Farland engaged a taxicab, bade Murk get into it, got in himself, and they started downtown. The detective leaned back against the cushions and regarded Murk closely. He knew that Sidney Prale had guessed correctly, that Murk was the sort of man who would prove loyal to a friend.
"This is a bad business," Farland said.
"It's tough," said Murk.
"If it was anybody but Sid Prale, I'd say he was guilty. It sure looks bad. And there is that fountain pen!"
"Somebody's tryin' to do him dirt," Murk said.
"There's no question about that, Murk, old boy. Well, we are going to get him out of it, aren't we?"
"I'll do anything I can."
"Like him, do you?"
"Met him less than twenty-four hours ago, but I wish I'd met him or somebody like him ten years ago," Murk replied. "If it hadn't been for Mr. Prale, I'd be a stiff up in the morgue this minute."
"Strong for him, are you?"
"Yes, sir, I am!"
"Um!" said Jim Farland. "We're going to get along fine together. I was strong for Sid Prale ten years ago, before he went away. And I'll bet that, when we get to the bottom of this, we'll find something mighty interesting."
The taxicab stopped at a corner, and Farland and Murk got out. Farland paid the chauffeur and watched him drive away, and then he led Murk around the corner.
"Know where you are?" he asked.
"Sure. Right over there is the little shop where Mr. Prale bought me my new clothes," Murk said.
"Fine! That goes to show that Prale told the truth. Well, Murk, you stand right here by the curb and watch the front door of that shop. And when you see me beckon to you, you come running."
"Yes, sir."
Jim Farland hurried across the street, opened the door of the little shop, and entered. The proprietor came from the rear room when he heard the door slammed.
He knew Jim Farland and had known him for years. There were few old-timers in that section of the city who did not know Jim Farland. The man who faced the detective now was small, stoop-shouldered, a sort of a rat of a man who had considerably more money to his credit than his appearance indicated, and who was not eager to have the world in general know how he had acquired some of it.
"Evenin', Mr. Farland," he said. "Anything I can do for you, sir?"
"Maybe you can and maybe you can't," Farland told him. "You been behaving yourself lately?"
"What do you mean, Mr. Farland? I've been trying to get along, but business ain't been any too good the last year."
"Save that song for somebody who doesn't know better!" Farland advised him. "Change the record when you play me a tune."
"Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Farland?"
"Remember a little deal a couple of years ago?" Farland demanded suddenly.
"I—I——"
"I see that you do. One little word from me in the proper quarter, old man, and you'll be doing time. You've sailed pretty close to the edge of the law a lot of times, and once, I know, you slipped over the edge a bit."
"I—I hope, sir——"
"You'd better hope that you can keep on the good side of me," Jim Farland told him.
"If there is anything I can do, Mr. Farland——"
"Do you suppose you could tell the truth?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm going to give you a chance. If you tell the truth, I may forget something I know, for the time being. But, if you shouldn't tell the truth—well, my memory is excellent when I want to exercise it."
Farland stepped to the door and beckoned, and Murk hurried across the street and entered the shop.
"Ever see this man before?" Farland demanded.
The storekeeper licked his lips, and a sudden gleam came into his eyes.
"I—he seems to look familiar, but I can't say."
"You'd better say!" Farland exclaimed. "I want the truth out of you, or something will drop. And when it drops, it is liable to hit you on the toes. Get me?"
"I—I don't know what to do," wailed the merchant.
"Tell the truth!"
"But—there is something peculiar about——"
"Out with it! Know this man?"
"I've seen him before," the merchant replied.
"When?"
"La-last night, sir."
"Now we are getting at it!" Jim Farland exclaimed. "When did you see him last night, and where, and what happened?"
"He was in the store, Mr. Farland, about half past ten or a quarter of eleven o'clock. He—he bought those clothes he's got on."
"Pay for them?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who paid for them?" Farland demanded.
"A gentleman who was with him," said the merchant.
"Ah! Know the gentleman?"
"I saw him to-day—at police headquarters."
"And you said that you never had seen him before—that he was not here last night with this man. Why did you lie?"
Jim Farland roared the question and smashed a fist down upon the counter. The little merchant flinched.
"Out with it!" Farland cried. "Tell the truth, you little crook! I want to know why you lied, who told you to lie. I want to know all about it, and mighty quick!"
"I—I don't understand this," the merchant whimpered. "I was afraid of making a mistake."
"You'll make a mistake right now if you don't tell the truth!" Jim Farland told him.
"I—I got a letter, sir, by messenger. I got it early this morning, sir."
"Well, what about it?"
"The letter was typewritten, sir, and was not signed. There was a thousand dollars in bills in the letter, sir, and it said that a Mr. Prale had just been arrested for murder, and that he probably would try to make an alibi by saying that he was here last night and bought some clothes for another man. The letter said that I was to take the money and ask no questions, and that, if I was called to police headquarters, I was to say the man had not been here and that I never had seen him in my life before."
"And you fell for it? You wanted that thousand, I suppose."
"I'll show you the letter, Mr. Farland. There was no signature at all, and the paper was just common paper. I—I thought it was politics, sir."
"You did, eh?"
"Thought it had something to do with politics, sir. I thought the letter and money might have come from political headquarters. I was afraid to tell the truth at the police station."
"You mean you have been so crooked for years that you're afraid of everybody who has a little influence," Farland told him.
"I thought it was orders, sir, from somebody who had better be obeyed."
"Oh, I understand, all right. Well, I scarcely think it was politics. You've been played, that's all. Get me that letter!"
"Yes, sir."
The merchant got it and handed it over, together with the envelope. He had told the truth. The letter was typewritten on an ordinary piece of paper, and the envelope was of the sort anybody could purchase at a corner drug store. Farland put the letter in his pocket.
"Here between ten thirty and a quarter of eleven, was he?"
"Yes, sir," said the merchant.
"All right! You remember that, and don't change your mind again, if you know what is good for you. You'll hear from me in the morning. That's all!"
Jim Farland went from the store with a grinning Murk at his heels, leaving a badly frightened small merchant behind him.
"I know that bird," he told Murk. "He's a fence, or I miss my guess. It's no job at all to run a bluff on a small-time crook like that. And now we'll run down and see that barber."
They engaged another taxicab and made a trip. Once more Murk remained outside, and Jim Farland entered and beckoned the barber to him.
"Step outside the door where nobody will overhear," he said. "I want to ask you something."
The barber stepped outside, wondering what was coming. This man knew Jim Farland, too, and he knew that a call from him might mean trouble.
"Trying to see how far you can go and keep out of jail?" Farland demanded.
