The cleft in the bluff was both narrow and steep, but it gave them passage. At the upper end Natalie's reserve strength suddenly deserted her, and she sank down on the grass, labouring for breath, feeling unable to advance a step farther. The days and nights of excitement, coupled with lack of food and sleep, had left her physically weakened; now suddenly, even her will and courage both gave away.
"No, it is nothing," she explained in a whisper. "I am just completely tired out, I guess. You go on, Matt, and find some place of shelter. Leave me to lie here; I'll not move, and you can find me easily. All I want now is to rest a few moments. Afraid! no I'll not be afraid. Why, what is there to fear? this is a civilized country, isn't it? I'll just sit where I am now until you come back—only—only don't go very far away."
She held out her hand, and endeavoured to smile.
"Desert me! Of course you are not, dear. I am bidding you go. I shall not mind being left here alone. I am so tired."
They were at the summit of the bluff, looking out over the lake, now a mere darker blot. They could hear the dash of waves below them along the edge of sand. But in the opposite direction rose a somewhat higher ridge on which trees grew, completely excluding the view beyond. Between the branches the distant sky still retained a purple tinge from the sinking sun, leaving the impression that it was much lighter up there. West felt the importance of gaining a view inland before the closing down of night obscured everything, and therefore reluctantly left her alone there while he made his way to the top of the ridge. Once there he could look across the promontory of land, down into a little cove on the opposite side. It was well sheltered, and already wrapped in gloomy shadows, yet his eyes detected the outline of a boat of some size drawn up on the sandy beach. Beyond the dim certainty of what it was he could perceive nothing with which to identify the craft, and deeming it some fishing boat, gave its presence there no further heed.
Glancing back to assure himself that Natalie was still safe where he had left her, he picked his way swiftly forward through the thick fringe of forest trees, until he came to the western edge of the wood, and could view the country beyond in the last spectral glow of the dying day. It was a wild, broken country thus revealed to his gaze, a land of ridges and ravines, rugged and picturesque, but exhibiting no evidence of roads, or inhabitants. Its very roughness of outline, and its sterile soil, explained the barrenness and desolation—a no-man's land, impossible of cultivation, it remained neglected and unused. At first he was sure of this, his heart sinking at the deserted landscape. They must plunge blindly forward in the dark over that rough, trackless country, seeking some possible shelter beyond. Weakened and exhausted as they both were the task seemed almost an impossible one. Then his eyes caught a thin spiral of smoke rising from out a narrow valley almost directly beneath where he stood, the depths of which were totally concealed from sight. As he stared at this, uncertain of its reality, a single spark of light winked out at him through the darkness. There was certainly a habitation of some kind hidden away down there—a fisherman's hut likely—but it would at least afford temporary shelter for the night; and there must be a road or path of some kind leading from it to the nearest village. If he could only leave Natalie there in safe hands, in the security of a home, however humble, food would give him strength to push on alone. The one thought in his mind now was to telegraph McAdams, so as to circumvent the plans of those rascals in Chicago. This must be done, and it must be done at the earliest moment possible. Perhaps the fisherman might possess a horse, or would carry the necessary message into town himself. West turned and hastened back through the woods, clambering down the slope of the ridge in darkness to the spot where he had left the girl. For the moment he could not distinguish her presence in the gloom, and, fearing he might have gone astray, called her name aloud.
"Yes," she answered. "I am here; to your right. I am, standing up. Have you discovered anything?"
"There is a house of some kind over yonder in a hollow just beyond the ridge—more than likely a fisherman's hut, as there is a boat of some kind beached in the cove the other side of this promontory. We will have to stumble along through the dark. Do you think you can make it?"
"Of course, I can," and she placed her hand confidingly in his. "I am all right now; really I am; I guess all I needed was to get my breath. Do we go up here—the way you came back?"
"I presume so; I know no other passage, and found no path."
"But," she urged. "If there is a boat on the beach, isn't it likely there would be a trail from there to this fisherman's hut?"
"Why, of course; it was stupid of me not to think of this before. The sooner we start, the quicker we shall arrive. I want most of all to telegraph McAdams."
"Who?"
"McAdams, the detective I told you about in Chicago, an old army buddy of mine. He'll have Hobart located by this time, no doubt, and will put the screws on him when he learns what has happened to us."
"I see," she agreed softly, "and if he does know the whole story we need not be so crazy to get back. He will attend to everything."
"Yes; we can wait up here until morning at least; you need a night's rest, and no wonder."
He grasped her arm, helping her to clamber up the steep bank, suddenly becoming aware that the sleeve felt dry.
"Why, Natalie, your clothes seem to have all dried off already; mine are soaked through," he exclaimed in surprise. "What necromancy is this?"
She laughed, a faint tinge of mockery in the sound.
"No mystery whatever; only a difference in texture, I imagine. This light stuff dries quickly, exposed to the air. Did you think you had hold of the wrong girl?"
The tone of her voice stung slightly, causing him to make a sober answer.
