originally the letter and money were in a white envelope—one of my own. I had it in my pocket when I reached Mr. Sammis’ office. I was going there to see him about church affairs, you know. The sight of the street letter box outside his office suddenly reminded me that I hadn’t mailed that letter. I took it out of my pocket, with the intention of doing so immediately, when it slipped from my hand and fell to the sidewalk. It had been raining quite heavily, and the sidewalks were very muddy. Of course, the letter fell address side downward—letters always do seem to fall that way, especially when it’s muddy—and when I picked it up I saw that it was not in a condition to send through the mails; the writing on the envelope was all blurred. So I stepped into the real-estate office, and requested the young lady seated at the typewriter to let me have a plain envelope. She had a box of square pink envelopes on the desk—her own private stationery, I presume—and she handed me one of those, explaining that it was the only kind she had which didn’t bear Mr. Sammis’ business card. I told her that would do very nicely. It was then I made that little joking remark that the color was most appropriate, as the person who received it would think it the pink of perfection.”
“And you put the money in the envelope in her presence?” exclaimed Owen gloomily.
“Yes, of course! Why shouldn’t I have done so? Bless my soul! You don’t think for a minute that a nice young woman like that wasn’t to be trusted, do you?”
A happy thought suddenly occurred to Owen. A plausible explanation of the mystery flashed through his[Pg 45]mind. He believed he understood now why Dallas had afterward sought to get possession of that letter.
“You say that she took the envelope from a box of private stationery which she had on her desk, Doctor Moore?” he inquired breathlessly.
“Yes; but really I cannot understand why you should lay such stress upon this unimportant incident.” The clergyman had not yet heard Pop Andrews’ story about handing the missing letter to Dallas, and consequently had no idea what Owen was getting at.
It had occurred to the inspector that it was quite possible that Dallas, intending to give Doctor Moore an empty envelope, had unwittingly handed him one which contained something of great value to her. She had not discovered her mistake until after the clergyman had dropped the letter into the box. Then, determined to get her property back, she had waited for the postman, and told him that little fib about the letter being hers, realizing that Pop Andrews would have refused to hand it to her if she had told him the truth.
That must be the solution to the mystery, thought Owen, and he drew a deep breath of relief. Dallas had acted unlawfully, of course, in claiming and opening a letter which was not hers; but, if this theory was correct, the circumstances were extenuating, and the thing wasn’t nearly as serious as it had looked.
“Don’t you think it possible,” asked Sheridan, turning eagerly to Doctor Moore “that there was something in that pink envelope which she handed to you—a slip of paper or something of that sort? You wouldn’t have noticed that, of course.”
“On the contrary,” replied the clergyman, with a smile, “I surely would have noticed it. I can’t imagine what you are driving at, my friend; but I am quite positive that the envelope she handed to me was empty.”
“What makes you so sure of that?” demanded Owen incredulously.
“Because,” came the slowly delivered answer, “I recall distinctly that I held the envelope up against the electric light. You see, it looked to me as if the paper it was made of was exceedingly thin, and I thought there might be a possibility of that hundred-dollar bill showing through and attracting attention, so I held the empty envelope against the electric globe to ascertain just how transparent it really was. I could see right through it, and if there had been any object inside, I should surely have noticed it and called the young lady’s attention to it.”
Owen’s heart sank into his boots as this hope was dispelled. He walked out of the clergyman’s house more dejected than when he had entered it. Gloomily he wended his way to the real-estate office of Walter K. Sammis.
“Any word of Miss Worthington?” he inquired of the girl’s employer.
“No,” replied Mr. Sammis, with a frown; “and I can’t understand what’s happened to her. I sent around to her boarding house, just now, and they say that she isn’t there—hasn’t been there since yesterday evening. It’s really very strange that she should be absent like this, without leaving me any word.
“Surely,” he muttered, speaking more to himself than to Owen, “the little row we had yesterday afternoon can’t have anything to do with it?”
