Annie Millikan nodded her wise little head. "Jerry's gonna frame him if he can. He's laid the wires for it. That's a lead pipe."
"Sure," agreed Muldoon. "I'll bet he's been busy all night fixin' up his story. Some poor divvies he'll bully-rag into swearin' lies an' others he'll buy. Trust Jerry for the crooked stuff."
"We've got to get the truth," said Beatrice crisply, pulling on her gloves. "And we'll do it too. A pack of lies can't stand against four of us all looking for the truth."
Annie looked curiously at this golden-haired girl with the fine rapture of untamed youth, so delicate and yet so silken strong. By training and tradition they were miles apart, yet the girl who had lived on the edge of the underworld recognized a certain kinship. She liked the thorough way this young woman threw herself into the business of the day. The wireless telegraphy of the eyes, translated through the medium of her own emotions, told her that no matter whose ring Beatrice Whitford was wearing Clay Lindsay held her happiness in the cup of his strong brown hand.
"You're shoutin', Miss." Annie rose briskly. "I'll get busy doin' some sleuthin' myself. I liked your friend from the minute he stepped through—from the minute I set me peepers on him. He's one man, if anybody asks you. I'm soitainly for him till the clock strikes twelve. And say, listen! Jerry's liable not to get away with it. I'm hep to one thing. The gang's sore on him. He rides the boys too hard. Some of 'em will sure t'row him down hard if they think they'll be protected."
"The district attorney will stand by us," said Whitford. "He told me himself Durand was a menace and that his days as boss were numbered. Another thing, Miss Millikan. If you need to spend any money in a legitimate way, I'm here to foot the bills."
Muldoon, who was on night duty this month and therefore had his days free, guided Whitford and his daughter to Maddock's. As they reached the house an express wagon was being driven away. Automatically the license number registered itself in Tim's memory.
The policeman took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. The three went up the stairs to the deserted gambling-hall and through it to the rear room.
"From what Lindsay says the bullet holes ought to be about as high as his arm pits," said Whitford.
"'Slim' must 'a' been standin' about here," guessed Muldoon, illustrating his theory by taking the position he meant. "The bullets would hit the partition close to the center, wouldn't they?"
Beatrice had gone straight to the plank wall. "They're not here," she told them.
"Must be. According to Lindsay's story the fellow was aiming straight at it."
"Well, they're not here. See for yourself."
She was right. There was no evidence whatever that any bullets had passed through the partition. They covered every inch of the cross wall in their search.
"Lindsay must have been mistaken," decided Whitford, hiding his keen disappointment. "This man Collins couldn't have been firing in this direction. Of course everything was confusion. No doubt they shifted round in the dark and—"
He stopped, struck by an odd expression on the face of his daughter. She had stooped and picked up a small fragment of shaving from the floor. Her eyes went from it to a plank in the partition and then back to the thin crisp of wood.
"What is it, honey?" asked Whitford.
The girl turned to Muldoon, alert in every quivering muscle. "That express wagon—the one leaving the house as we drove up—Did you notice it?"
"Number 714," answered Tim promptly.
"Can you have it stopped and the man arrested? Don't you see? They've rebuilt this partition. They were taking away in that wagon the planks with the bullet holes."
Muldoon was out of the room and going down the stairs before she had finished speaking. It was a quarter of an hour later when he returned. Beatrice and her father were not to be seen.
From back of the partition came an eager, vibrant voice. "Is that you, Mr. Muldoon? Come here quick. We've found one of the bullets in the wall."
The policeman passed out of the door through which Bromfield had made his escape and found another small door opening from the passage. It took him into the cubby-hole of a room in which were the wires and instruments used to receive news of the races.
"What about the express wagon?" asked Whitford.
"We'll get it. Word is out for those on duty to keep an eye open for it. Where's the bullet?"
Beatrice pointed it out to him. There it was, safely embedded in the plaster, about five feet from the ground.
"Durand wasn't thorough enough. He quit too soon," said the officer with a grin. "Crooks most always do slip up somewhere and leave evidence behind them. Yuh'd think Jerry would have remembered the bullet as well as the bullet hole."
They found the mark of the second bullet too. It had struck a telephone receiver and taken a chip out of it.
They measured with a tape-line the distance from the floor and the side walls to the place where each bullet struck. Tim dug out the bullet they had found.
They were back in the front room again when a huge figure appeared in the doorway and stood there blocking it.
"Whatta youse doin' here?" demanded a husky voice.
Muldoon nodded a greeting. "'Lo, Dave. Just lookin' around to see the scene of the scrap. How about yuh?"
"Beat it," ordered Gorilla Dave, his head thrust forward in a threat."Youse got no business here."
"Friends av mine." The officer indicated the young woman and her father. "They wanted to see where 'Slim' was knocked out. So I showed 'em. No harm done."
Dave moved to one side. "Beat it," he ordered again.
In the pocket of Muldoon was a request of the district attorney for admission to the house for the party, with an O.K. by the captain of police in the precinct, but Tim did not show it. He preferred to let Dave think that he had been breaking the rules of the force for the sake of a little private graft. There was no reason whatever for warning Durand that they were aware of the clever trick he had pulled off in regard to the partition.
From Maddock's the Whitfords drove straight to the apartment house of Clarendon Bromfield. For the third time that morning the clubman's valet found himself overborne by the insistence of visitors.
"We're coming in, you know," the owner of the Bird Cage told him in answer to his explanation of why his master could not be seen. "This is important business and we've got to see Bromfield."
"Yes, sir, but he said—"
"He'll change his mind when he knows why we're here." Whitford pushed in and Beatrice followed him. From the adjoining room came the sound of voices.
"I thought you told us Mr. Bromfield had gone to sleep and the doctor said he wasn't to be wakened," said Beatrice with a broad, boyish smile at the man's discomfiture.
"The person inside wouldn't take no, Miss, for an answer."
"He was like us, wasn't he? Did he give his name?" asked the young woman.
"No, Miss. Just said he was from the Omnium Club."
Whitford and his daughter exchanged glances. "Same business we're on.Announce us and we'll go right in."
They were on his heels when he gave their names.
Bromfield started up, too late to prevent their entrance. He stood silent for a moment, uncertain what to do, disregarding his fiancée's glance of hostile inquiry lifted toward the other guest.