"That would, of course, be improbable, but I have been so completely deceived, even by daylight, that I dare not affirm that it would prove impossible. Your counterfeit is certainly a wizard."
"She must be. But as she is miles away from here, you might let the suspicion rest. Is this where we go down?"
She led the way, the action awakening no question in his mind. If he thought at all about her thus assuming the initiative, the suspicion was dismissed with the idea that probably her eyes were more keen to discover the best path. In this she was certainly successful, and he contented himself by following her closely. The night was already dark, the way irregular and confusing. She was but a dim shadow, advancing confidently, and now and then in their descent, he reached out and touched her to make sure of her presence. This action seemed to irritate for she turned once, and objected shortly.
"Oh, don't do that, please; it startles me. My nerves are all on edge."
"Of course they are, dear," he confessed apologetically. "I should have known better. It was so dark I almost thought you had slipped away. The boat I told you about must be close at hand."
"The boat; oh, yes, but it can be of no use to us now. Feel here with your feet; I am sure this must be a path that I am in, and it can lead nowhere except to that house you saw."
"Can you follow it?"
"I think so; it seems to go straight up through the ravine; see, you can trace the bluff against the sky, and there is the opening just ahead of us. You may take my arm again now," she added graciously, "and then there will be no danger of either getting lost."
He gladly did as she suggested, yet, strangely enough, continued to feel dissatisfied. Vaguely he felt that in some almost imperceptible manner she had changed her mood. He could not base his thoughts on a single word, or action, yet he felt the difference—this was not the Natalie of the raft. She was too irritable; too sharp of speech. But then, no doubt, she was tired, worn out, her nerves broken; indeed he found it hard to control himself, and he must not blame her for exhibiting weakness under the strain. So he drove the thought from him, clinging close to her arm, and vaguely wondering how she was able to trace the path so easily. They seemed to progress through an impenetrable wall of blackness, and yet the way had been cleared of obstacles, and was reasonably smooth. The slope upward was quite gradual, and the summit led directly into the mouth of a small valley. By this time even West could recognize that they were proceeding along a well used path, and he was not surprised when she announced the presence of the house before them, pointing out the dim shadow through the gloom. Otherwise his eyes might have failed to distinguish the outlines, but under her guidance he could make out enough of its general form to assure him that they were approaching no mere fisherman's shack.
"That is no hut," he exclaimed in surprise. "It looks more like a mansion."
"And why not?" pleasantly enough. "I have always heard these bluffs were filled with summer homes. Unfortunately this one appears to be deserted. But we must go on, and try to discover some inhabitant."
There was no light to guide them, yet the path was easily followed, through what apparently was an orchard, then through the gate of a rustic fence to a broad carriage drive, circling past the front door. All was silence, desolation; no window exhibited a gleam of radiance, nor did a sound greet them from any direction. They paused an instant before the front door, uncertain how to proceed.
"But there must be some one about here," West insisted. "For this was the house I saw from the ridge, and there was a light burning then in one of the windows, and there was a wisp of smoke rising from a chimney. Perhaps the shutters are all closed, or, early as it is, the people may have retired."
She stepped boldly forward, and placed her hand on the knob of the door.
"Why," she whispered, excitedly. "It is unlocked; see, I can open it.Perhaps something is wrong here. What shall we do?"
"Knock first; then if there is no response, we can feel our way about inside. My matches are all wet."
She rapped sharply on the wood; waited for some reply, and then called out. Not a sound reached them from within. The situation was strange, nerve-racking, and she shrank back as though frightened before the black silence confronting her. West, his teeth clinched, stepped in through the open door, determined to learn the secret of that mysterious interior. With hands outstretched he felt his way forward, by sense of touch alone assuring himself that he traversed a hall, carpeted, his extended arms barely reaching from wall to wall. He encountered no furniture, and must have advanced some two yards, before his groping disclosed the presence of a closed door on the left. He had located the knob, when the outer door suddenly closed, as though blown shut by a draught of wind, and, at the same instant, his eyes were blinded by a dazzling outburst of light.
This came with such startling, unexpected brilliancy that West staggered back as though struck. For the instant he was positively blind; then he dimly perceived a man standing before him—a man who, little by little, became more clearly defined, recognizable, suddenly exhibiting the features of Jim Hobart, sarcastically grinning into his face.
"You are evidently a cat of nine lives, West," he said sneeringly. "But this ought to be the last of them."
For a moment West lost all control over himself. He was too completely dazed for either words or action; could only stare into that mocking countenance confronting him, endeavouring to sense what had really occurred. He was undoubtedly trapped again, but how had the trick been accomplished? What devilish freak of ill luck had thus thrown them once more into the merciless hands of this ruffian? How could it have happened so perfectly? The boat on the sand in the cove yonder; perhaps that was the key to the situation. Those fellows who had left theSeminoleto sink behind them, knew where they were when they deserted the yacht; they landed at the nearest point along shore, where they had a rendezvous already arranged for. Then what? The helpless raft had naturally drifted in the same direction, blown by the steady east wind, until gripped by the land current, and thus finally driven into this opening on the coast. His mind had grasped this view, this explanation, before he even ventured to turn his head, and glance at the girl. She stood leaning back against the closed door as though on guard, her uncovered hair ruffled, a scornful, defiant look in her eyes, the smile on her lips revealing the gleam of white teeth. In spite of a wonderful resemblance, a mysterious counterfeit in both features and expression, West knew now this was not Natalie Coolidge. Her dress, the way in which her hair was done, the sneering curl of her red mouth, were alike instantly convincing. He had permitted himself to be tricked again by the jade; the smart of the wound angered him beyond control.