“The little row?” repeated Sheridan quickly.[Pg 46]
Mr. Sammis frowned. “Yes; Miss Worthington and I had a little difference; but I scarcely think that was enough to make her go off and leave me in the lurch like this. It was over a financial matter. She requested me to advance her fifty dollars—said she was badly in need of the money, and offered to pay it off in weekly installments, out of her wages. I told her that I regretted that I could not consent to such an unbusinesslike arrangement.”
Owen glared at the real-estate man. He knew that Sammis was close-fisted, but he could not imagine any man refusing such a slight favor to an employee as faithful and industrious as Dallas had always been.
“And you wouldn’t let her have the money?” he exclaimed scornfully.
“No; I told her that I couldn’t see my way clear to do so. You see, I’ve had heavy expenses lately, and, anyway, I have——”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Sammis,” Sheridan interrupted hotly. “Whatever that poor little girl has done, in her desperation, you’re responsible for.”
He strode indignantly out of the place, more discouraged than ever. Matters were getting worse and worse. Everything seemed to point to Dallas’ guilt.
He went once more to the girl’s boarding house, hoping against hope that he might find her there, although he knew very well that his errand would be in vain.
“Heard anything from Miss Worthington?” he inquired of the landlady.
“Nothing at all, Mr. Sheridan. There was somebody from her place of employment inquiring about her half an hour ago. Ain’t it queer that she should have disappeared like this?”
“I’d like to go upstairs to her room,” said Owen, an idea suddenly striking him.
“Well, I don’t know about that, Mr. Sheridan,” said the landlady. “It seems to me it would scarcely be proper——”
She stopped short as her astonished gaze fell upon the shining badge which Owen suddenly displayed.
“I’m not here in a personal capacity, Mrs. O’Brien,” he said. “I’m here as a representative of the United States government, and I demand the privilege of inspecting Miss Worthington’s room.”
“Well, I never!” exclaimed the woman. “The United States government! Dear me, what can it all mean? Why, certainly, Mr. Sheridan. Under those circumstances, will you please step this way?”
Owen followed her upstairs, feeling almost ashamed of himself that he was offering this indignity to the girl he was going to make his wife. But it had occurred to him that perhaps in Dallas’ room he might find some clew to her present whereabouts, and he was determined to find her.
And the very first thing his gaze fell upon as he entered the room was a waste-paper basket, in which were the pieces of a torn pink envelope.
There were only four pieces, and it was an easy matter for Owen to put them together and to read the address.
He uttered a groan of anguish and despair as he did so. The pink envelope, the stamp of which had not been canceled, was addressed in a man’s handwriting to the[Pg 47]person in Pennsylvania to whom the Reverend Doctor Moore had mailed the hundred-dollar note.
It was no longer possible to doubt that Dallas was guilty of robbing the United States mails.
Convinced now of the girl’s guilt, Owen Sheridan was walking dejectedly out of the room, when suddenly he remembered that he had not carried out his intention of searching for some clew as to Dallas’ whereabouts.
He returned to the waste-paper basket, which was half full of litter, and emptied its contents on the floor. Some fragments of paper with blue printing on them caught his eye. He recognized them as being parts of the top of a telegraph blank.
There was a pad of Postal Telegraph sending blanks on a small writing desk in a corner of the room. It occurred to Owen that Dallas might have written out a message with the intention of sending it over the wire, then changed her mind and torn up what she had written. He began eagerly to pick the rest of the pieces from the heap of rubbish, and soon had the complete telegram.
It consisted of two lines in the girl’s handwriting, which he recognized immediately. The torn-up message was addressed to Chester Worthington, 89 Dulwich Street, Chicago, and read:
“Disregard my letter. Am coming to you immediately. Don’t do anything rash. Will do my utmost to help you.“Dallas.”
“Disregard my letter. Am coming to you immediately. Don’t do anything rash. Will do my utmost to help you.
“Dallas.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Sheridan, “I guess this explains where she has gone—and why. That scapegrace brother of hers has got into trouble again, and she has gone out there to help him. And I suppose she used that hundred-dollar bill to pay her fare. Yes, that must be it. She tried to borrow the price of the train ticket from her employer, and when he refused, the poor girl, in her desperation, yielded to the temptation to steal that letter.”