The mining man forced his hand. "Won't you introduce us, Clarendon?" he asked bluntly.
Reluctantly their host went through the formula. He was extremely uneasy. There was material for an explosion present in this room that would blow him sky-high if a match should be applied to it. Let Durand get to telling what he knew about Clarendon and the Whitfords would never speak to him again. They might even spread a true story that would bar every house and club in New York to him.
"We've heard of Mr. Durand," said Beatrice.
Her tone challenged the attention of the gang leader. The brave eyes flashed defiance straight at him. A pulse of anger was throbbing in the soft round throat.
Inscrutably he watched her. It was his habit to look hard at attractive women. "Most people have," he admitted.
"Mr. Lindsay is our friend," she said. "We've just come from seeing him."
The man to whom she was engaged had been put through so many flutters of fear during the last twelve hours that a new one more or less did not matter. But he was still not shock-proof. His fingers clutched a little tighter the arm of the chair.
"W-what did he tell you?"
Beatrice looked into his eyes and read in them once more stark fear. Again she had a feeling that there was something about the whole affair she had not yet fathomed—some secret that Clay and Clarendon and perhaps this captain of thugs knew.
She tried to read what he was hiding, groped in her mind for the key to his terror. What could it be that he was afraid Clay had told her? What was it they all knew except Lindsay's friends? And why, since Clarendon was trembling lest it be discovered, should the Arizonan too join the conspiracy of silence? At any rate she would not uncover her hand.
"He told us several things," she said significantly. "You've got to make open confession, Clary."
The ex-pugilist chewed his cigar and looked at her.
"What would he confess? That the man with him murdered Collins?"
"That's not true," said the girl quickly.
"So Lindsay's your friend, eh? Different here, Miss." Jerry pieced together what the clubman had told him and what he had since learned about her. He knew that this must be the girl to whom his host was engaged. "How about you, Bromfield?" he sneered.
The clubman stiffened. "I've nothing against Mr. Lindsay."
"Thought you had."
"Of course he hasn't. Why should he?" asked Beatrice, backing upClarendon.
Durand looked at her with a bold insolence that was an insult. His eyes moved up and down the long, slim curves of her figure. "I expect he could find a handsome reason if he looked around for it, Miss."
The girl's father clenched his fist. A flush of anger swept his ruddy cheeks. He held himself, however, to the subject.
"You forget, Mr. Durand, that Lindsay was his guest last night."
Jerry's laugh was a contemptuous jeer. "That's right. I'd forgot that. He was your guest, wasn't he, Bromfield?"
"What's the good of discussing it here?" asked the tortured host.
"Not a bit," admitted Whitford. "Actions talk, not words. Have you seen the police yet, Bromfield?"
"N-not yet."
"What's he gonna see the police about?" Jerry wanted to know, his chin jutting out.
"To tell them that he saw Collins draw a gun and heard shots fired," retorted the mining man instantly.
"Not what he's been tellin' me. He'll not pull any such story—not unless he wants to put himself in a cell for life."
"Talk sense. You can't frighten Bromfield. He knows that's foolishness."
"Does he?" The crook turned derisive eyes on the victim he was torturing.
Certainly the society man did not look a picture of confidence. The shadow of a heavy fear hung over him.
The telephone rang. Bromfield's trembling fingers picked up the transmitter. He listened a moment, then turned it over to Beatrice.
"For you."
Her part of the conversation was limited. It consisted of the word "Yes" repeated at intervals and a concluding, "Oh, I'm so glad. Thank you." Her eyes were sparkling when she hung up.
"Good news, Dad," she said. "I'll tell you later."
Durand laughed brutally as he rose. "Good news, eh? Get all you can. You'll need it. Take that from me. It's straight. Your friend's in trouble up to the neck." He swaggered to the door and turned. "Don't forget, Bromfield. Keep outa this or you'll be sorry." His voice was like the crack of a trainer's whip to animals in a circus.
For once Bromfield did not jump through the hoop. "Oh, go to the devil," he said in irritation, flushing angrily.
"Better not get gay with me," advised Durand sourly.
After the door had closed on him there was a momentary pause. The younger man spoke awkwardly. "You can tell me now what it was Mr. Lindsay told you."
"We'd like to know for sure whether you're with us or with Durand," said Whitford mildly. "Of course we know the answer to that. You're with us. But we want to hear you say it, flat-foot."
"Of course I'm with you. That is, I'd like to be. But I don't want to get into trouble, Mr. Whitford. Can you blame me for that?"
"You wouldn't get into trouble," argued the mine owner impatiently. "I keep telling you that."
Beatrice, watching the younger man closely, saw as in a flash the solution of this mystery—the explanation of the tangle to which various scattered threads had been leading her.
"Are you sure of that, Dad?"
"How could he be hurt, Bee?"
The girl let Bromfield have it straight from the shoulder. "BecauseClay didn't kill that man Collins. Clarendon did it."
"My God, you know!" he cried, ashen-faced. "He told you."
"No, he didn't tell us. For some reason he's protecting you. But I know it just the same. You did it."
"It was in self-defense," he pleaded.
"Then why didn't you say so? Why did you let Clay be accused instead of coming forward at once?"
"I was waiting to see if he couldn't show he was innocent without—"
"Without getting you into it. You wanted to be shielded at any cost." The scorn that intolerant youth has for moral turpitude rang in her clear voice.
"I thought maybe we could both get out of it that way," he explained weakly.
"Oh, you thought! As soon as you saw this morning's paper you ought to have hurried to the police station and given yourself up."
"I was ill, I keep telling you."
"Your man could telephone, couldn't he? He wasn't ill, too, was he?"
Whitford interfered. "Hold on, honey. Don't rub it in. Clarendon was a bit rattled. That's natural. The question is, what's he going to do now?"
Their host groaned. "Durand'll see I go to the chair—and I only struck the man to save my own life. I wasn't trying to kill the fellow. He was shooting at me, and I had to do it."
"Of course," agreed Whitford. "We've got proof of that. Lindsay is one witness. He must have seen it all. I've got in my pocket one of the bullets Collins shot. That's more evidence. Then—"
Beatrice broke in excitedly. "Dad, Mr. Muldoon just told me over the 'phone that they've got the express wagon. The plank with the bullet holes was in it. And the driver has confessed that he and a carpenter, whose name he had given, changed the partition for Durand."
Whitford gave a subdued whoop. "We win. That lets you out, Clarendon. The question now isn't whether you or Clay will go to the penitentiary, but whether Durand will. We can show he's been trying to stand in the way of justice, that he's been cooking up false evidence."
"Let's hurry! Let's get to the police right away!" the girl cried, her eyes shining with excitement. "We ought not to lose a minute. We can get Clay out in time to go home to dinner with us."
Bromfield smiled wanly. He came to time as gallantly as he could."All right. I'm elected to take his place, I see."
"Only for a day or two, Clarendon," said the older man. "As soon as we can get together a coroner's jury we'll straighten everything out."
"Yes," agreed the clubman lifelessly.
It was running through his mind already that if he should be freed of the murder charge, he would only have escaped Scylla to go to wreck on Charybdis. For it was a twenty to one bet that Jerry would go to Whitford with the story of his attempt to hire the gang leader to smirch Lindsay's reputation.
It must be admitted that when Bromfield made up his mind to clear Lindsay he did it thoroughly. His confession to the police was quiet and businesslike. He admitted responsibility for the presence of the Westerner at the Omnium Club. He explained that his guest had neither gambled nor taken any liquors, that he had come only as a spectator out of curiosity. The story of the killing was told by him simply and clearly. After he had struck down the gunman, he had done a bolt downstairs and got away by a back alley. His instinct had been to escape from the raid and from the consequences of what he had done, but of course he could not let anybody else suffer in his place. So he had come to give himself up.
The late afternoon papers carried the story that Clarendon Bromfield, well-known man about town, had confessed to having killed "Slim" Collins and had completely exonerated Lindsay. It was expected that the latter would be released immediately.
He was. That evening he dined at the home of the Whitfords. The mine owner had wanted to go on the bond of Bromfield, but his offer had been rejected.
"We'll hear what the coroner's jury has to say," the man behind the desk at headquarters had decided. "It'll not hurt him to rest a day or two in the cooler."
After dinner the committee of defense met in the Red Room and discussed ways and means. Johnnie and his bride were present because it would have been cruel to exclude them, but for the most part they were silent members. Tim Muldoon arrived with Annie Millikan, both of them somewhat awed by the atmosphere of the big house adjoining the Drive. Each of them brought a piece of information valuable to the cause.
The man in charge of the blotter at the station had told Tim that from a dip called Fog Coney, one of those arrested in the gambling-house raid, an automatic gun with two chambers discharged had been taken and turned in by those who searched him. It had required some maneuvering for Tim to get permission to see Fog alone, but he had used his influence on the force and managed this.
Fog was a sly dog. He wanted to make sure on which side his bread was buttered before he became communicative. At first he had been willing to tell exactly nothing. He had already been seen by Durand, and he had a very pronounced respect for that personage. It was not until he had become convinced that Jerry's star was on the wane that he had "come through" with what Muldoon wanted. Then he admitted that he had picked the automatic up from the floor where Collins had dropped it when he fell. His story still further corroborated that of the defense. He had seen "Slim" fire twice before he was struck by the chair.
Through an admirer Annie had picked up a lead that might develop into something worth while. Her friend had told her that Durand had made a flat offer to one of the dope fiends caught in the raid to look after him if he would swear that "Slim" had not drawn a gun. Though the story had not come at first hand, she believed it was true, and thought from her knowledge of him that the man would weaken under a mild third degree.
Clay summed up in a sentence the result of all the evidence they had collected. "It's not any longer a question of whether Bromfield goes to prison, but of Durand. The fellow has sure overplayed his hand."
Before twelve hours more had passed Durand discovered this himself. He had been too careless, too sure that he was outside of and beyond the law. At first he had laughed contemptuously at the advice of his henchmen to get to cover before it was too late.
"They can't touch me," he bragged. "They daren't."
But it came to him with a sickening realization that the district attorney meant business. He was going after him just as though he were an ordinary crook.
Jerry began to use his "pull." There reached him presently that same sinking at the pit of the stomach he had known when Clay had thrashed him. He learned that when a lawbreaker is going strong, friends at court who are under obligations to him are a bulwark of strength, but when one's power is shaken politicians prefer to take no risks. No news spreads more rapidly than that of the impending fall of a chieftain. The word was passing among the wise that Jerry Durand was to be thrown overboard.
The active center of the attack upon him was the group around Clay Lindsay. To it was now allied the office of the district attorney and all the malcontent subordinates of the underworld who had endured his domination so long only because they must. The campaign was gathering impetus like a snowslide. Soon it would be too late to stop it even if he could call off the friends of the Westerner.
Durand tried to make an appointment with Whitford. That gentleman declined to see him. Jerry persisted. He offered to meet him at one of his clubs. He telephoned to the house, but could not get any result more satisfactory than the cold voice of a servant saying, "Mr. Whitford does not wish to talk with you, sir." At last he telegraphed.
The message read:
I'll come to your house at eight this evening. Better see me forMissie's sake.
It was signed by Durand.
When Jerry called he was admitted.
Whitford met him with chill hostility. He held the telegram in his hand. "What does this message mean?" he asked bluntly.
"Your daughter's engaged to Bromfield, ain't she?" demanded the ex-prize-fighter, his bulbous eyes full on his host.
"That's our business, sir."
"I got a reason for asking. She is or she ain't. Which is it?"
"We'll not discuss my daughter's affairs."
"All right, since you're so damned particular. We'll discuss Bromfield's. I warned him to keep his mouth shut or he'd get into trouble."
"He was released from prison this afternoon."
"Did I say anything about prison?" Durand asked. "There's other kinds of grief beside being in stir. I've got this guy right."
"Just what do you mean, Mr. Durand?"
"I mean that he hired me to get Lindsay in bad with you and the girl. He was to be caught at the Omnium Club with a woman when the police raided the place, and it was to get into the papers."
"I don't believe it," said Whitford promptly.
"You will. I had a dictagraph in the room when Bromfield came to see me. You can hear it all in his own voice."
"But there wasn't any woman with Lindsay at Maddock's when the raid was pulled off."
"Sure there wasn't. I threw Bromfield down."
"You arranged to have Lindsay killed instead."
"Forget that stuff. The point is that if you don't call off the district attorney, I'll tell all I know about son-in-law Bromfield. He'll be ruined for life."
"To hear you tell it."
"All right. Ask him."
"I shall."
"Conspiracy is what the law calls it. Maybe he can keep outa stir.But when his swell friends hear it they'll turn their backs onBromfield. You know it."
"I'll not know it unless Mr. Bromfield tells me so himself. I don't care anything for your dictagraph. I'm no eavesdropper."
"You tell him what he's up against and he'll come through all right. I'll see that every newspaper in New York carries the story if you don't notify me to-day that this attack on me is off. I'll learn you silk stockings you can't make Jerry Durand the goat."
"You can't implicate him without getting yourself into trouble—even if your story is true, and I still don't believe it."
"You believe it all right," jeered the crook. "And the story don't hurt me a bit. I pretended to fall in with his plans, but I didn't do it. The results show that."
"They show me that you tried to do murder instead."
"That's all bunk. The evidence won't prove it."
Whitford announced his decision sharply. "If you'll leave me your telephone number, I'll let you know later in the day what we'll do."
He had told Durand that he did not believe his story. He had tried to reject it because he did not want to accept it, but after the man had gone and he thought it over, his judgment was that it held some germ of truth. If so, he was bound to protect Bromfield as far as he could. No matter what Clarendon had done, he could not throw overboard to the sharks the man who was still engaged to his daughter. He might not like him. In point of fact he did not. But he had to stand by him till he was out of his trouble.
Colin Whitford went straight to his daughter.
"Honey, this man Durand has just brought me a story about Clarendon. He says he paid him to get Clay into trouble at the Omnium Club in order to discredit him with us."
"Oh, Dad!"
"I'm going to see Clarendon. If it's true I don't want you to see him again. Authorize me to break the engagement for you."
They talked it over for a few minutes. Beatrice slipped the engagement ring from her finger and gave it to her father with a sigh.
"You can't do wrong without paying for it, Dad."
"That's right. Bromfield—"
"I'm not thinking of Clarendon. I'm thinking about me. I feel as if I had been dragged in the dust," she said wearily.
The question at issue was not whether Beatrice would break with her fiancé, but in what way it should be done. If her father found him guilty of what Durand had said, he was to dismiss him brusquely; if not, Beatrice wanted to disengage herself gently and with contrition.
Whitford summoned Bromfield to his office where the personal equation would be less pronounced. He put to him plainly the charge made by Jerry and demanded an answer.
The younger man was between the devil and the deep sea. He would have lied cheerfully if that would have availed. But a denial of the truth of Durand's allegations would be a challenge for him to prove his story. He would take it to the papers and spread it broadcast. From that hour Clarendon Bromfield would be an outcast in the city. Society would repudiate him. His clubs would cast him out. All the prestige that he had built up by a lifetime of effort would be swept away.
No lie could save him. The only thing he could do was to sugarcoat the truth. He set about making out a case for himself as skillfully as he could.
"I'm a man of the world, Mr. Whitford," he explained. "When I meet an ugly fact I look it in the face. This man Lindsay was making a great impression on you and Bee. Neither of you seemed able quite to realize his—his deficiencies, let us say. I felt myself at a disadvantage with him because he's such a remarkably virile young man and he constantly reminded you both of the West you love. It seemed fair to all of us to try him out—to find out whether at bottom he was a decent fellow or not. So I laid a little trap to find out."
Bromfield was sailing easily into his version of the affair. It was the suavest interpretation of his conduct that he had been able to prepare, one that put him in the rôle of a fair-minded man looking to the best interests of all.
"Not the way Durand tells it," answered the miner bluntly. "He says you paid him a thousand dollars to arrange a trap to catch Lindsay."
"Either he misunderstood me or he's distorting the facts," claimed the clubman with an assumption of boldness.
"That ought to be easy to prove. We'll make an appointment with him for this afternoon and check up by the dictagraph."
Bromfield laughed uneasily. "Is that necessary, Mr. Whitford? Surely my word is good. I have the honor to tell you that I did nothing discreditable."
"It would have been good with me a week ago," replied the Coloradoan gravely. "But since then—well, you know what's happened since then. I don't want to hurt your feelings, Clarendon, but I may as well say frankly that I can't accept your account without checking up on it. That, however, isn't quite the point. Durand has served notice that unless we call off the prosecution of him he's going to ruin you. Are you satisfied to have us tell him he can go to the devil?"
"I wouldn't go that far." Bromfield felt for his words carefully. "Maybe in cold type what I said might be misunderstood. I wouldn't like to push the fellow too far."
Whitford leaned back in his swivel chair and looked steadily at the man to whom his daughter was engaged. "I'm going to the bottom of this, Bromfield. That fellow Durand ought to go to the penitentiary. We're gathering the evidence to send him there. Now he tells me he'll drag you down to ruin with him it he goes. Come clean. Can he do it?"
"Well, I wouldn't say—"
"Don't evade, Bromfield. Yes or no."
"I suppose he can." The words came sulkily after a long pause.
"You did hire him to destroy Lindsay's reputation."
"Lindsay had no business here in New York. He was disturbing Bee's peace of mind. I wanted to get rid of him and send him home."
"So you paid a crooked scoundrel who hated him to murder his reputation."
"That's not what I call it," defended the clubman.
"It doesn't matter what you call it. The fact stands."
"I told him explicitly—again and again—that there was to be no violence. I intended only to show him up. I had a right to do it."
Whitford got up and walked up and down the room. He felt like laying hands on this well-dressed scamp and throwing him out of the office. He tasted something of his daughter's sense of degradation at ever having been connected with a man of so little character. The experience was a bitterly humiliating one to him. For Bee was, in his opinion, the cleanest, truest little thoroughbred under heaven. The only questionable thing he had ever known her to do was to engage herself to this man.
Colin came to a halt in front of the other.
"We've got to protect you, no matter how little you deserve it. I can't have Bee's name dragged into all the papers of the country. The case against Durand will have to be dropped. He's lost his power anyhow and he'll never get it back."
"Then it doesn't matter much whether he's tried or not."
That phase of the subject Whitford did not pursue. He began to feel in his vest pocket for something.
"Of course you understand that we're through with you, Bromfield.Neither Beatrice nor I care to have anything more to do with you."
"I don't see why," protested Bromfield. "As a man of the world—"
"If you don't see the reason I'm not able to explain it to you." Whitford's fingers found what they were looking for. He fished a ring from his pocket and put it on the desk. "Beatrice asked me to give you this."
"I don't think that's fair. If she wants to throw me over she ought to tell me her reasons herself."
"She's telling them through me. I don't want to be more explicit unless you force me."
"Of course I'm not good enough. I know that. No man's good enough for a good woman. But I'm as good as other fellows. We don't claim to be angels. New York doesn't sprout wings."
"I'm not going to argue this with you. And I'm not going to tell you what I think of you beyond saying that we're through with you. The less said about it the better. Man, don't you see I don't want to have any more talk about it? The engagement was a mistake in the first place. Bee never loved you. Even if you'd been what we thought you, it wouldn't have done. She's lucky to have found out in time."
"Is this a business rupture, too, Mr. Whitford?"
"Just as you say about that, Bromfield. As an investor in the Bird Cage you're entitled to the same consideration that any other stockholder is. Since you're the second largest owner you've a right to recognition on the board of directors. I'm not mixing my private affairs with business."
"Good of you, Mr. Whitford." The younger man spoke with a hint of gentle sarcasm. He flicked a speck of dirt from his coat-sleeve and returned to the order of the day. "I understand then that you'll drop the case against Durand on condition that he'll surrender anything he may have against me and agree to keep quiet."
"Yes. I think I can speak for Lindsay. So far most of the evidence is in our hands. It is not yet enough to convict him. We can probably arrange it with the district attorney to have the thing dropped. You can make your own terms with Durand. I'd rather not have anything to do with it myself."
Bromfield rose, pulled on the glove he had removed, nodded good-bye without offering to shake hands, and sauntered out of the office. There was a look on his face the mining man did not like. It occurred to Whitford that Clarendon, now stripped of self-respect by the knowledge of the regard in which they held him, was in a position to strike back hard if he cared to do so. The right to vote the proxies of the small stockholders of the Bird Cage Company had been made out in his name at the request of the president of the corporation.
The case against Durand was pigeon-holed by the district attorney without much regret. All through the underworld where his influence had been strong, it was known that Jerry had begged off. He was discredited among his following and was politically a down-and-outer. But he knew too much to permit him to be dragged into court safely. With his back to the wall he might tell of many shady transactions implicating prominent people. There were strong influences which did not want him pressed too hard. The charge remained on the docket, but it was set back from term to term and never brought to trial.
Colin Whitford found his attention pretty fully absorbed by his own affairs. Bromfield had opened a fight against him for control of the Bird Cage Company. The mine had been developed by the Coloradoan from an unlikely prospect into a well-paying concern. It was the big business venture of his life and he took a strong personal interest in running it. Now, because of Bromfield's intention to use for his own advantage the proxies made out in his name, he was likely to lose control. With Bromfield in charge the property might be wrecked before he could be ousted.
"Dad's worrying," Beatrice told Lindsay. "He's afraid he'll lose control of the mine. There's a fight on against him."
"What for? I thought yore father was a mighty competent operator.Don't the stockholders know when they're well off?"
She looked at him enigmatically. "Some one he trusted has turned out a traitor. That happens occasionally in business, you know."
It was from Colin himself that Clay learned the name of the traitor.
"It's that fellow Bromfield," he explained. "He's the secretary and second largest stockholder in the company. The annual election is to be to-morrow afternoon. He's got me where the wool's short. I was fool enough to ask the smaller stockholders to make out their proxies in his name. At that time he was hand in glove with us. Now I'm up against it. He's going to name the board of directors and have himself made president."
Clay ventured on thin ice. The name of Bromfield had not been mentioned to him before in the last twenty-four hours by either Beatrice or her father. "Surely Bromfield wouldn't want to offend you."
"That's exactly what he would want to do."
"But—"
"He's got his reasons."
"Isn't there some way to stop him, then?"
"I've been getting a wrinkle trying to figure out one. I'd certainly be in your debt if you could show me a way."
"When is the election?"
"At three o'clock."
"Where?"
"At the company offices."
"Perhaps if I talked with Bromfield—"
Whitford laughed shortly. "I'd talk an arm off him if it would do any good. But it won't. He's out for revenge."
Clay's eyes alighted swiftly on the older man. They asked gravely a question and found an answer that set his heart singing. Beatrice had broken her engagement with Bromfield.
"He won't do, Clay. He's off color." Whitford did a bit of mental acrobatics. "Why do you suppose he took you to Maddock's?"
Again Lindsay's appraising gaze rested on his friend. "I've never worked that out to my satisfaction. It wasn't the kind of place he would be likely to go for pleasure. But I don't think he'd arranged a trap for me, if that's what you mean. It doesn't look reasonable that he would want me killed."
Whitford told him all he knew about the affair. The story told him banished any doubts Clay may have had about a certain step he had begun during the last few minutes to hold in consideration. It did more. It hardened a fugitive impulse to a resolution. Bromfield was fair game for him.
It was a little after eleven o'clock next morning when the cattleman walked into an apartment house for bachelors, took the elevator, and rang the bell at Bromfield's door.
Clarendon, fresh from the hands of his valet, said he was glad to see Lindsay, but did not look it. He offered his guest a choice of liquors and selected for himself a dry martini. Cigars and cigarettes were within reach on a tabouret.
Clay discovered that one difficulty he had expected to meet did not complicate the problem. The valet had left to select the goods for half a dozen custom-made shirts, Bromfield explained apologetically, apropos of the lack of service. He would not return till late in the afternoon.
"I've come to see about that Bird Cage business, Mr. Bromfield," his visitor explained. "I've been millin' it over in my mind, and I thought I'd put the proposition up to you the way it looks to me."
Bromfield's eyebrows lifted. His face asked with supercilious politeness what the devil business it was of his.
"Mr. Whitford has put in twenty years of his life building up the Bird Cage into a good property. It's a one-man mine. He made it out of a hole in the ground, developed it, expanded it, gave it a market value. He's always protected the stockholders and played the game square with them. Don't it look like he ought to stay in control of it?"
"Did he send you here to tell me that?"
"No, he didn't. But he's gettin' along in years, Bromfield. It don't look hardly right to me for you to step in and throw him out. What do you think about it, yourself?"
The clubman flushed with anger. "I think that it's damned impertinent of you to come here meddling in my business. I might have expected it. You've always been an impertinent meddler."
"Mebbeso," agreed Clay serenely, showing no surprise at this explosion."But I'm here. And I put a question. Shall I ask it again?"
"No need. I'm going to take what the law allows me—what I and my friends have bought and paid for in the open market. The more it hurts Whitford the better I'll be pleased," answered Bromfield, his manner of cynical indifference swept away by gathering rage. The interference of this "bounder" filled him with a passion of impotent hate.
"Is that quite correct? Did you buy control in the market? In point of fact, aren't you holdin' a bunch of proxies because Whitford wrote and asked the stockholders to sign them for you to vote? What you intend doing is a moral fraud, no matter what its legal aspect is. You'd be swindling the very stockholders you claim to represent, as well as abusing the confidence of Whitford."
"What you think isn't of the least importance to me, Mr. Lindsay. If you're here merely to offer me your advice, I suppose I shall now have regretfully to say good-day." The New Yorker rose, a thin lip smile scarcely veiling his anger at this intruder who had brought his hopes to nothing.
"I reckon I'll not hurry off, Mr. Bromfield," Clay replied easily. "You might think I was mad at you. I'll stick around awhile and talk this over."
"Unfortunately I have an engagement," retorted the other icily.
"When?"
"I really think, Mr. Lindsay, that is my business."
"I'm makin' it mine," said Clay curtly.
Bromfield stared. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said it was mine too. You see I bought a coupla shares of Bird Cage stock yesterday. I'd hate to see Whitford ousted from control. I've got confidence in him."
"It's your privilege to vote that stock this afternoon. At least it would be if it had been transferred to you on the books. I'll vote my stock according to my own views."
"I wonder," murmured Clay aloud.
"What's that?" snapped Bromfield.
"I was just figurin' on what would happen if you got sick and couldn't attend that annual meeting this afternoon," drawled the Westerner. "I reckon mebbe some of the stockholders you've got lined up would break away and join Whitford."
The New Yorker felt a vague alarm. What idea did this fellow have in the back of his head. Did he intend to do bodily violence to him? Without any delay Bromfield reached for the telephone.
The large brown hand of the Westerner closed over his.
"I'm talkin' to you, Mr. Bromfield. It's not polite for you to start 'phoning, not even to the police, whilst we're still engaged in conversation."
"Don't you try to interfere with me," said the man who paid the telephone bill. "I'll not submit to such an indignity."
"I'm not the only one that interferes. You fixed up quite an entertainment for me the other night, didn't you? Wouldn't you kinda call that interferin' some? I sure ought to comb yore hair for it."
Bromfield made a hasty decision to get out. He started for the door.Clay traveled in that direction too. They arrived simultaneously.Clarendon backed away. The Arizonan locked the door and pocketed thekey.
His host grew weakly violent. From Whitford he had heard a story about two men in a locked room that did not reassure him now. One of the men had been this cattleman. The other—well, he had suffered. "Let me out! I'll not stand this! You can't bully me!" he cried shrilly.
"Don't pull yore picket-pin, Bromfield," advised Lindsay. "I've elected myself boss of therodeo. What I say goes. You'll save yorese'f a heap of worry if you make up yore mind to that right away."
"What do you want? What are you trying to do? I'm not a barroom brawler like Durand. I don't intend to fight with you."
"You've ce'tainly relieved my mind," murmured Clay lazily. "What's yore own notion of what I ought to do to you, Bromfield? You invited me out as a friend and led me into a trap after you had fixed it up. Wouldn't a first-class thrashin' with a hawsswhip be about right?"
Bromfield turned pale. "I've got a weak heart," he faltered.
"I'll say you have," agreed Clay. "It's pumpin' water in place of blood right now, I'll bet. Did you ever have a real honest-to-God lickin' when you was a boy?"
The New Yorker knew he was helpless before this clear-eyed, supple athlete who walked like a god from Olympus. One can't lap up half a dozen highballs a day for an indeterminate number of years, without getting flabby, nor can he spend himself in feeble dissipations and have reserves of strength to call upon when needed. The tongue went dry in his mouth. He began to swallow his Adam's apple.
"I'm not well to-day," he said, almost in a whisper.
"Let's look at this thing from all sides," went on Clay cheerfully. "If we decide by a majority of the voting stock—and I'm carryin' enough proxies so that I've got control—that you'd ought to have a whalin', why, o' course, there's nothin' to it but get to business and make a thorough job."
"Maybe I didn't do right about Maddock's."
"No mebbe about that. You acted like a yellow hound."
"I'm sorry. I apologize."
"I don't reckon I can use apologies. I might make a bargain with you."
"I'll be glad to make any reasonable bargain."
"How'd this do? I'll vote my stock and proxies in the Bromfield Punishment Company, Limited, against the whalin', and you vote yore stock and proxies in the Bird Cage Company to return the present board and directorate."
"That's coercion."
"Well, so it is."
"The law—"
"Did you go hire a lawyer for an opinion before you paid Durand to do me up?"
"You've got no right to hold me a prisoner here to help Whitford."
"All right, I won't. I'll finish my business with you and when I'm through, you can go to the annual meetin'—if you feel up to travelin' that far."
"I'll give you a thousand dollars to let me alone."
"That'd be a thousand and fifty you had given me, wouldn't it?" returned Lindsay gayly.
Tears of vexation stood in Bromfield's eyes. "All right. Let me go.I'll be fair to Whitford and arrange a deal with him."
"Get the stockholders who're with you on the 'phone and tell 'em to vote their stock as Whitford thinks best. Get Whitford and tell him the fight's off."
"If I do, will you let me go?"
"If you don't, we'll return to the previous question—the annual meeting of the Bromfield Punishment Company, Limited."
Bromfield got busy with the telephone.
When he had finished. Clay strolled over to a bookcase, cast his eyes over the shelves, and took out a book. It was "David Harum." He found an easy-chair, threw a leg over one arm, and presently began to chuckle.
"Are you going to keep me here all day?" asked his host sulkily.
"Only till about four o'clock. We're paired, you and me, so we'll both stay away from the election. Why don't you pick you a good book and enjoy yoreself? There's a lot of A 1 readin' in that case over there. It'll sure improve yore mind."
Clarendon ground his teeth impotently.
His guest continued to grin over the good stories of the old horse-trader. When he closed the book at last, he had finished it. His watch told him that it was twenty minutes to five. Bromfield's man was at the door trying to get in. He met Lindsay going out.
"No, I can't stay to tea to-day, Mr. Bromfield," the Arizonan was saying, a gleam of mirth in his eyes. "No use urging me. Honest, I've really got to be going. Had a fine time, didn't we? So long."
Bromfield used bad language.
Johnnie burst into the kitchen beaming. "We're gonna p'int for the hills, Kitty. Clay he's had a letter callin' him home."
"When are you going?"
"Thursday. Ain't that great?"
She nodded, absently. Her mind was on another tack already. "Johnnie,I'm going to ask Miss Whitford here for dinner to-night."
"Say, you ce'tainly get the best notions, honeybug," he shouted.
"Do you think she'll come?"
"Sure she'll come."
"I'll fix up the bestest dinner ever was, and maybe—"
Her conclusion wandered off into the realm of unvoiced hopes, but her husband knew what it was as well as it she had phrased it.
When Clay came home that evening he stopped abruptly at the door. The lady of his dreams was setting the table in the dining-room and chatting gayly with an invisible Kitty in the kitchen. Johnnie was hovering about her explaining some snapshots of Clay he had gathered.
"Tha's the ol' horn-toad winnin' the ropin' championship at Tucson. He sure stepped some that day," the Runt boasted.
The delicate fragrance of the girl's personality went to Clay's head like wine as he stepped forward and shook hands. To see her engaged in this intimate household task at his own table quickened his pulse and sent a glow through him.
"You didn't know you had invited me to dinner, did you?" she said, little flags a-flutter in her cheeks.
They had a gay dinner, and afterward a pleasant hour before Clay took her home.
Neither of them was in a hurry. They walked through Central Park in the kindly darkness, each acutely sensitive to the other's presence.
Her gayety and piquancy had given place to a gentle shyness. Clay let the burden of conversation fall upon her. He knew that he had come to his hour of hours and his soul was wrapped in gravity.
She had never before known a man like him, a personality so pungent, so dynamic. He was master of himself. He ran a clean race. None of his energy was wasted in futile dissipation. One could not escape from his strength, and she had already discovered that she did not want to escape it. If she gave herself to him, it might be for her happiness or it might not. She must take her chance of that. But it had come to her that a woman's joy is to follow her heart—and her heart answered "Here" when he called.
She too sensed what was coming, and the sex instinct in her was on tiptoe in flight. She was throbbing with excitement. Her whole being longed to hear what he had to tell her. Yet she dodged for a way of escape. Silences were too significant, too full-pulsed. She made herself talk. It did not much matter about what.
"Why didn't you tell us that it was Mr. Bromfield who struck down that man Collins? Why did you let us think you did it?" she queried.
"Well, folks in New York don't know me. What was the use of gettin' him in bad?"
"You know that wasn't the reason. You did it because—" She stopped in the midst of the sentence. It had occurred to her that this subject was more dangerous even than silence.
"I did it because he was the man you were goin' to marry," he said.
They moved side by side through the shadows. In the faint light he could make out the fine line of her exquisite throat. After a moment she spoke. "You're a good friend, Clay. It was a big thing to do. I don't know anybody else except Dad that would have done it for me."
"You don't know anybody else that loves you as much as I do."
It was out at last, quietly and without any dramatics. A flash of soft eyes darted at him, then veiled the shining tenderness beneath long lashes. She paced a little faster, chin up, nerves taut.
"I've had an attack of common sense," he went on, and in his voice was a strength both audacious and patient. "I thought at first I couldn't hope to win you because of your fortune and what it had done for you. Even when I knew you liked me I felt it wouldn't be fair for me to ask you. I couldn't offer you the advantages you'd had. But I've changed my mind. I've been watching what money does to yore friends. It makes them soft. They flutter around like butterflies. They're paupers—a good many of them—because they don't pay their way. A man's a tramp if he doesn't saw wood for his breakfast. I don't want you to get like that, and if you stay here long enough you sure will. It's in my heart that if you'll come with me we'll live."
In the darkness she made a rustling movement toward him. A little sob welled up in her throat as her hands lifted to him. "Oh, Clay! I've fought against it. I didn't want to, but—I love you. Oh, I do love you!"
He took her lissom young body in his arms. Her lips lifted to his.
Presently they walked forward slowly. Clay had never seen her more lovely and radiant, though tears still clung to the outskirts of her joy.
"We're going to live—oh, every how!" she cried to the stars, her lover's hand in hers.
Johnnie felt that Kitty's farewell dinner had gone very well. It was her first essay as a hostess, and all of them had enjoyed themselves. But, so far as he could see, it had not achieved the results for which they had been hoping.
Clay came home late and next morning was full of plans about leaving.He discussed the packing and train schedules and affairs at theB-in-a-Box. But of Beatrice Whitford he made not even a casual mention.
"Two more days and we'll hit the trail for good old Tucson," he said cheerfully.
"Y'betcha, by jollies," agreed his bandy-legged shadow.
None the less Johnnie was distressed. He believed that his friend was concealing an aching heart beneath all this attention to impending details. As a Benedict he considered it his duty to help the rest of the world get married too. A bachelor was a boob. He didn't know what was best for him. Same way with a girl. Clay was fond of Miss Beatrice, and she thought a heap of him. You couldn't fool Johnnie. No, sirree! Well, then?
Mooning on the sad plight of these two friends who were too coy or too perverse to know what was best for them, Johnnie suddenly slapped himself a whack on the thigh. A brilliant idea had flashed into his cranium. It proceeded to grow until he was like to burst with it.