"You are not Miss Coolidge," he insisted hotly. "Then who are you?"
She laughed, evidently enjoying the scene, confident of her own cleverness.
"Oh, so even Captain West has at last penetrated the disguise. No, I am not the lady you mention, if you must know."
"Then who are you?"
She glanced toward Hobart, as though questioning, and the man answered the look gruffly.
"Tell him if you want to, Del," he said, with an oath. "It will never do the guy any good. He's played his last hand in this game; he'll never get away from me again. Spit it out."
"All right," with a mocking curtsey. "I've got an idea I'd like to tell him; it is too good a joke to keep, and this fellow has certainly been an easy mark. You never did catch on to me until I got into the wrong clothes, did you, old dear? Lord, but I could have had you making love to me, if I'd only have said the word—out there on the hills in the dark, hey! I sure wanted to laugh; but that tender tone of yours told me what you were up to; what sent you trailing us around the country—you was plumb nutty after this Natalie Coolidge. That's the straight goods, isn't it, Mister Captain West?"
"I care very much for Miss Coolidge, if that is what you mean."
"Sure you do; and you've put up a game fight for her too, my boy. I'd like it in you if I wasn't on the other side. But you see we can't be easy on you just because of that. Sentiment and romance is one thing, while business is another. You and I don't belong in the same worlds—see? You can't rightly blame me because I was born different, can you?"
"Perhaps not; what would you make me believe?"
"I thought I'd put it that way so you'd understand, that's all. There's a difference in people, ain't there. I'm just as good looking as this Natalie Coolidge, ain't I? Sure I am; you can't even tell us apart when we are dressed up alike. I could come in here, and have you make love to me inside of twenty minutes. But we ain't a bit alike for all that. She's a lady, and I'm a crook—that's the difference. She's been brought up with all the money she wants, while I've had to hustle for every penny since I was a kid. Now life don't ever look the same to any two people like that."
"No," West admitted, beginning to realize her defence. "It is hardly probable it would."
"That's why I'm in this case," she went on, apparently unheeding his interruption. "I was brought up a thief, and I don't know anything else. I never did care much, but in this Coolidge matter, I've got just as much right to all that kale as she has—so naturally I'm going after it."
"As much right, you say? Why, who are you?"
She stood up straight, and looked at him, her eyes burning.
"Me!" scornfully, "Why I am Delia Hobart—'Diamond Del,' they call me."
"Yes, but that is not what you mean; that gives you no such right as you claim. You are Hobart's daughter then?"
"I didn't say so, Mister Captain West. I told you my moniker, that's all. Jim here brought me up, but he ain't no father to me, and his wife ain't my mother. It took me a while to find that out, but I got the thing straight at last. I saw then just what those two were driving at; first I didn't take no particular interest in the scheme; then I got to thinking until finally I hated that soft, downy thing; damn her, she'd robbed me, and I had a right to my share even if I had to steal it."
"What soft, downy thing?"
"Natalie Coolidge! Bah, I went out to see her once. Jim took me and we hid in the garden; and when I came back I was raving mad. Lord, why should that little idiot have everything while half the time I was hungry?"
"You mean you envied her?"
"Envied, hell! Didn't I have a right? Wasn't she my twin sister? Didn't she have it all, and I nothing?"
He gasped for breath at this sudden revelation. Then he laughed, convinced it could not be possible.
"Who told you that?"
"Why, don't you believe it? Has she never said a word about it to you?"
"Certainly not. I am sure she possesses no knowledge of ever having had a sister. Moreover, I do not believe it is true. If you had proof of such relationship, why didn't you go to her, and openly claim your share?"
"Go to her! me? Do you hear that Jim? Isn't he the cute little fixer? Why, of course, she knew it; there was nothing doing on the divide. It's all straight enough, only we couldn't quite prove it by law; anyhow that is what they told me—so we got at it from another direction."
She seemed so convinced, so earnest in her statement that West in perplexity turned to glance at Hobart.
"Do you make this claim also?" he asked.
"What claim?"
"That this girl is a twin sister to Natalie Coolidge? Why, it is preposterous."
"Is it? Damned if I think so. Now look here, West; I don't know just what the Coolidge girl has been told; maybe she never even heard she had a twin sister. If they ever told her that she had, then they must have told her also that the sister died in infancy. Anyhow, that's how it stands on the records. There were just two people who knew different—do you get me? One of them is dead, but one of them is still alive."
"Which one is dead?"