For several minutes he sat staring miserably at the telegram which he had pieced together on the writing desk; then he rose abruptly, and, thrusting the fragments of paper into his pocket, moved toward the door, a look of determination in his eyes.
By the time he reached the street his mind was fully made up as to the course he would pursue. He intended to go back to the chief inspector, and report that he had failed to solve the mystery of the missing pink envelope; and, moreover, he would say nothing about the telegram he had found in Dallas’ room, so that if others were put on the case they would be unable to get on the track of the girl.
The chief would sneer at him, no doubt, for falling down on his very first case; but he wouldn’t mind that as long as Dallas escaped punishment for an offense which he could not believe her guilty of, in spite of the evidence he had obtained.
“And, of course, I’m going to hand in my resignation from the postal service, to take effect at once,” he told himself. “I couldn’t very well continue in the employ of the United States government after helping to defeat the ends of justice.”
“Hello!” exclaimed a cheery voice, as Owen turned[Pg 48]the street corner, so wrapped up in his gloomy meditations that he almost collided with the speaker. “And how’s our young post-office inspector to-day? Not on the trail of malefactors already, I’ll wager. From your pre-occupied air and the frown upon your countenance, Owen, it must be a perplexing problem you’re wrestling with.”
Owen looked into the smiling countenance of ex-Judge Sugden Lawrence, the kind friend whose influence had enabled him to land the government job which he now contemplated resigning.
Acting on an impulse, Sheridan decided to take the lawyer into his confidence. He knew that the latter could be trusted not to betray Dallas’ secret.
“It is a perplexing problem I’m wrestling with, judge,” he said; “one of the most unpleasant a fellow was ever up against.”
“Official or personal?” inquired the lawyer.
“Both,” answered Owen grimly. “And that’s where the trouble comes in. It’s the personal element in this case which makes it impossible for me to do my duty.”
The judge frowned, and looked at him disapprovingly. “Impossible to do your duty, Owen? I’m sorry to hear you talk like that. If I thought that you really meant it, I should regret very much that I had assisted you to become a post-office inspector. No personal considerations should ever cause an officer of the law to shirk his duty.”
“That’s all very well to say,” returned the inspector; “but an officer of the law is human, just like everybody else, and it isn’t reasonable to ask him to arrest the girl he loves.”
“What!” exclaimed Judge Lawrence, in astonishment. “Arrest Miss Worthington? What on earth for?”
In a few words Owen sadly explained to him the nature of his first assignment as a post-office inspector. The lawyer listened with growing amazement.
“This is really most extraordinary! I cannot bring myself to believe that that young woman could be a thief. Come on downtown with me to my office, Owen, and let us talk this case over. Perhaps by putting our heads together we shall be able to convince ourselves of your fiancée’s innocence.”
Half an hour later they sat in the lawyer’s private office, and Owen narrated every detail of the case, and displayed the incriminating envelope and the telegram, which he pieced together on Judge Lawrence’s desk.
“It is really very strange,” declared the judge. “Looking at all the evidence from the standpoint of a lawyer, I should have no hesitancy in declaring that the young woman must be guilty. And yet——” He stopped short, and, leaning back in his chair, gazed dreamily toward the ceiling.
“And yet what?” queried Owen eagerly.
“I was just thinking of a scene which took place in this office a few months ago. It was almost the same scene as is being enacted here now; only, in that instance, Miss Worthington sat in the chair which you now occupy, and you were the subject under discussion.”
He smiled whimsically. “And I couldn’t help thinking, my dear Owen, as that scene came back to me, how very much superior the other sex is to ours when it comes to loyalty and faith. I remember that Miss Worthington, that day, refused even to consider the possibility of your being guilty. She declared that no matter what evidence[Pg 49]might be brought against you, she would never believe that you were a thief.”
Owen flushed painfully, and a tender look came to his eyes. “Dear little girl,” he murmured; “I’m a brute to doubt her. But the evidence is convincing, judge. You must admit that there is no——”
“The evidence in your case—the circumstantial evidence—appeared to be equally convincing, Owen,” interrupted the judge. “Yet she refused to accept it; and it turned out afterward that her faith was not misplaced.”