"I—I don't know what you mean, sir."
"Trying to run a bluff on me? On me?" Farland gasped. "You'd better talk straight. Do you expect to run a barber shop by day and a gambling joint by night all your life?"
"Why, I——"
"Don't lie!" Farland interrupted. "I know all about that little back room. Maybe I'm not on the city police force now, but you know me! I've got a bunch of friends on the force, and if I told a certain sergeant about your little game and said that I wanted to have you run in he wouldn't hesitate a minute."
"But what have I done, Mr. Farland?" the barber gasped. "I've always been friendly to you."
"I know it. But are you going to keep right on being friendly?"
"Of course, sir."
"Willing to help me out in a little matter if I forget about that gambling?"
"I'll do the best I can, Mr. Farland."
"Then answer a few questions. Did you get a typewritten letter this morning, with a wad of money in it?"
The barber's face turned white.
"Answer me!" Farland commanded.
"Yes, I—I got such a letter and I don't know what to make of it," the barber said. "I've got the letter and money in my desk right now. There wasn't any signature, and I didn't know where the letter came from, or what it meant."
"Then why did you do what the letter told you to do?" Farland asked.
"I—I don't understand."
Farland motioned, and Murk now stepped around the corner.
"Know this man?" Farland demanded.
"I—I've seen him before."
"That letter told you to go to police headquarters, if requested to do so, and deny you knew this man, didn't it? It told you not to help a man named Sidney Prale, arrested for murder, to make his alibi by telling that he was here with this man last night about eleven o'clock, didn't it?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"And you did just what the letter told you?"
"I was afraid not to do it, sir. I didn't know where that letter came from, you see."
"Had an idea it came from some boss, didn't you?"
"I didn't know and I didn't dare take a chance, Mr. Farland. You know how it is?"
"I know how it is with a man who has busted a few laws and knows he ought to be pinched!"
"Did I make some sort of a mistake, sir? What should I do now?"
"Something you don't do very often—tell the truth," Jim Farland replied. "How about this man?"
"He came here with the other gentleman last night about eleven o'clock, sir. He got a hair cut and a shave, and the other gentleman paid the bill."
"Thanks. Sure about the time?"
"I know that it was almost a quarter after eleven when they left the shop."
"Well, I'm glad you can speak the truth. Get on your hat and coat!"
"I—what do you mean, sir? Am I arrested?"
"No. Get that letter and come with me. I want you to tell the truth to somebody else, that's all."
The frightened barber got his hat and coat and the letter, and followed Jim Farland and Murk to the corner. There Farland engaged another taxicab, and ordered the chauffeur to drive back to the little clothing store.
"Running up a nice expense bill for Prale, but he won't care," Jim Farland said to Murk.
He compelled the merchant to shut up his shop and get into the cab, and then the chauffeur drove to police headquarters. Farland had telephoned from the clothing store, and the captain of detectives was waiting for him. He ushered the merchant and the barber into the office, looked down at the captain, and grinned.
"What's all this?" the captain demanded.
"It's Sid Prale's alibi," Jim Farland said. "These two gents want to tell you how they lied to-day, and why they lied. It is an interesting story."
The captain sat up straight in his chair, while Jim Farland removed his hat, sat down, motioned for Murk to do the same, and made himself comfortable.
"About that alibi," Farland said. "I know that George Lerton lied about meeting Sid Prale on Fifth Avenue, but you don't, and so we'll let that pass for the time being and get to it later. I just want to show you now that Prale's story about meeting this man Murk was a true tale. This clothing merchant is ready to say now that Prale and Murk were in his place last night about half past ten, and that Murk got his clothes there. And this barber is ready to swear that Prale and Murk arrived at his shop about a quarter of eleven or eleven, and did not leave until a quarter after eleven. Prale and Murk got to the hotel, as you know, at midnight. Prale couldn't have gone to that other hotel, murdered Rufus Shepley, and got to his suite by twelve o'clock, not if he left that barber shop far downtown at a quarter after eleven, could he?"
"Scarcely," said the captain.
"Very well. Ask these two gents some questions."
The captain did. He read the two typewritten letters and he understood how the fear of a political power might have been in the hearts of the two men. He rebuked them and allowed them to go.
"Well, it looks a little better for Mr. Prale," the captain said, "but this isn't the end, by any means. Remember that fountain pen of his that was found beside the body of Rufus Shepley!"
"I didn't say that it was the end," Jim Farland declared. "I don't want it given out that any evidence has been found that is in Prale's favor. I just want you to whisper in the ear of the court that the alibi looks good, and let it go at that. There's something behind this case, and we want to find out what it is. Prale is out on bail—and let it go at that, as far as the public is concerned."
"I grasp you," said the captain. "You want these enemies of his to think he is in deep water, so they'll be off guard and you can do your work."
"Exactly," said Jim Farland.
"Good enough. I'll do my part."
"Know anything about a woman calling herself Kate Gilbert?"
"Never heard of her."
Farland explained what Prale had told him. The captain fingered his mustache.
"Several thousand women in this town answer that general description," he said. "I'm afraid I can't help you, unless you can pick her up."
"That's what I'll do as soon as I can," Farland replied. "If I can get my eyes on her once, I'll trail her and find out a few things. She may have nothing to do with this, and she may have a great deal to do with it. What do you know about George Lerton?"
"Shady broker," the captain replied. "Never done anything outside the law, as far as I know, but he's come pretty close to it. I'd hate to have him handling my money."
"Well, he lied about meeting Prale. He did his best to get Prale to run away from town. That was a couple of hours before the murder, of course, so it probably had nothing to do with that. But why should he try to get Prale out of town? And, being a man of that sort, why did he say that he wouldn't handle Prale's funds? You'd think a man of his sort would like nothing better than to get his fingers tangled up in that million."
"I'll have a man take a look at George Lerton."
"Don't strain yourself," said Jim Farland. "I'm going to take a look at him myself, the first thing to-morrow morning."
He left headquarters with Murk, and this time he did not engage a taxicab. He walked up the street, Murk at his side, and puffed at a cigar furiously.
"Well, Murk, we've made a good start," Farland said, after a time.
"Yes, sir."
"How do you like working with a detective now?"
"Aw, you ain't a regular detective," Murk said.
"What's that?"
"I mean you ain't an ordinary dick. You got some sense."
"Thanks for the compliment. I know men who would dispute the statement," Farland told him.
They walked and walked, and after a time were on Fifth Avenue and going toward the hotel where Prale had his suite. Suddenly, just ahead of them, they saw Sidney Prale and the man from headquarters. They hurried to catch up with them.