"Percival Coolidge; he knew too much and got gay; he planned to cop the whole boodle. The fact is he started the whole scheme, soon as he learned who Del was, and planned it all out. He was up against it hard just then for money; he'd lost all his own, and couldn't get hold of Natalie's because the old family lawyer watched things so close."
"But if this girl was really entitled to a part of it, why not claim it by law?"
"We talked about that, but the chance didn't look good. Everything showed the second child died; hospital records, doctor's certificate; there wasn't a link in the chain we could break. Percival wouldn't go on the stand, and there wasn't much he could swear to if he did."
"But who was the other witness—the living one?"
"The nurse; she made the exchange of the dead baby for the living one. It was easily done as the child was really sick."
"But for what object—revenge?"
"She was poor, and yielded to temptation. Percival Coolidge paid her to make the exchange. I have never been able to learn what his original purpose was, but she thinks he believed the stolen child was a boy, and that later, through him, the Coolidge money might be controlled. However the woman lost her nerve, and disappeared with the infant. She brought it up as her own in the west, where she married again. I am her second husband, and that is how I learned the truth."
"The woman on the yacht?"
"Yes, you saw her. The child was brought up in our life; I figured on this coup for years, and finally when all was ready, we came back east again. I had a plan, but I wasn't quite sure it would work until I could see the two girls together. After that it was like taking candy from a kid. Hell, you are the only one who has even piped off the game."
West looked closely at the man, who was thus coolly boasting of his exploits, and then at the silent girl, whose eyes sullenly gave back their challenge. What did it all mean? Why were they calmly telling him these things? Was it merely the egotism of crime, pride of achievement? or did Hobart hope in some way to thus win his assistance, or at least his silence?
"Why do you tell all this to me, Hobart?" he asked shortly. "You do not expect me to play with you in the game, do you?"
"You!" the fellow laughed coarsely. "We don't care what you do, you young fool. Del started this talking, and I let her go on. Then, when she stopped, I thought you might as well learn the rest of it. The fact is, West, we're fixed now so whatever you know won't hurt us any. We have as good as got the swag; and, to make it absolutely safe, we've got both you and the girl. I'll say this for you, old man, you've sure put up a game fight. I don't know how the hell you ever got out of that yacht alive, or ever happened to drift in here. It was nothing but bull luck that gave us a glimpse of you tossing round on that raft—but after that it was dead easy. Del here is some actorine."
"Yes," she broke in, "but I came near falling down this time. I forgot they had been in the water, and my dress was dry as a bone—say, I thought he'd tripped me sure."
"You say you've got the swag?"
"All but in our hands; nobody can get it away from us. The court order was issued today; the entire estate placed, in accordance with the terms of the will, in the possession of Natalie Coolidge. Once the proper receipt is signed, all monies can be checked out by her. That about settles it, doesn't it? Tomorrow Del and I will go down to the city, and turn the trick, and after that there is nothing left but the get-away."
It was a cold blooded proposition, but neither face exhibited any regret; both were intoxicated by success; untroubled by any scruples of conscience. West felt the utter uselessness of an attempt to appeal to either.
"Where is Natalie Coolidge?" he asked, his own determination hardening."What do you propose doing with her?"
Hobart's teeth exhibited themselves in a sardonic grin.
"That is our business, but you can bet she'll not interfere."
"And a similar answer, I presume, will apply also to my case?"
"It will. Don't make the mistake, West, of believing we are damn fools. I don't know just why I've blowed all this to you, but it ain't going to help you any, you can be sure of that. In fact your knowing how the thing was worked is liable to make things a blame sight harder in your case. We won't do no more talking; so go on in through that door."
The fellow's demeanour had entirely changed; he was no longer pretending to geniality, and his words were almost brutal. Apparently, all at once, it had dawned sharply upon him that they had made a mistake—had boasted far too freely. Any slip now, after what had been said, would wreck the ship. West faced him watchfully, fully aware of the desperate situation, instinctively feeling that this might be his last chance.
"In there, you say?" indicating the closed door.
"Yes; move!"
He did; with one swift leap forward, the whole impetus of his body behind the blow, West drove his fist straight into the face confronting him. The fellow reeled, clutched feebly at the smooth wall for support, dropped helplessly forward, and fell headlong, with face hidden in outstretched arms. The assailant sprang back, and turned, in a mad determination to crash his way out through the locked door behind, but as suddenly stopped startled by the vision of a levelled revolver pointed at his head.
"Not a move," the girl said icily. "Take one step, and I'll kill you."
Hobart lifted his head groggily, and pushed himself half-way up on his knees.
"Don't shoot unless he makes you, Del," he ordered grimly. "We don't want that kind of row here." He dragged himself painfully to the side door, and pressed it open.
"Hey you!" he cried. "Come on out here. Now then, rough-house this guy!"