Sheridan looked at him eagerly. “Then you really think that there’s a chance of her being innocent?”
“I do. Your own narrow escape ought to have taught you that there is always a chance of circumstantial evidence leading to a wrong conclusion. Now, there is one thing about that telegram which you found in the waste-paper basket which, in my opinion, indicates that Miss Worthington did not steal the pink envelope. Apparently it is a point which has escaped your observation.”
“What do you mean, judge?” inquired Owen breathlessly.
“I refer to the opening words of that message: ‘Disregard my letter,’ she telegraphs to her brother. Now, doesn’t that look as if she may have been telling the truth when she stated to Carrier Andrews that she had dropped into that mail box a letter which she had changed her mind about sending? Doesn’t it look as if the opening words of her telegram have reference to that letter?”
A look of joy came to Owen’s face. “By Jove, yes!” he exclaimed. “I think I see it now, judge. Dallas didn’t mean to steal the Reverend Doctor Moore’s letter. She was after the one which she had dropped in the box—the one to her brother in Chicago. She got the other pink envelope by mistake. Yes, that must be it, of course. She didn’t discover her error until she reached home; then, realizing that it was too late to stop that letter to her brother, she sat down and wrote him that telegram. The whole thing’s as clear as daylight now. I’m mighty glad that I met you to-day, judge.”
Then suddenly all the joy departed from Sheridan’s face. “But no, it couldn’t have been that way, after all,” he went on, with a sigh of disappointment. “That theory won’t go; we’re overlooking two things.”
“What are they?”
“In the first place, she didn’t send that telegram to her brother, after all. If she had I wouldn’t have found it in the basket.”
“Pooh! That argument’s easily met. She may have sent another message. Women generally write a telegram over three or four times before they’re satisfied with the wording of it, you know. Or she may have decided that, as she was going out to Chicago, there was no need of telegraphing. Probably she figured on getting there almost as soon as her letter.”
“Yes,” Owen admitted; “of course, that’s logical enough. But my other argument isn’t so easily disposed of. I’m afraid it knocks out our theory.”
“What is it?”
“If Dallas got the clergyman’s letter by an innocent mistake, what became of her letter—the one she really wanted? There was no other pink envelope in that box. There would have been if she had been telling the truth when she said she mailed it.”
The judge gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Yes, that is a stumper, I must admit. But,” he added, “maybe[Pg 50]Miss Worthington could explain that. I feel confident that she could. Why don’t you go to Chicago on the very next train and ask her, Inspector Sheridan? I wouldn’t lose any time in clearing this thing up if I were you.”
“But suppose I ask her, and she admits——”
“Bah!” interrupted the lawyer impatiently; “shame on you for an unworthy lover! I’m willing to wager everything I’ve got that that little girl won’t admit to you that she’s a thief—because she won’t have to.”
His confident air was infectious. “Thank you!” said Owen. “You’re quite right, of course. Dallas couldn’t be a thief! I’m going to take the first train out.”
When Owen Sheridan arrived at Chicago, the following day, he proceeded at once to the address given in the telegram. He guessed that this was the boarding house in which Chester Worthington, Dallas’ brother, resided, and as it was Sunday, there would be, of course, no use in looking up that young man at his place of business.
No. 89 Dulwich Street proved to be a nice-looking house on a quiet street. Owen hoped to find Dallas there, for it seemed probable that the girl while in Chicago would stay under the same roof as her brother. But as he drew near he suddenly stopped short, and, uttering an exclamation of astonishment, darted into a convenient doorway to avoid being seen by a man who was ascending the stoop.
This man was stout, red-faced, flashily dressed, and wore a gaudy necktie, from the center of which flashed a huge diamond. It was the sight of him which had caused Owen such agitation, for he recognized the fellow immediately as Jake Hines, fugitive from justice, and his unsuccessful rival in love.
“Good heavens!” gasped Owen. “What can this mean? Is it possible that the rascal can have anything to do with Dallas’ coming to Chicago? It’s a lucky thing I’m here.”