When Lindsay rose from breakfast he was mysteriously beckoned into another room. Johnnie outlined sketchily and with a good deal of hesitation what he had in mind. Clay's eyes danced with that spark of mischief his friends had learned to recognize as a danger signal.
"You're some sure-enough wizard, Johnnie," he admitted. "I expect you're right about girls not knowin' their own minds. You've had more experience with women than I have. If you say the proper thing to do is to abduct Miss Whitford and take her with us, why—"
"That's whatever. She likes you a heap more than she lets on to you. O' course it would be different if I wasn't married, but Kitty she can chaperoon Miss Beatrice. It'll be all accordin' to Hoyle."
The cattleman gazed at the puncher admiringly. "Don't rush me off my feet, old-timer," he said gayly. "Gimme a coupla hours to think of it, and I'll let you know what I'll do. This is real sudden, Johnnie. You must 'a' been a terror with the ladies when you was a bachelor. Me, I never kidnaped one before."
"Onct in a while you got to play like you're gonna treat 'em rough," said Mr. Green sagely, blushing a trifle nevertheless.
"All right. I'll let you engineer this if I can make up my mind to it after I've milled it over. I can see you know what you're doin'."
When Johnnie returned from a telephone call at the office two hours later, Kitty had a suspicion he was up to something. He bubbled mystery so palpably that her curiosity was piqued. But the puncher for once was silent as a clam. He did not intend to get Kitty into trouble if his plan miscarried. Moreover, he had an intuition that if she knew what was under way she would put her small, competent foot through the middle of the project.
The conspirators arranged details. Johnnie was the brains of the kidnaping. Clay bought the tickets and was to take charge of the prisoner after the train was reached. They decided it would be best to get a stateroom for the girl.
"We wantta make it as easy as we can for her," said Johnnie. "O' course it's all for her own good, but we don't figure to treat her noways but like the princess she is."
"Yes," agreed Clay humbly.
According to programme, carefully arranged by Johnnie, Beatrice rode down to the train with him and Kitty in their taxicab. She went on board for the final good-byes and chatted with them in their section.
The chief conspirator was as easy as a toad in a hot skillet. Now that it had come down to the actual business of taking this young woman with them against her will, he began to weaken. His heart acted very strangely, but he had to go through with it.
"C-can I see you a minute in the next car, Miss Beatrice?" he asked, his voice quavering.
Miss Whitford lifted her eyebrows, but otherwise expressed no surprise.
"Certainly, Johnnie."
"What do you want to see Miss Whitford about, Johnnie?" his spouse asked. There were times when Kitty mistrusted Johnnie's judgment. She foresaw that he might occasionally need a firm hand.
"Oh, nothin' much. Tell you about it later, honey." The kidnaper mopped the perspiration from his forehead. At that moment he wished profoundly that this brilliant idea of his had never been born.
He led the way down the aisle into the next sleeper and stopped at one of the staterooms. Shakily he opened the door and stood aside for her to pass first.
"You want me to go in here?" she asked.
"Yes'm."
Beatrice stepped in. Johnnie followed.
Clay rose from the lounge and said, "Glad to see you, Miss Whitford."
"Did you bring me here to say good-bye, Johnnie?" asked Beatrice.
The Runt's tongue stuck to the root of his mouth, His eyes appealed dumbly to Clay.
"Better explain to Miss Whitford," said Clay, passing the buck.
"It's for yore good, Miss Beatrice," stammered the villain who had brought her. "We—we—I—I done brought you here to travel home with us."
"You—what?"
Before her slender, outraged dignity Johnnie wilted. "Kitty, she—she can chaperoon you. It's all right, ma'am. I—we—I didn't go for to do nothin' that wasn't proper. We thought—"
"You mean that you brought me here expecting me to go along with you—without my consent—without a trunk—without—"
Clay took charge of the kidnaping. "Johnnie, if I were you I'd light a shuck back to the other car. I see I'll have to treat this lady rough as you advised."
Johnnie wanted to expostulate, to deny that he had ever given such counsel, to advise an abandonment of the whole project. But his nerve unexpectedly failed him. He glanced helplessly at Clay and fled.
He was called upon the carpet immediately on joining Kitty.
"What are you up to, Johnnie? I'm not going to have you make a goose of yourself if I can help it. And where's Mr. Lindsay? You said he'd meet us here."
"Clay, he's in the next car."
"You took Miss Beatrice in there to say good-bye to him?"
"No—she—she's goin' along with us."
"Going along with us? What do you mean, Johnnie Green?"
He told her his story, not at all cheerfully. His bold plan looked very different now from what it had two days before.
Already the chant of the wheels had begun. The train was in the sub-Hudson darkness of the tunnel.
Kitty rose with decision. "Well, of all the foolishness I ever heard, Johnnie, this is the limit. I'm going right to that poor girl. You've spoiled everything between you. She'll hate Mr. Lindsay for the rest of her life. How could he be so stupid?"
Her husband followed her, crestfallen. He wanted to weep with chagrin.
Beatrice opened the door of the stateroom. She had taken off her hat and Clay was hanging it on a hook.
"Come in," she said cordially, but faintly.
Kitty did not quite understand. The atmosphere was less electric than she had expected. She stopped, taken aback at certain impressions that began to register themselves on her brain.
"Johnnie was tellin' me—"
"About how he abducted me. Yes. Wasn't it dear of him?"
"But—"
"I've decided to make the best of it and go along."
"I—your father, Mr. Whitford—" Kitty bogged down.
Beatrice blushed. Little dimples came out with her smile. "I thinkI'd better let Clay explain."
"We were married two days ago, Kitty."
"What!" shouted the Runt.
"We intended to ask you both to the wedding, but when Johnnie proposed to abduct Miss Whitford, I thought it a pity not to let him. So we—"
Johnnie fell on him and beat him with both fists. "You daw-goned ol' scalawag! I never will help you git married again!" he shouted gleefully.
Clay sat down on the seat and gave way to mirth. He rocked with glee. Beatrice began to chuckle. She, too, yielded to laughter. Kitty, and then Johnnie, added to the chorus.
"Oh, Johnnie—Johnnie—you'll be the death of me!" cried Clay. "It'll never be a dull old world so long as you stay a bandit."