McADAMS BLOWS IN
It was a real fight; they all knew that when it was finished. But it was three to one, with Hobart blocking the only open door, and egging them on, and the excited girl, backed into a corner out of the way, the revolver still gripped in her hand, ready for any emergency. The narrowness of the hall alone afforded West a chance, as the walls protected him, and compelled direct attack from in front. Yet this advantage only served to delay the ending. He recognized two of the fellows—"Red" Hogan and Mark—while the third man was a wiry little bar-room scrapper, who smashed fiercely in through his guard, and finally got a grip on his throat which could not be wrenched loose. The others pounded him unmercifully, driving his head back against the wall. Hogan smashed him twice, crashing through his weak attempt at defence, and with the second vicious drive, West went down for the count, lying motionless on the floor, scarcely conscious that he was still living.
Yet in a dazed, helpless way, he was aware of what was occurring about him; he could hear voices, feel the thud of a brutal kick. Some one dragged him out from the mess, and turned his face up to the light; but he lay there barely breathing; his eyes tightly closed.
"It's a knock-out all right," Hogan declared. "That guy is good for an hour in dream-land. What's the dope?"
"We got to keep him here, that's all; and there's goin' to be no get-away this time."
"How'd he do it before, Jim? did he tell you?"
"Not a damned word; I was fool enough to do all the talking. But this fellow is too slick to take any more chances with."
"Do you want him croaked?"
"No, I don't—not now. What the hell's the use? It would only make things harder. We're ready to make our get-away, ain't we? After tomorrow all hell can't get onto our trail. This guy's life wouldn't help us none, so far as I can see."
"Getting squeamish, ain't you?"
"No, I'm not. I've got as much reason to hate the fellow as you have, 'Red.' He certainly swiped me one. Before we had the swag copped, I was willing enough to put him out of the running. That was business. You sure did a fine job then, damn you; now I don't think it is your time to howl. Listen here, will you? From all I learn, this bird amounts to something; he ain't just a dago to be bumped off, and nobody care what's become of him. This guy has got friends. It won't help us any to be hunted after for murder on top of this other job. If we cop the kale, that's all we're after. Is that right, Del?"
The girl seemed to come forward, and face them defiantly.
"Sure it's right. I never was for the strong arm stuff, Hogan. This is my graft, anyhow, and not one of you stiffs gets a penny of it unless I split with you. This fellow isn't going to be slugged—that's flat. It is only because he's fell in love with the Coolidge girl that he is here, and once we've skipped out, I don't wish the guy any bad luck."
"You ought to have caught him yourself, Del," some one said. "The bird never would have known the difference."
She laughed, quickly restored to good humour.
"You're about right there, Dave," she answered. "That was another mistake; the only chance I ever had of marrying in high social circles. But hell, I'll be a lady tomorrow, so let's let the poor devil go. Wrap him up, and lay him away out in the garage. The walls are two foot solid stone; he'll stay buried there all right."
Hogan growled in derision, yet it was evident that she and Hobart would have their way. Some one brought a rope, which was deftly wound about him, West continuing to feign unconsciousness. He secretly hoped this condition might result in some carelessness on their part, in either speech or action. Anyway it would undoubtedly save him from further brutal treatment. He had no reason to suspect that his ruse was questioned. The fellows spoke freely while making him secure, but he gained very little information from their conversation—not a hint as to where Natalie was confined, or how long it was proposed to hold them prisoners. Then "Red" and Dave lugged his limp body through several rooms, out upon a back porch, finally dragging him down the steps and along a cement drive way, letting him lie there a moment in the dark, while one of them unlocked a door. The next instant he was carelessly thrown inside, and the door forced back into place. He could hear Hogan swear outside, and then the sound of both men's feet on the drive as they departed.
With a struggle West managed to sit up, but could scarcely attempt more, as his arms were bound closely to his sides. The darkness about him was intense, and, with the disappearance of the two men up the steps, all outside sounds had ceased. He knew he had been flung into the garage and was resting there on the hard cement floor. He could neither feel nor see any machine, nor was there probably the slightest prospect of his getting out unaided. Those fellows would never have left him there without guard, had they dreamed any escape was possible. The girl had affirmed the building was constructed of stone, two feet thick. He stared around at the impenetrable black wall completely defeated. Undoubtedly they had him this time. He was weak from hunger, tired nearly to death; bruised and battered until it seemed as though every muscle in his body throbbed with pain. Yet his mind was not on these things, only incidentally; his thought, his anxiety centred altogether on Natalie Coolidge. What had become of her; where was she now? He had no reason to believe her in any great personal danger. If this gang, satisfied of success, were disposed to spare his life, it was hardly probable they would demand her's. Now both the desire for murder, and the necessity, had passed. The fellows felt supremely confident the spoils were already theirs, and that all that was needed now to assure complete success was sufficient time in which to drop safely out of sight. Murder would hinder, rather than help this escape.
But what a blind fool he had been; how strangely he had permitted this girl to lead him so easily astray. Why really, to his mind now, she possessed no real resemblance to Natalie; not enough, at least, to deceive the keen eyes of love. She had the features, the eyes, the hair, the voice, a certain trick of speech, which, no doubt, she had cultivated—but there were a thousand things in which she differed. Her laugh was not the same, nor the expression of her lips; she was like a counterfeit beside a good coin. It was easy to conceive how others might be deceived by her tricks of resemblance—servants, ordinary friends, even the old lawyer in charge of the estate—but it was inexcusable for him to have thus become a plaything. Yet he had, and now the mistake was too late to mend. He had left Natalie alone on the cliff, and then blindly permitted this chit to lead him straight into Hobart's set trap. Angered beyond control at the memory, West swore, straining fiercely in the vain endeavour to release his arms. Then, realizing his utter helplessness, he sank back on the floor, and lay still.
What was that? He listened, for an instant doubtful if he had really heard anything. Then he actually heard a sound. He doubted no longer, yet made no effort to move, even holding his breath in suspense. There was movement of some kind back there—a cautious movement; seemingly the slow advance of something across the floor, a dog perhaps. West's heart throbbed with apprehension; suppose it was a dog, he had no means of protection from the brute. Cold sweat tingled on his flesh; there was nothing he could do, no place where he could go. The thing was moving nearer; yet surely it could not be a dog; no dog would ever creep like that. He could bear the strain no longer; it was beyond endurance.
"What's moving back there?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
There was a moment of utter silence; then, a man's voice said in low, cautious tone.
"The fellow ain't dead, Mac; anyhow he seems able to talk yet."
"All right, we'll find out what he's got to say—go on along."
West sat up, his heart bounding with sudden remembrance.
"My God! McAdams is that you?"
"You have the name—who's speaking?"
"Matt West. Good God, but this is like a miracle. I'd played my last card. Come here, one of you, and cut these strings. I cannot even move, or stand up. Is it really you, Mac? Yes, yes, I am all right; they bruised me up a bit, of course, but that is nothing. Now I have a chance to pay them out. But who are with you? and how did you come to be here?"
McAdams ran his knife blade through the lashings, feeling for them in the dark. Neither could see the other, but West realized that another man had crept up on the opposite side of him, and crouched there silently in the blackness.
"Need any help, Mac?" the latter questioned in a whisper.
"No, I've got him cut loose. This is the lad I told you about, Carlyn. You go on back, and, as soon as West gets limbered up a bit, and I hear his story, we join you out there. Then we'll know how the ground lies."
The fellow crept away unseen, and McAdams gripped West's hand.
"Say, but this is mighty good luck, old boy," he blurted out. "I was afraid you'd gone down in that yacht last night."
"You were! How did you know about it?"
"Stumbled on to the story, the way most detectives solve their mysteries. That is, I stumbled on some of it, and the rest I dug out for myself. It won't take long to explain and perhaps you better understand. They told me at the office when I got back about theSeminolebeing tied up at the Municipal Pier, and that you had gone down there. Well, I made it as quick as I could, but the yacht was three hundred yards out in the lake by the time I arrived. There wasn't a damn thing to take after it in, and, besides, just then, I didn't really know any good police reason for chasing her. First thing I did was to try and find you, so we could get our heads together. But you wasn't there, and so I naturally jumped to the conclusion you must have got aboard someway. Say I combed that pier, believe me, West, and finally I ran across a kid who put me wise. He saw you go across the deck, and into the cabin with two other guys. They came out again, but you didn't. I pumped him until I got a pretty good description of both those fellows, and I decided one of them must be 'Red' Hogan, about the toughest gun-man in Chicago."
"It was Hogan."
"I made sure of that afterwards. Then I got busy. If you was in the hands of that guy, and his gang, the chances was dead against you. But there wasn't a darn thing I could do, except to hunt up Hobart, wire every town along the north shore to keep an eye out for the yacht, and pick up a thread or two around town. I got a bit at that to wise me up. We found Hobart hid away in a cheap hotel out on Broadway, and put a trailer on him. The girl had disappeared; she'd been to a bank, and then to the Coolidge lawyer and signed some papers; after that we lost all trace of her for awhile. Your man Sexton, out at 'Fairlawn,' reported that she hadn't returned there. Then I got desperate and decided I'd blow the whole thing to the Coolidge lawyer, and get him to take a hand. I was afraid they were already for the get-a-way—see? I couldn't round 'em up alone; besides I'm a Chicago police officer, and have to keep more or less on my own beat."
"And you told the lawyer?"
"Everything I knew, and some I guessed at. I thought the old guy would throw a fit, but he didn't. He came through game after the first shock. But say, that dame had sold him out all right. He never had an inkling anything was wrong; no more did the banks. We went over, and talked to the president of one of them—a smooth guy with white mutton chops—and the girl had signed up the preliminary papers already, and tomorrow the whole boodle was going to drop softly into her lap. Say, I felt better when I learned they hadn't copped the swag yet. But just the same I needed help."
"And you got it?"
"Sure; those two duffers coughed up money in a stream. Called in a detective agency, and gave me three operatives to work under me. Got the chief on the wire, and made him give me a free hand. Then I had a cinch."