He waited until the door of No. 89 had closed behind Hines, then he came out of his place of concealment, and hurried toward the house. A pleasant-looking woman responded to his ring at the doorbell, and he questioned her abruptly: “That man who just came in here—where did he go?”
“You mean Mr. Fitzgerald, I presume?”
“That’s probably the name he goes under,” said Owen, realizing that it was not unlikely that Mr. Hines, being a fugitive from justice, had assumed an alias. “Does he reside here?”
The woman regarded her excited visitor with cold suspicion. “Before I answer any questions, sir, I must know who you are and what business——”
Owen, without waiting for her to finish, displayed his badge, at sight of which her manner changed.
“Oh, is that the kind of a man Mr. Fitzgerald is?” she exclaimed. “Well, I’m not surprised to hear it. I took a dislike to him the first time I saw him.”
“Oh, then he does live here?”
“No; but he comes here quite often to visit one of our boarders, sir—a Mr. Worthington—and it’s up to his room that he’s gone now.[Pg 51]”
“And is Miss—— Is anybody else up there with them?” inquired Owen, with great eagerness.
“Yes, sir; Mr. Worthington’s sister from New York. She arrived here yesterday, and has the room next to her brother’s. She’s up in her room now—the second-floor rear—and——”
Without waiting to hear any more Owen rushed up the stairway, and paused before a closed door, from behind which the deep voice of Jake Hines could be plainly heard.
Owen Sheridan’s first impulse was to burst into the room. The mere voice of Jake Hines was like a challenge to him, filling him with suspicion and indignation. But in his work as a post-office inspector, discretion and caution were rapidly becoming habitual with him, and he waited quietly to learn what new rôle was being enacted by the young politician beyond the door.
“I tell you, Dallas,” Hines was saying, “it’s the only chance of savin’ your brother from goin’ to jail. If you’re the right kind of a sister, you won’t hesitate for a minute. What’s a little thing like marryin’ me compared to seein’ your brother in stripes?”
“Yes, Dallas,” said another masculine voice imploringly; “what Jake says is so. It depends entirely upon you whether I go to jail or not. The shortage hasn’t been discovered yet; but the auditor is due at the office next week, and as soon as he gets at the books I’m done for—unless I can replace the five thousand dollars before then.”
“And I’ve got the money right here,” said Hines. “Five thousand dollars in bills, girlie. All you’ve got to do is to promise to marry me, and as soon as the license is made out I’ll hand the roll to your brother, and he’ll be safe.”
“And it’ll be the last time I’ll enter a gambling house; I’ll promise you that, Dallas!” declared young Worthington. “You see me out of this scrape, and I’ll go straight from now on. You’ll do me this favor, won’t you, sis? You’re not going to be stubborn, and see your brother sent to prison. You’re the only one that can save me, Dallas. It’s entirely up to you?”
“But, Chester,” came the tremulous voice of Dallas, “what you ask is quite impossible. I couldn’t marry this man, even to save you from disgrace and imprisonment. I really couldn’t do it, Chester. I’d do anything else in my power to help you, dear; but that’s out of the question.”
“And why is it out of the question, I should like to know?” exclaimed Hines in an injured tone. “I ain’t such a bad feller, Dallas. There’s lots worse than me, I guess. To hear her talk, Chester, you’d think I was the worst demon that ever grew in the garden of love, wouldn’t you?”
“Jake has been a mighty good friend to me, sis,” declared young Worthington warmly. “It’s true I’ve only known him a few months, but that’s long enough for me to find out that he’s one of the best fellows in the whole world. He’s loaned me a lot of money already, and now that I’m in this big trouble he comes forward generously and offers to let me have the five thousand dollars to make good the shortage[Pg 52]——”
“Under the conditions mentioned,” interpolated Mr. Hines hastily.
“Under the conditions mentioned, of course,” said young Worthington. “But, nevertheless, it’s a mighty generous offer. The conditions are ridiculously easy, Dallas. I’m sure Jake will make a mighty good husband, and you’d never regret marrying him. He’s very much in love with you. He’s done nothing but talk about you ever since I’ve known him. He’s just crazy about you.”