"What's the idea?" Farland asked.
"Needed a walk," Prale replied. "Didn't feel like going to bed, and a walk would do me good, I knew."
"I'll have some things to tell you in the morning," Farland said. "But I'm not going to tell you to-night, except to say that it is good news, and I'm issuing orders to Murk not to tell you, either. I want you to forget the thing and get some rest."
"All right," Prale said, laughing; and then he stopped still and gasped.
"What is it?" Farland asked.
"Kate Gilbert!"
"Where?"
"There—just getting into that limousine. See her? The girl with the red hat!"
"I see her," Farland replied, signaling the chauffeur of a passing taxicab. "This is what I was hoping for, Sid. Go on to the hotel with Murk and guard. I'm going to find out a few things about Miss Kate Gilbert!"
He gave the chauffeur of the taxicab whispered directions, and then sprang into the machine.
Given a definite trail to follow, Jim Farland was one of the best trackers in the business. He liked to know his quarry by sight, and conduct the hunt in a proper manner. And so he rejoiced, that now he was following a person he believed to be interested in some way in the Shepley case.
The limousine went up Fifth Avenue toward Central Park, and the taxicab with Jim Farland inside followed half a block behind. Farland did nothing except look ahead continually and make sure that his chauffeur did not lose the other machine. He wanted to discover, first, where Miss Kate Gilbert was going, and after that he wanted to acquire all the information he could concerning her.
There was little traffic on the Avenue at this hour, and the limousine made good progress. It curved around the Circle and went up Central Park West. In the Eighties it turned off into a side street, and finally drew up to the curb and stopped. The taxicab came to a halt a hundred feet behind it. "Wait," Jim Farland instructed the chauffeur, showing his shield. "Wait until I come back, even if I don't come back until morning. You will get good pay, all right."
The chauffeur settled back behind his wheel, and Farland stepped to one side in the darkness and watched. He saw an elderly gentleman emerge from the limousine and turn to help Kate Gilbert out. Then the elderly gentleman got into the car again and was driven away, and Kate Gilbert went into the apartment house before which the limousine had stopped.
Detective Jim Farland hurried forward, but when he came opposite the apartment house he slowed down and walked slowly, glancing in. It was not an apartment house of the better sort. The lobby was small, there was an automatic elevator, and no hall boy was on duty, that Farland could see. There was a row of mail boxes against a wall, with name plates over them.
Farland went up the steps, opened the door, and stepped inside the lobby. He walked across to the mail boxes and began looking at the names. He found some one named Gilbert had an apartment on the third floor, front.
The stairs were before him, and Farland was about to start up them when a door leading to the basement was opened, and a janitor appeared. He was an old man, bent and withered, and he looked at Farland with sudden suspicion.
"You want to see somebody in the house?" he asked, in a voice that quavered.
"I want to see you," Jim Farland answered.
"What about, sir?"
Farland exhibited his shield, and the old janitor recoiled, fright depicted in his face.
"I ain't done anything wrong, mister," he said hoarsely. "I obey all the regulations about ashes and garbage and everything like that."
"Don't be afraid of me," Farland said. "I'm not accusing you of doing anything wrong, am I? I can see that you're a law-abiding man. You haven't nerve enough to be anything else. Suppose you step outside with me for a few minutes. I just want to ask you a few questions about something."
"All right, sir, if that's it," the old janitor said.
He opened the front door and led the way outside, and Farland forced him to walk a short distance down the street, and there they stopped in a doorway to talk.
"I'm going to ask you a few questions, and you are going to answer them, and then you are going to forget that you ever saw me or that I ever asked you a thing," Farland said.
"I understand, sir. I won't give away any police business," the old janitor replied. "I know all about such things. I had a nephew once who was a policeman."
"There's a party living in your place who goes by the name of Gilbert, isn't there?"
"Yes, sir."
"How many are there in the family, and who are they, and what do you know about them?"
"There is an old man, sir," the janitor answered. "He's a sort of cripple, I guess. He always sits in one of them invalid chairs, and when he goes out somebody has to wheel him. If he ain't exactly a cripple, then he's mighty sick and weak."
"Who else is in the family?"
"He's got a daughter, whose name is Miss Kate," the janitor said. "She's a mighty fine-lookin' girl, too. She's a nice woman, I reckon. 'Pears to be, anyway."
"Do you know anything in particular about her?" Jim Farland asked him.
"Well, she's been away for about three months, and she just got back," the janitor replied. "I don't know where she was—didn't hear. While she was gone, there was a man nurse 'tended to her father—cooked the meals and kept the apartment clean and took him out in his wheel chair. Miss Kate has a maid they call Marie—a big, ugly woman. She takes care of things generally when she is here, but she was away with Miss Kate."
"How long have they lived here?" Farland asked.
"About three years, sir. But I don't know much about them. They ain't the kind of folks a man can find out a lot about. They act peculiar sometimes."
"Are they rich?"
"My gracious, no!" said the old janitor. "They pay their rent on time, and they always seem to have plenty to eat, and I guess they can afford to keep that maid and hire a nurse once in a while, but they ain't what you'd call rich. But Miss Kate comes home in a big automobile now and then, and she seems to have a lot of clothes. There's something funny about it, at that."
"Think she isn't a decent woman?" Farland asked.
"Oh, I don't think she's a bad sort, sir, if that is what you mean. She doesn't seem to be, at all. I guess she gets her swell clothes honest enough. I think that she works for somebody and has to dress that way."
"Do they get much mail and have many visitors?"
"They get a few letters, and some newspapers and magazines," the janitor replied. "And they don't seem to have many visitors. I've seen a man come here once or twice to see them, and once he brought Miss Kate home in an auto. He looks like a rich man."
"Is he old or young?" Farland asked.
"Oh, he has gray hair, sir, and looks like a distinguished gentleman, like a lawyer or something. I guess he's rich. I think maybe he is an old friend of Mr. Gilbert's, or something like that."
"They live on the third floor, don't they?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any vacant apartments up there?"
"Why, the apartment adjoining theirs happens to be vacant just now, sir."
"You take me up to that vacant apartment," Jim Farland directed. "Let me in without making any noise, and then forget all about me until I speak to you again. Here is a nice little bill, and there will be more if you attend to business. I'm an officer, so you'll not get in trouble with the landlord."
The old janitor accepted the bill gladly, and led the way back to the house. Jim Farland refused to use the elevator; he insisted on walking up the stairs, and on going up noiselessly. When they reached the third floor, he was doubly alert.
The old janitor pointed out the door of the vacant apartment, and handed Farland a key. Then he pattered back down the stairs. Farland slipped along the hall, unlocked the door of the vacant apartment, darted inside, and locked the door again, putting the key in his pocket. And then he moved noiselessly through the apartment until he had reached the front.
He could hear voices in the apartment adjoining, and could make out the conversation. A woman was speaking—Farland decided that she was Kate Gilbert—and the weak voice of a sick man was answering her now and then.
"Let's not talk about it any more to-night, father," the girl was saying. "You'll not sleep well, if you get to thinking about it. You must go to bed now, and we'll have a real talk about things when I have something of importance to tell you. Get a good sleep, and in the morning Marie can take you out in the Park."
Jim Farland could hear the old man mutter some reply, and then there reached his ears the squeaking of a wheel chair being rolled across the floor. He remained for a time standing against the wall, listening. He decided that those in the Gilbert apartment were preparing to retire. Half an hour later, Farland slipped from the room and went to the basement to find the janitor.
"Here's your key," he said. "I'll be back here in the morning, and I'll want to see you. And remember—you're not to say a word about all this."
"Not a single word, sir."
Farland went back to the taxicab and drove to his own modest home, where he tumbled into bed and slept the sleep of the just. When Jim Farland slept, he slept—and when he worked, he worked. Farland did not mix labor and rest.
He arose early, hurried through his breakfast, got another taxicab and went up into the Eighties again. The old janitor was sweeping off the walk in front of the apartment house. The curtains at the windows of the Gilbert apartment were still down.
"Give me that key again and give me a pass key, too," Farland told the old janitor. "If the maid takes Mr. Gilbert out, and Miss Gilbert is gone at the same time, I want to get into their apartment and take a look around. Understand? And I'll want you to watch, so I'll not be caught in there."
"I understand, sir. Here are the keys."
Farland reached the vacant apartment without being seen. The Gilberts were up now and eating breakfast. He could hear Kate Gilbert trying to cheer her father, but not a word she said had anything to do with Sidney Prale, or Rufus Shepley, or anybody connected in any way with the Shepley murder case.
"Now you must let Marie take you to the Park, father," he heard the girl say. "It is a splendid day, and you must get a lot of fresh air. You can go down and watch the animals. I'm going out now, but I'll be back some time during the afternoon, and then we'll talk about things."
Jim Farland waited in the vacant apartment until he heard Kate Gilbert depart. A quarter of an hour later, he opened the front door a crack and saw the gigantic Marie wheel out the chair with Mr. Gilbert in it. They went down in the elevator.
Farland waited for another quarter of an hour, until the old janitor came up and told that he had watched the maid wheel Mr. Gilbert into the Park.
"I'll just leave the elevator up here until somebody rings," the old janitor said, "and I'll watch the floor below from the top of the stairs. Then, if any of them come back, I'll tell you so you can get out."
He took his station at the head of the stairs, leaving the elevator door open so that the contrivance could not be operated from below. Jim Farland unlocked the door of the Gilbert apartment and stepped inside.
The first glance told him that it was an ordinary apartment furnished in quite an ordinary manner. It certainly did not look like a home of wealth, and Sidney Prale had said that it had been understood in Honduras that Kate Gilbert was of a rich family and traveling for her health.
Many tourists claim to have money when they are away from home, of course, but the part about traveling for her health seemed to Jim Farland to be going a bit too far. Would such a woman be traveling for her health and leave behind her at home an old father who was an invalid?
"There's something behind that little trip of hers," Farland told himself. "It looks to me as if she had gone down to Honduras to look up Sid Prale for some reason. And Honduras isn't exactly on the health-trip list, either."
He began a close inspection of the apartment, leaving no trace of his search behind him, disarranging nothing that he did not replace. Jim Farland was an expert at such things.
He ransacked a small desk that stood in one corner of the living room and found a tablet of writing paper similar to that upon which had been written the anonymous messages Sidney Prale had received. He found scraps of writing in the wastebasket, too, and inspected them carefully.
"Somebody in this apartment wrote those notes, all right," Farland mused. "But why? That's the question I want answered, and I'll have to be careful how I start in to find out. You can't bluff that girl; one look is enough to tell me that. If I jump her about those notes, she'll probably get wise and cover her tracks, and then I'll be strictly up against it."
He found nothing else of importance in the apartment. There were some letters, but they seemed to be from relatives scattered throughout the country, ordinary letters dealing with family affairs of no particular consequence, and they told Jim Farland nothing that he wished to know.
But Kate Gilbert was only one angle of the case, he reminded himself, and so he decided that he was done for the present as far as she was concerned. It would be only a waste of valuable time, he thought, to remain longer in the Gilbert apartment; and there were plenty of other things for him to be doing.
Farland went all over the apartment once more, making sure that he was leaving everything in its proper place, that there would be nothing to show that anybody had been making an investigation there. Then he hurried out and locked the door, returned the keys to the old janitor, gave him another bill and instructed him to forget the visit, lighted a black cigar, and started walking rapidly southward.
When the proper time arrived, Jim Farland would tell Miss Kate Gilbert that he knew she had written the anonymous notes to Sidney Prale—or that her maid had—and he would ask her why.
He reached Columbus Circle, made his way over to Fifth Avenue, and continued his walk down that broad thoroughfare. Farland had decided to go to the hotel and have a talk with Sidney Prale and Murk. He told himself that he was going to like Murk, the human hulk who suddenly had become of some use in the world.
But he did not get a chance to go to the hotel just then. He came to a busy corner, and stopped to wait for a chance to cross the street congested with traffic. Suddenly, a few feet to his right, he saw Kate Gilbert, who had left her apartment only a short time before.
There was nothing startling in that fact alone, for this was a district where there were fashionable shops and beauty parlors, and well-dressed women were on every side.
What interested Detective Jim Farland the most was that Kate Gilbert was standing before the show window of a fashionable shop in intimate conversation with George Lerton, Sidney Prale's cousin!
Farland started moving slowly toward them, making his way through the crowd in such fashion that he did not attract too much attention to himself. He was feeling a sudden interest in this case. There were great possibilities in the fact that two persons connected with it from different angles were in conversation.
As he made his way toward the show window, he remembered how this George Lerton had tried to induce Sidney Prale to leave the city and remain away, and how, afterward, he had denied that he had seen Prale on Fifth Avenue and had spoken to him.
"He's connected with this thing in some way," Farland told himself. "It's my job to discover exactly how."
But he was doomed to be disappointed. Before he could get near enough to make an attempt to overhear what they were saying, they suddenly parted. Kate Gilbert went into the shop, and George Lerton crossed the street and hurried down the Avenue.
It was no use wasting time on Kate Gilbert. Farland knew where to find her if he wanted her, and he knew there would be no use in shadowing her now, since she probably had gone into the shop to purchase a hat. But George Lerton was quite another matter.
The detective did not hesitate. He swung off down Fifth Avenue in the wake of George Lerton.
Farland was a rough and ready man, and he had little liking for male humans of the George Lerton type. Lerton always dressed in the acme of fashion, running considerably to fads in clothes, appearing almost effeminate at times. And yet it was said in financial circles that Lerton was far from being effeminate when it came to a business deal. There had been whispers about his dark methods, and it was well known that a business foe got small sympathy or consideration from him. He was a fashionable cut-throat without any of the milk of human kindness in his system.
It was a surprise to Jim Farland to see Lerton walking. He was the sort of man who likes to advertise his success, and he had a couple of imposing motor cars that he generally used. But he was walking this morning, and the fact gave Farland food for thought.
Lerton continued down the Avenue, and Jim Farland followed him closely. He expected to see Lerton meet some one else and engage in another whispered conversation, but Lerton did not.
"That boy is worried," Farland told himself. "He's one of those birds who like to walk when they want to think something out. If I could only know what was going on in that mind of his——"
Lerton had reached Madison Square, and there he did something foreign to his nature. He crossed the Square, proceeded to Fourth Avenue, and descended into the subway.
Farland was a few feet behind him, and got into the same car when Lerton caught a downtown train. He followed when Lerton got off and went up to the street level again, and now the broker made his way through the throngs and along the narrow streets until he finally came to the financial district. After a time he turned into the entrance of an office building—the building where his own offices were located.
The detective watched him go up in the elevator, and then he turned back to the cigar stand in the lobby and purchased more of the black cigars he loved. For a time he stood out at the curb, puffing and thinking. He watched the building entrance closely, but George Lerton did not come down again.
As a matter of fact, Farland scarcely had expected that he would. He believed that Lerton had kept an appointment with Kate Gilbert, and then had continued to his office to take up the work of the day. Farland decided that he would give Lerton a chance to attend to the morning mail and pressing matters of business, before seeking an interview.
Finally, Farland threw the stub of the cigar away, turned into the entrance of the building once more, and walked briskly to the elevator. He shot up to the tenth floor, went down the hall, and entered the reception room of the Lerton offices. An imp of an office boy took in his card.
"Mr. Lerton will see you in ten minutes, sir," the returning boy announced.
Farland touched match to another cigar. He was a little surprised that Lerton had sent out that message. Lerton knew Farland, as Sidney Prale had known him in the old days. He knew Farland's business, and he knew that the detective and Prale were firm friends. He could guess that Prale had engaged Jim Farland to work on this case and clear him of the charge of having murdered Rufus Shepley.
After a time the boy ushered him into the private office. George Lerton was sitting behind a gigantic mahogany desk, looking very much the prosperous man of business.
"Well, Farland, this is a pleasure!" Lerton exclaimed. "Haven't seen you for ages. How's business?"
"It could be better," Jim Farland replied, "and it could be a lot worse. I'm making a good living, and so have no kick coming."
"If I ever need a man in your line, I'll call you in," George Lerton said. "And the pay will be all right, too."
"Don't doubt it," Farland replied.
"Want to see me about something special this morning?"
"Yes, if you can give me a few minutes."
"All the time you like," Lerton replied.
That was not like the man, Jim Farland knew. Lerton was the sort to try to make himself important, the always-busy man who had no time for anybody less than a millionaire.
Farland smiled and sat down in a chair at one end of the desk. He twisted his hat in his hands, looked across at George Lerton, cleared his throat, and spoke.
"You know about Sidney Prale being in a bit of trouble, of course?"
"Yes. Can't understand it," Lerton replied, frowning. "Sidney always had a temper, of course, but I never thought he would resort to murder during a fit of it. You know, I never got along with him any too well. He had a quarrel with his sweetheart in the old days and left for Honduras twenty-four hours later and remained there for ten years."
"I know all about that, of course," Farland said. "You perhaps have guessed that he sent for me—engaged me to get him out of this little scrape."
"Murder, a little scrape?" Lerton gasped. "I should call it a very serious matter."
"Let us hope that it will not be a serious matter for Sid," Farland said with feeling. "I believe that the boy is innocent, and I hope to be able to clear him. Will you help me?"
"I never had any particular love for Sidney, and neither did he for me," George Lerton said. "However, he is my cousin, and I hate to see him in trouble. But how can I help you? I don't know anything about the affair."
"An alibi is an important thing in a case like this," Farland said. "We want to prove an alibi, if we can, of course. Sidney says that you met him on Fifth Avenue——"
"And I cannot understand that," Lerton interrupted. "Why should he say such a thing?"
"You didn't meet him?"
"I certainly did not! I cannot lie about such a thing, even to save my cousin. Why, it would make me a sort of accessory, wouldn't it? I cannot afford to be mixed up in anything of the sort. You must understand that!"
"And you didn't urge him to leave New York and remain away for the rest of his life?"
"I didn't see him at all," George Lerton persisted. "Why on earth should I care whether he remains in New York or takes his million dollars elsewhere?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," Farland said. "But it seems peculiar to me that Sid would tell a rotten falsehood like that. Doesn't it look peculiar to you?"
"I must confess that it does not," George Lerton replied. "I suppose it was the first thing that came into his head. He was trying to establish an alibi, of course, and he probably thought he would get a chance to telephone to me and ask me to stand by the story he had told, thinking that I would do it because of our relationship."
"I was hoping that you would tell me you had met him on Fifth Avenue," Farland said. "It would have made his alibi stronger, of course, and every little bit helps."
"Stronger? You mean to say that he has any sort of an alibi at all?"
"A dandy!" Farland exclaimed. "In fact, we have an alibi that tells us that Sid was quite a distance from Rufus Shepley's suite when Shepley was slain."
"Why, how is that?"
"Sid picked up a bum and tried to make a man of him. He bought the fellow some clothes and took him to a barber shop. The clothing merchant and the barber furnish the alibi."
An expression of consternation was in George Lerton's face, and Jim Farland was quick to notice it.
"Of course, I am glad for Sidney's sake," Lerton said. "But I had really believed that he had killed Shepley. It caused me a bit of trouble, too."
"How do you mean?" Farland asked.
"Shepley was a sort of client of mine," Lerton said. "I handled a deal for him now and then. He has been traveling on business for some time, as you perhaps know. I had hopes that he would give me a certain large commission and that I would make a handsome profit. He was about convinced, I am sure, that I was the man to handle it for him. His small deals with me had always been to his profit and my credit."
"Oh, I understand!"
"And a possible good customer is removed," Lerton went on. "So you have an alibi for Sidney, have you? In that case—if he did not kill Rufus Shepley—he must have told that story about meeting me when he was in a panic immediately following his arrest. Sid always was panicky, you know."
"I didn't know that a panicky man could pick up a million dollars in ten years."
"Oh, I suppose Sidney was fortunate. There are wonderful opportunities at times in Central America, and I suppose he happened to just strike one of them right. He was very fortunate, indeed. Not every man can have good luck like that."
"Well, I'm sorry that I troubled you," Farland said. "And now, I'll get out—if you'll do me a small favor."
"Anything, Farland."
"I see you have a typewriter in the corner, and I'd like to write a short note to leave uptown."
"Just step outside and dictate it to one of my stenographers," said George Lerton.
"That'd be too much trouble," Farland replied. "It's only a few lines, and I can pound a typewriter pretty good. Besides, this is a little confidential report that I would not care to have your stenographer know anything about."
"Oh, I see! Help yourself!"
Farland got up and hurried over to the typewriter. He put a sheet of paper in the machine, wrote a few lines, folded the sheet and put it into his coat pocket.
"Well, I'm much obliged," he said. "I think we'll have Sid out of trouble before long."
"Let us hope so!" George Lerton said.
There was something in the tone of his voice, however, that belied the words he spoke. Farland gave him a single, rapid glance, but the expression of Lerton's face told him nothing. Lerton was a broker and used to big business deals. He was a master of the art of the blank countenance, and Jim Farland knew it well.
Farland had said nothing concerning Kate Gilbert, for he was not ready to let George Lerton know that he suspected any connection of Miss Gilbert with the Rufus Shepley case. Farland was not certain himself what that connection would be, and he knew it would be foolish to say anything that would put Lerton on guard and make the mystery more difficult of solution.
He thanked Lerton once more and departed. Out in the corridor and some distance from the Lerton office, he took from his pocket the note he had written on Lerton's private typewriter and glanced at it quickly. Farland was merely verifying what he had noticed as he had typed the note.
"That was a lucky hunch about that typewriter," he told himself. "This case is going to be interesting, all right—and for several persons."
Farland had noticed particularly the typewritten notes that had been received by the clothing merchant and the barber. There were two certain keys that were battered in a peculiar manner, and another key that was out of alignment.
He knew now, by glancing at the lines he had written himself, that those other notes had been typed on the same machine. He guessed that it had been George Lerton, the broker, who had sent those notes and the money to the barber and the merchant.
Why had George Lerton been so eager to destroy his cousin's alibi?
Why was George Lerton trying to have Sidney Prale sent to the electric chair for murder?
Naturally, a man facing prosecution on a murder charge is liable to be nervous, whether he is innocent or not. If an attempt is being made to gather evidence that will clear him, he wishes for frequent reports, always hoping that there will be some ray of hope. And so it was with Sidney Prale this morning, as he paced the floor in the living room of his suite in the hotel.
Murk had done everything possible to make Sidney Prale comfortable. Now he merely stood to one side and watched the man who had saved him from a self-inflicted death, and tried to think of something that he could say or do to make Prale easier in his mind.
They had not seen or heard from Jim Farland since the evening before, when he had engaged the taxicab and had started in pursuit of the limousine Kate Gilbert had entered. Prale wondered what Farland had been doing, whether he had discovered anything concerning Kate Gilbert, whether he had found a clew that would lead to an unraveling of the mystery.
"Are you sure about that Farland man, Mr. Prale?" Murk asked, after a time.
"What do you mean by that, Murk?"
"Well, he's a kind of cop, and I never had much faith in cops," said Murk.
"Farland is an old friend of mine, Murk, and he is on the square—if that is what you mean."
"He sure started out like a house afire, sir, but he seems to be fallin' down now," Murk declared. "He sure did handle that barber and the clothin' merchant, but he ain't showed us any speed since he left us last night."
"He is busy somewhere—you may be sure of that," Sidney Prale declared.
"Well, boss, I ain't got any education, and I ain't an expert in any particular line, but I've often been accused of havin' common sense, and I'm strong for you!"
"Meaning what, Murk?"
"Nothin', boss, except that I'd like to be busy gettin' you out of this mess. Seems to me I know just as much about it as you do, and if we'd talk matters over, maybe I'd get some sort of an idea, or somethin' like that."
Prale sat down before the window, lighted a cigar, and looked up at Murk.
"Go ahead," he said. "It won't hurt anything, and it will serve to kill time until we hear from Jim Farland. What do you want to talk about first?"
"It seems to me," said Murk, clearing his throat and attempting to speak in an impressive manner, "that this is a double-barreled affair."
"What do you mean?" Prale asked.
"Well, there's the murder thing, and then there's this thing about you havin' some powerful and secret enemies that are tryin' to do you dirt without even comin' out in the open about it. Maybe them two things are mixed together, and maybe again they ain't. If they ain't, we've got two jobs on our hands."
"And, if they are?" Prale asked.
"Then it looks to me, boss, like the gang that's after you is tryin' to hang this murder on you after havin' had somebody croak that Shepley guy."
"I've thought of that, Murk. But it doesn't look possible," Prale said. "If my enemies merely wanted to hang a murder charge on me, as you have suggested, I think they would have planned better and would have made the evidence against me more conclusive. It would mean that there would be a lot of persons in the secret; the men who plan murder do not like to take the entire town into confidence about it."
"Well, that sounds reasonable," Murk admitted.
"And why Rufus Shepley?"
"Because you had that spat with him in the lobby of the hotel, and it could be shown that you had a reason for knifin' him," Murk said, with evident satisfaction.
"Nobody could have known I was going to have that quarrel with Shepley, because I had no idea of it myself when I entered the hotel lobby," Prale said. "After I left the hotel, I met Farland and then walked down to the river and met you—and you know the rest. How could they have contemplated hanging that crime on me when they did not know but that I had a perfect alibi? I think we're on the wrong track, Murk."
"Well, boss, how about your fountain pen?" Murk asked. "How come it was found beside the body?"
"That is one of the biggest puzzles in the whole thing, Murk. I cannot remember exactly when I had the pen last. I cannot imagine how it got into Shepley's room and on the floor beside his body. That fountain pen of mine is an important factor in this case, Murk, and it has me worried."
"It seems to me," Murk said, "that if I had any powerful enemies after my scalp, I'd know the birds and be watchin' out for them all the time, to see that they didn't start anything when I was lookin' in the other direction."
"But, Murk, I haven't the slightest idea who they are," Sidney Prale declared. "I don't know why I should have enemies that amount to anything, and that is what makes it so puzzling. How can I work this thing out when I don't even know where to start? I wish Jim Farland would come."
Jim Farland did, at that moment. Murk let him in, and the detective tossed his hat on a chair, sat down in another, lighted one of his own black cigars, and looked at Sidney Prale through narrowed eyes.
"Well, Jim?" Prale asked.
"I talk when I've really got something to say, but I'm not going to make general conversation and muddle your brains with a lot of scattered junk," Jim Farland replied. "I'll say this much—things are looking much better for you."
"That sounds good, Jim. Can't you tell me anything?" Prale asked, sitting forward on his chair.
"The barber and the clothing merchant have fixed up a part of your alibi, Sid, as perhaps Murk has told you. That is the first point. It makes it look impossible for you to have slain Rufus Shepley, and I think Lawyer Coadley could get the charge against you dismissed on that alone."
"But I want to be entirely cleared."
"Exactly. You don't want to leave the slightest doubt in the mind of a single person. There is but one way to clear you absolutely, Sid. We've got to show conclusively that you could not have killed Shepley, and the best way to do that is to find the person who did."
"I understand, Jim."
"There seems to be some sort of a mysterious alliance against you, Sid. You say that you can't understand why you should have enemies that hate you so, and I know you're telling the truth. Whether that business has anything to do with the murder, or not, I am not prepared to say now. But we want to find out about this enemy business, too, don't we?"
"Certainly," Prale said.
"I followed Kate Gilbert. I know where she lives. She does not belong to a rich family and does not live in splendor. But she wears expensive gowns and has plenty of spending money, and has mysterious dealings with a distinguished-looking man. Her father is mixed up in it in some way, too. I went through their apartment, Sid. Somebody in that apartment wrote the anonymous notes you received."
"What?" Prale gasped.
"I found a tablet of the same sort of paper, and scraps of writing in the wastebasket that were in the same hand. Think, Sid! On the ship——"
"By George!" Prale exclaimed. "She could have slipped into my stateroom and pinned that note to my pillow, and she could have stuck the second one on my suit case as I walked past her on the deck."
"And could have sent the others," Farland added.
"But, why?" Prale demanded. "I never saw the woman until I met her at a social affair in Honduras. What could she or any of her people have against me?"
"Perhaps it was the maid," Farland said.
"She could have done it, of course, the same as Kate Gilbert," Prale said. "But the same difficulty holds good—why? Kate Gilbert did seem to avoid me, and I caught her big maid glaring at me once or twice as if she hated the sight of me. But why on earth——"
Farland cleared his throat. "Here is another thought for you to digest," he said. "This Kate Gilbert knows your cousin, George Lerton."
Sidney Prale suddenly sat up straight in his chair again, his eyes blinking rapidly.
"Doesn't that open up possibilities?" Jim Farland asked him. "The woman seems to be working against you for some reason, and we know that George Lerton lied about meeting you on Fifth Avenue that night. It appears that he is working against you, too, for some mysterious motive."
A dangerous gleam came into Sidney Prale's eyes. "That simplifies matters," he said. "I'll watch for Kate Gilbert, and when I see her I'll ask why she sent me those notes. Then I'll get George Lerton alone and choke out of him why he lied about meeting me on the Avenue. I've trimmed worse men than George Lerton."
"You'll be a good little boy and do nothing of the sort," Farland told him. "We are playing a double game, remember—trying to solve this enemy business, and at the same time trying to clear you of a murder charge. If any of those persons get the idea that we are unduly interested in them, we may not have such an easy time of it."
"I understand that, of course."
"Let me tell you a few more things, Sid. I saw Lerton talking to Miss Gilbert on the street. They were speaking in very low tones. When they parted, I followed Lerton to his office, and went in and talked to him. I did it just to size him up. He still declares that he never met you on Fifth Avenue. He acts like a man afraid of something; and I discovered an interesting thing, Sid. He has a typewriter in his private office, one for his personal use. I managed to type a short note on it."
"What of that?"
"That typewriter has a few bad keys, Sid. And I discovered this—that the notes sent to the barber and merchant, that caused them to lie and try to smash your alibi, were written on the typewriter in George Lerton's office!"
Prale sprang to his feet. "Then Lerton has something to do with this!" he cried. "He tried to get me to leave town, and he tried to break down my alibi. How did he know I was going to make an alibi like that?"
"My guess is that your cousin has been having you watched since you got off the ship."
"But, why?" Prale cried. "It is true that he married the girl who had jilted me a few years before, but I do not hold that against him. I know of no reason why he should work against me so."
"Know anything about him that might cause him serious trouble if you talked?"
"No," Prale replied. "As much as I dislike him, as much as I suspect that he is crooked in business, all that I really could say would be that he had a mean disposition and was not to be trusted too far."
"I thought maybe you had something on him, and he was trying to get you out of the way so you'd not talk," Farland said. "That would explain a lot, of course."
"It can't be that."
"Then we are up in the air again."
"Why not ask him?" Prale demanded. "Believe me, I'll wait for him to come from his office—and he'll answer me, and tell the truth!"
"Put that hot head of yours under the nearest cold-water faucet!" Farland commanded. "You make a move that I don't sanction, and I'll quit the case! You'll spoil things, Sid, if you're not careful. Just digest what I have told you."
"You're in command, Jim!"
"Very well. You leave George Lerton to me, Sid. There are many angles to this case, and I can't attend to all of them at once. I don't want to call in other detectives, because they may be in the pay of these mysterious enemies of yours, and I haven't an assistant with an ounce of brains. Sid, you've got to turn detective yourself—you and Murk."
"I was just wonderin' if I was goin' to get a chance to do anything," Murk said.
"Plenty of chances," Farland replied. "Sid, you pick up this Kate Gilbert, if you can. Act as if you did not suspect a thing. Try to talk to her—you were introduced to her in Honduras, and all that. Don't let her get nervous about you, but watch her as much as you can, and let me know everything you see and hear. Take a look at that big maid, Marie, when you get a chance. If you can do so, and think it advisable, put Murk on Marie's trail. I'll want to use Murk later myself."
Sidney Prale was quick to agree. And thus, without being aware of it, he started on a short career of adventure and romance.
Had Murk been a crystal gazer or something of the sort, and could he have looked into the future in that manner, he would have said that the crystal lied.
Jim Farland went from the hotel to Coadley's office, to ascertain whether the attorney's private investigators, who were working independently of him, had unearthed anything of importance in connection with the case.
Sidney Prale stated that he would go for a walk, and the police detective, now thoroughly convinced that he would not try to run away, raised no objection. It was Prale's intention to make an attempt to meet Kate Gilbert. Murk hurried around getting his coat and hat and gloves and stick.
"Fool idea!" Prale told himself. "Kate Gilbert has given me the cold shoulder already, and she certainly will do it now, since I stand accused of murder. Not a chance in the world of getting better acquainted with her now."
"What do you want me to do, boss?" Murk asked. "I don't seem to be amountin' to much in this game. I'd like to be in action, I would! Can't I take a hand?"
"As soon as possible," Prale told him. "Remember, Farland said he wanted you to help him later."
"I'd rather help you or work alone," Murk said. "I reckon he is pretty decent for a detective, but I don't put much stock in any of 'em."
Prale laughed as he finished dressing, put on his hat and gloves, and reached for his stick.
"Suppose you just shadow me this fine day," he told Murk. "Get a little practice in that line. Don't bother me, but just follow and watch."
"I getcha, boss. You want me to be within hailin' distance in case you need help?"
"Exactly, Murk. We never can tell what is going to happen, you know. I may need you in a hurry."
"I'll be on hand," Murk promised.
Sidney Prale went down in the elevator, Murk going down in the same car. Prale lounged about the lobby for a time, and Murk made himself as inconspicuous as possible in a corner. Prale believed, as Farland had intimated, that he was being followed and watched, possibly by the orders of George Lerton, his cousin. He did not know why Lerton should have done it, but it angered him, and he wanted to discover the man following him.
He saw nobody in the lobby who appeared at all conspicuous, and after a short time he left and started walking briskly down the Avenue, like any gentleman taking a constitutional. The midday throngs were on the streets. Prale was forced to walk slower, and now and then he stopped to look in at a shop window. Once in a while he stepped to the curb and glanced behind. But if there was a "shadow" Prale did not see him.
He did see Murk, however, and he smiled at Murk's methods. Murk remained a short distance behind him, moving up closer whenever Prale was forced to cross the street, so he would not lose him in the throng. Murk was ordinary-looking and had a happy faculty of effacing himself in a crowd. He was on the job every minute, watching Sidney Prale, glancing at every man or woman who approached Prale or as much as looked at him.
Prale reached Forty-second Street, crossed it, and came opposite the library. He glanced aside—and saw Miss Kate Gilbert walking down the wide steps.
It was a ticklish moment for Sidney Prale, but he remembered that he was fighting to protect himself. If Kate Gilbert ignored him, he could not help it. At least, he would give her the chance.
She could not avoid seeing him, for they met face to face at the bottom of the steps. Prale lifted his hat.
"Good morning, Miss Gilbert," he said.
She turned and met his eyes squarely, and he could see that she hesitated for a moment. Then her face brightened, and she stepped toward him.
"Good morning," she replied. "Although it is a little after noon, I am afraid."
Her words might have been for the benefit of any who heard. They were light enough and cordial enough, but she did not offer him her hand, and the expression on her face was scarcely one of welcome.
"I am glad to see you again," Prale said.
"You are settled and feeling at home?"
"In a measure," he said.
She had not mentioned the crime of which he was accused, and he did not wish to be the first to speak of it. She stepped still closer.
"I want to talk to you, Mr. Prale," she said. "Kindly get a taxi and have the chauffeur drive us through the Park."
Prale scarcely could believe his good fortune. He had doubted whether he would have a chance to talk to her, and here she was asking him to engage a taxicab so that they could enjoy a conversation.
He hailed a passing taxi, put her in, gave the chauffeur his directions, and sprang in himself. The machine turned at the first corner and started back up the Avenue in the heavy traffic.
"You wished to speak to me about something in particular?" Prale asked.
"Yes. I have read of the crime of which you are accused. I am sure that you are not guilty."
"Thank you, Miss Gilbert. I assure you that I am not. It is an unfortunate affair, which we hope to have cleared up within a short time."
"I hope that you will be free soon," she said. "And then you will be able to enjoy yourself, I suppose."
"I hope to have my vacation yet," Prale said.
"You are going to remain in New York?"
"Certainly; it is my home."
"Sometimes a man does better away from home."
"But I have been away from home for ten years. I have made my pile, as the saying is, and have come home to show off and lord it over my neighbors," Prale replied, laughing.
They had reached the lower end of Central Park now, and the taxi turned into a driveway, and made its way around the curves toward the upper end. The chauffeur was busy nodding to others of his craft and paying no attention to his fares. Sweethearts, he supposed, talking silly nothings as they were driven through the Park. The chauffeur was used to such; he hauled many of them.
Kate Gilbert leaned a bit closer to Prale, and when she spoke it was in a low, tense voice.
"Go away from New York, Mr. Prale!"
"Why should I do that?" he asked.
"It would be better for you, I feel sure."
"Because of the absurd charge against me? I intend to have my innocence proved, and I'd hate to run away and let people think that perhaps I was guilty after all."
"You have the right to prove your innocence of such a charge to all the world," she said. "But, after you have done it conclusively, you should go away."
"Why?" he asked, again.
"Because—you have enemies, Mr. Prale!"
"I have discovered that; but I do not know why I should have enemies."
"Perhaps you did something, some time, to create them."
"But I haven't," Prale declared.
"Retribution comes when we least expect it, Mr. Prale."
"Yes. I believe that you wrote that in one of your notes."
He had said it! And Jim Farland had told him not to let her suspect that they knew. Well, he couldn't help it now.
Kate Gilbert gasped and sat back from him.
"In my note?" she said.
"The notes interested me greatly, Miss Gilbert. I have saved them. But why should you send them to me?"
"You can ask me that!" she exclaimed. "So you know that I wrote them, do you? In that case, Mr. Prale, you know why I spoke of retribution, you probably know my identity and intentions, and you know why you have enemies!"
"But I do not!" he protested.
"Please do not attempt to tell a falsehood, Mr. Prale. You know I wrote the notes, do you? Then you know everything else. So you are going to fight."
"I fail to understand all this."
"Another falsehood!" she cried. "I have asked you to leave New York and——"
"And I fail to see why I should."
"Then remain—and receive the retribution!" she said. "You will deserve all you get, Sidney Prale! When I think of what you have done——"