He paused, listening, but all remained quiet without, and he resumed his story. "There is not much else to it, West. A little after one o'clock the shadow phoned in from the Union depot that Hobart had just purchased two tickets for Patacne. We hustled over, but were too late to catch that train, but learned the girl had accompanied him on the trip. We caught another rattler two hours later, and got off at Patacne, which is about three miles west of here. It is not much of a job to gather up gossip in a small burg, and, inside of ten minutes, I had extracted all I needed from the station agent. It seems this outfit was the summer sensation out here. We hoofed it for reasons of our own, and came around by way of the lake shore, aiming to keep out of sight until after dark. That is how we discovered thatSeminoleboat hauled up on the beach, but with no yacht in sight. One of the fellows with me said Hogan did a boat-sinking job before and got away with it, and that is how I figured that maybe you was at the bottom of Lake Michigan—see? Well, we crept up here through the woods, but nothing happened. Didn't look as if the place had a soul within a hundred miles of it—no smoke, no light; not a damn sound. We laid out and waited, not sure what we were up against. Finally we jimmied open the back door of this garage, just to find out whether those guys had a car out here, or not. They had, but we no more than located it when those two fellows came dragging you out of the back door of the house, and flung you in here like a bag of old linen. We lay still, and let them go back, but we hadn't any notion whether you was dead or alive—or whether it was really you; so we crawled up to find out. That's the story. Now what do you think we better do?"
West moved his arms in an effort to restore circulation.
"How many with you?"
"Four altogether—hard boiled, too—five with you. Is there any fight left in you, old man?"
"I'll say there is; I'd certainly like to get in one clip at 'Red' before the fracas is over."
"That sounds vicious. Now who is inside?"
"I saw five, and there may be others. If the crew of theSeminoleare here also, that would make quite a bunch."
"I don't think they are, Captain. The station agent said several men bought tickets to Chicago early this afternoon. It is the real gang we've got cornered. Do you know just who they are?"
"Those I saw were Hobart, 'Red' Hogan, the girl, a big fellow they calledMark who was on the yacht—"
"Mark Sennett; he's Hogan's side-kick, and tough as they make 'em."
"And a wiry little black-haired devil by the name of Dave."
"Hell, is he in this too? that must be 'Dago Dave.' That guy would cut your throat for fifty dollars. Any others?"
"Those were all I saw. No doubt Hobart's wife is in the house somewhere, guarding Natalie Coolidge probably."
"Six altogether, counting the women."
"Yes, and you better count them, for they will fight like tigers. The girl held me up at the point of a gun."
"We've got to get the drop first, that's all. They're yellow, the whole outfit is yellow. Shootin' in the back is their style. Now, you know the lay inside the house; what is our best chance?"
West studied over the situation, his eyes staring into the darkness, andMcAdams waited.
"Well, Mac," he said finally. "This is a new job for me, but I'd put a man out in front, and then take the others in through the back door. We'd have to rush it, of course. I know the front door is locked, and it couldn't be broken down quickly. I listened when those fellows went back, and I heard no click, as though they had locked the door behind them. They don't know anybody has been after them except me, and they believe I am done for. They feel so safe out here, they are a bit careless. I'll wager something we can walk straight in on the outfit; how does that strike you?"
"As the only feasible plan. Let's crawl out of here."
The arrangements were quickly perfected; a short, whispered conference in the dark; then one man crept silently away through the night toward the front of the house. McAdams added a few more words of instruction to the others, and, with West slightly in advance, revolvers drawn and ready, the five stole forward in the direction of the rear porch. The windows were either heavily curtained, or covered by outside shades, for no gleam of light was anywhere visible. West mounted the back steps silently, with McAdams close at his heels. A second later the entire bunch of officers were grouped before the door, poised breathless, listening for any sound from within. Nothing broke the impressive silence, and McAdam's hand closed over the knob, which he turned slowly. The door opened quietly into a darkened interior. For an instant he bent forward, peering through the narrow crack, endeavouring to learn what lay hidden beyond, the others quivering behind him. There was scarcely the sound of a breath audible. The detective hesitated; such luck, such carelessness on the part of criminals seemed almost uncanny; he half suspected some trap. Then he became convinced that this was only the result of recklessness—the fellows felt so safe in this hidden hole in the woods as to neglect all precaution. He stepped cautiously inside, leaving the door ajar for the others to follow. Then they paused—straight ahead a double swinging door divided the kitchen in which they were from another room beyond. Through the centre crack shone a single bar of light, barely visible, and forth through that same orifice came the sound of a voice speaking. McAdams flung up his hand in signal, and then crept silently forward.
It was apparently a quarrel among thieves over the spoils, each fearful lest the other was double-crossing. Hobart and "Red" Hogan were doing most of the talking, although occasionally others chimed in, and once there was a woman's voice added to the debate. Seemingly the whole gang were present; a strong odour of tobacco smoke stole through the crack in the door, and both Hobart and Hogan swore angrily. Who was to remain out there on guard while Hobart and the girl returned to Chicago for the money was evidently the question, Hogan wishing to accompany them to make sure of his share. The woman sided with Hobart, the other men apparently ranged up with "Red," and some very plain talking was indulged in.
McAdams listened grimly, the light through the crack showing his lips curled in a smile of appreciation. He lowered his head, and with one eye at the slight opening gained a glimpse of the lighted room beyond. A moment, motionless, he stared in on the scene; then straightened up, and, with revolver in hand, signalled to the others to close in closer. They stood there for a tense instant, poised and eager; then the doors were flung crashing back, and they leaped recklessly forward, out of the darkness into the light. It was a furious fight—sharp, merciless, uncompromising. The thieves, startled, desperate, were hurled back by the first rush against the further wall, tables and chairs overturned, the shrieking woman pushed headlong into one corner, and one of the fellows downed by the crashing butt of a revolver. But the others rallied, maddened, desperate, rats caught in a trap, fighting as animals fight. Hobart fired, catching an assailant in the arm; Hogan snatched up a chair and struck viciously at West, who leaped straight forward, breaking the full force of the blow, and driving his own fist into the man's face. It was all over within a minute's fierce fighting—the surprise turning the trick. Hobart went down cursing, the gun kicked out of his hand, his arm broken; Hogan, struggling still, but pinned to the floor by three men, was given a blow to the chin which left him unconscious, while the other two threw up their hands and yelled for mercy. McAdams wiped his streaming face, and looked around.
It was a shambles, the floor spotted with blood, the table overturned and broken, a blanket over one of the windows torn down, a smashed chair in one corner. The detective who had been shot was still lying in front of the door, "Red" lay motionless, a ghastly cut over his eye, and Hobart, his arm dangling, sat propped up against the wall, cursing, malevolent, but helpless. On the other side stood Sennett and "Dago Dave," their hands high above their heads; each looking into the levelled barrel of a gun. The woman had got to her knees, still dazed from the blow which had felled her. The ex-service man smiled grimly, well satisfied.
"Some surprise party, eh, Jim?" he asked pleasantly. "This rather puts a crimp in your little game, I would savy, old boy. Going to cop the whole boodle tomorrow, was you?"
"Who the hell are you?"
"Well, if I answer your questions, perhaps you will answer mine. I am McAdams of the City Hall Station, Chicago, and I know exactly what I am here after. So the best thing you guys can do, is cough up. Who's that girl who has been working with you?"
Hobart glared sullenly, but made no response.
"You'll not answer?"
"Oh, go to hell!"
"All right, old top. She is in this house somewhere, and can't get out.Somers, look around a bit; try behind those curtains over there."
The officer stepped forward, but at the same instant the draperies parted, and two girls stood beside each other in the opening, framed against the brighter glare of light beyond—two girls, looking so alike, except for dress and the arrangement of their hair, as to be almost indistinguishable—Natalie white faced, frightened, gazing with wide-open eyes on the strange scene before her; the other smiling, and audacious, her glance full of defiance. It was the voice of the latter which broke the silence.
"Am I the one you want, Mr. Bob McAdams?" she asked clearly. "Very well,I am here."
McAdams stared at them both, gulping in startled surprise at the vision confronting him, unable to find words. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the face of the speaker.
"What!" he burst forth. "You, Del? Great Scott! your name was Hobart, wasn't it? Why I never once connected you two together. Is—is this guy your father?"
"I don't know about that," she returned indifferently. "It is a matter of argument I believe. However, Bob, what's the odds now? I am the one you're after, Mister fly-cop; and here I am."
She walked forward, almost proudly, her eyes shining, and gazing fearlessly into his. He stepped back, one hand extended.
"No, Del, this must be a mistake. I—I can't believe it of you, you—you are not a crook."
"Oh, yes I am," she insisted, but with a tremor in the low voice. "I've never been anything else, Bobby boy—thanks, thanks to that thing down there."
Natalie still remained poised uncertainly in the door-way, scarcely realizing what was occurring before her; she saw suddenly a familiar face, and held out her hands.
"Oh, Matt, what is it?" she cried. "Is—is it all over?"
"Yes, all over, dear; these are police officers."
"And that—that girl? She looks so much like me. Who is she? do you know?"
West clasped her hands tightly, his voice sunk to a whisper.
"She is your sister, Natalie," he asserted soberly, "Your twin sister."
Her unbelieving eyes swept to his face.
"My sister; my twin sister? But I had none."
"Yes, but you did," he insisted gently. "You never knew it, but Percival Coolidge did. This was his devilish scheme, plotted years ago when you were born. Now here is the end of it—the girl is your sister. There is no doubt of that."
"No doubt, you say! My sister!" Her head lifted, and there was a flame of colour in her cheeks. "My sister!" she repeated, as though she would thus make it seem more true. "Then I will go to her, Matthew West."
She loosened the clasp of her fingers and walked forward, unseeing her surroundings, her eyes misted with tears. Straight across the room she went, her hands outstretched to where the other shrank back from her in embarrassment—between them still the gulf which love must bridge.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Case and The Girl, by Randall Parrish