“And I suppose,” said Dallas scornfully, “it was he who suggested that you send me that mysterious and startling letter which brought me to Chicago without letting a single person in New York—not even my employer—know about it? Yes, I am quite sure that is some of Mr. Hines’ work. If I had suspected for a minute that I should find him here, Chester, I wouldn’t have changed my mind after writing you that I couldn’t come to you.”
“Ah,” said Owen to himself, “so she wrote to her brother telling him that she couldn’t come to him, and then she changed her mind. That, of course, must have been the letter which she tried to get out of the mail, and, by an unfortunate mistake, got the Reverend Doctor Moore’s pink envelope, with its hundred-dollar inclosure, instead.”
Owen disliked to play the rôle of eavesdropper, but he couldn’t help waiting a little longer outside that door before making his presence known to the occupants of the room. He wanted his entry to come as a startling climax to one of Mr. Hines’ little speeches.
He did not have long to wait. “Well, Dallas,” he heard Hines exclaim, suddenly assuming a bullying tone, “it’s no use havin’ any more argument about this matter. I hold all the cards in this game. I know very well that you ain’t the kind of girl to let your brother go to jail when it lies in your power to save him; so you’ve got to accept my proposition whether you like it or not. As I told you once before, when Jake Hines wants a thing bad he generally manages to get it. You know—— Hello!”
His little, beady eyes opened wide with astonishment and alarm as the door suddenly flew open, and Post-office Inspector Owen Sheridan stepped into the room.
“Well, for the love of Mike!” gasped Jake, and as he spoke he fell back a step, and his right hand moved toward his hip pocket.
Owen did not fail to grasp the significance of this gesture. “Keep your hands in front of you, Hines,” he said quietly. “It’s no use. I’ve got you covered.”
Owen’s right hand was thrust within the side pocket of his coat. The pocket bulged as though it might contain something else besides the hand. Hines noted that bulge, and obediently kept his hands in front of him.
“Got me covered, have you?” he grunted. “Well, I’m from Missouri. You gotter show me. I’ve heard of that bluff bein’ pulled off before now with a pipe or a nail file.”
Owen laughed. “All right; I’ll show you. Does this look like a pipe or a nail file, Jake?”
Hines’ small eyes blinked at sight of the revolver which came quickly from Owen’s coat pocket. “No, that’s the goods,” he said gloomily. “I guess I’m up against it. Was you sent to Chicago specially to get me, Sheridan?”
“Not exactly,” replied Owen, with a glance toward[Pg 53]Dallas; “I came here mainly to look into another case; but I guess that can wait until I’ve got you safely locked up.”
“Well, as long as you wasn’t sent to get me,” said Hines eagerly, “perhaps you’ll be interested in a little proposition I’m goin’ to make.”
He, too, glanced toward Dallas. “I’ve got five thousand dollars in bills in my pocket, Sheridan. That money’d come in mighty useful to Miss Worthington just now. It would save her brother from a long term in jail. I’ll hand it over to her if you’ll let me walk out of that door alone. Is it a bargain?”
“It is not,” said Dallas, before the post-office inspector could answer. “You’ve got to do your duty, Owen. Don’t listen to any proposal.”
Owen gave her a grateful and admiring glance. “That’s fine of you, Dallas. Of course, there’s no danger of my accepting this bribe. I scarcely think, though, that your brother will have to go to jail for the lack of that money. I don’t believe that he’s short five thousand dollars at the office at all. I’ve got a shrewd suspicion that these rascals invented that yarn, and have been trying to work a cunning game on you.”
It was only a guess, of course, but Owen could see from the discomfited and sheepish look that came to young Worthington’s face that he had guessed right.
TO BE CONTINUED.
A laughable illustration of how anger causes a man to make himself ridiculous is given in the following incident, related in a German newspaper:
Banker Rosenthal directed his bookkeeper to address a sharp letter to Baron Y——, who had promised several times to pay what he owed, and had as often neglected to do so.
When the letter was written, it did not please Banker Rosenthal, who is very excitable, and he angrily penned the following: