Detective Mallory examined the cushion which Downey handed to him. Several dark brown stains told the story—one of the occupants of the car had been wounded.
"Well, that's something," commented the Supreme Intelligence. "We know now that when Cunningham fired at least one of the persons in the car was hit, and we may make our search accordingly. The Burglar and the Girl probably left the car where it was found during the preceding night."
"It seems so," said Downey. "I shouldn't think they would have dared to keep it long. Autos of that size and power are too easily traced. I asked Mr. Sharp to run down and identify the car and he did so. The stains were new."
The Supreme Intelligence digested that in silence while his satellites studied his face, seeking some inkling of the convolutions of that marvellous mind.
"Very good, Downey," said Detective Mallory at last. "Now Cunningham?"
"Nothing," said Cunningham in shame and sorrow. "Nothing."
"Didn't you find anything at all about the premises?"
"Nothing," repeated Cunningham. "The Girl left no wrap at Seven Oaks. None of the servants remembers having seen her in the room where the wraps were checked. I searched all around the place and found a dent in the ground under the smoking-room window, where the gold plate had been thrown, and there were what seemed to be footprints in the grass, but it was all nothing."
"We can't arrest a dent and footprints," said the Supreme Intelligence cuttingly.
The satellites laughed sadly. It was part of the deference they owed to the Supreme Intelligence.
"And you, Blanton?" asked Mr. Mallory. "What did you do with the list of invited guests?"
"I haven't got a good start yet," responded Blanton hopelessly. "There are three hundred and sixty names on the list. I have been able to see possibly thirty. It's worse than making a city directory. I won't be through for a month. Randolph and his wife checked off a large number of these whom they knew were there. The others I am looking up as rapidly as I can."
The detectives sat moodily thoughtful for uncounted minutes. Finally Detective Mallory broke the silence.
"'The stains were new'""'The stains were new'"
"There seems to be no question but that any clew that might have come from either of the automobiles is disposed of unless it is the fact that we now know one of the thieves was wounded. I readily see how the theft could have been committed by a man as bold as this fellow. Now we must concentrate all our efforts to running down the invited guests and learning just where they were that evening. All of you will have to get on this job and hustle it. We know that the Burglardidpresent an invitation-card with a name on it."
The detectives went their respective ways and then Detective Mallory deigned to receive representatives of the press, among them Hutchinson Hatch. Hatch was worried. He knew a whole lot of things, but they didn't do him any good. He felt that he could print nothing as it stood, yet he would not tell the police, because that would give it to everyone else, and he had a picture of how the Supreme Intelligence would tangle it if he got hold of it.
"Well, boys," said Detective Mallory smilingly, when the press filed in, "there's nothing to say. Frankly, I will tell you that we have not been able to learn anything—at least anything that can be given out. You know, of course, about the finding of the two automobiles that figured in the case, and the blood-stained cushion?"
The press nodded collectively.
"Well, that's all there is yet. My men are still at work, but I'm a little afraid the gold plate will never be found. It has probably been melted up. The cleverness of the thieves you can judge for yourself by the manner in which they handled the automobiles."
And yet Hatch was not surprised when, late that night, Police Headquarters made known the latest sensation. This was a bulletin, based on a telephone message from Stuyvesant Randolph to the effect that the gold plate had been returned by express to Seven Oaks. This mystified the police beyond description; but official mystification was as nothing to Hatch's state of mind. He knew of the scene in Dick Herbert's room and remembered Mr. Randolph's threat.
"Then Dickdidhave the plate," he told himself.
Whole flocks of detectives, reporters, and newspaper artists appeared at Seven Oaks early next morning. It had been too late to press an investigation the night before. The newspapers had only time telephonically to confirm the return of the plate. Now the investigators unanimously voiced one sentiment: "Show us!"
Hatch arrived in the party headed by Detective Mallory, with Downey and Cunningham trailing. Blanton was off somewhere with his little list, presumably still at it. Mr. Randolph had not come down to breakfast when the investigators arrived, but had given his servant permission to exhibit the plate, the wrappings in which it had come, and the string wherewith it had been tied.
The plate arrived in a heavy paper-board box, covered twice over with a plain piece of stiff brown paper, which had no markings save the address and the "paid" stamp of the express company. Detective Mallory devoted himself first to the address. It was:
Mr. Stuyvesant Randolph,"Seven Oaks,"via Merton.
In the upper left-hand corner were scribbled the words:
From John Smith,State Street,Watertown.
Detectives Mallory, Downey, and Cunningham studied the handwriting on the paper minutely.
"It's a man's," said Detective Downey.
"It's a woman's," said Detective Cunningham.
"It's a child's," said Detective Mallory.
"Whatever it is, it is disguised," said Hatch.
He was inclined to agree with Detective Cunningham that it was a woman's purposely altered, and in that event—Great Cæsar! There came that flock of seven-column heads again! And he couldn't open the bottle!
The simple story of the arrival of the gold plate at Seven Oaks was told thrillingly by the servant.
"It was eight o'clock last night," he said. "I was standing in the hall here. Mr. and Mrs. Randolph were still at the dinner table. They dined alone. Suddenly I heard the sound of waggon-wheels on the granolithic road in front of the house. I listened intently. Yes, it was waggon-wheels."
The detectives exchanged significant glances.
"I heard the waggon stop," the servant went on in an awed tone. "Still I listened. Then came the sound of footsteps on the walk and then on the steps. I walked slowly along the hall toward the front door. As I did so the bell rang."
"Yes, ting-a-ling-a-ling, we know. Go on," Hatch interrupted impatiently.
"I opened the door," the servant continued. "A man stood there with a package. He was a burly fellow. 'Mr. Randolph live here?' he asked gruffly. 'Yes,' I said. 'Here's a package for him,' said the man. 'Sign here.' I took the package and signed a book he gave me, and—and——"
"In other words," Hatch interrupted again, "an expressman brought the package here, you signed for it, and he went away?"
The servant stared at him haughtily.
"Yes, that's it," he said coldly.
A few minutes later Mr. Randolph in person appeared. He glanced at Hatch with a little surprise in his manner, nodded curtly, then turned to the detectives.
He could not add to the information the servant had given. His plate had been returned, pre-paid. The matter was at an end so far as he was concerned. There seemed to be no need of further investigation.
"How about the jewelry that was stolen from your other guests?" demanded Detective Mallory.
"Of course, there's that," said Mr. Randolph. "It had passed out of my mind."
"Instead of being at an end this case has just begun," the detective declared emphatically.
Mr. Randolph seemed to have no further interest in the matter. He started out, then turned back at the door, and made a slight motion to Hatch which the reporter readily understood. As a result Hatch and Mr. Randolph were closeted together in a small room across the hall a few minutes later.
"May I ask your occupation, Mr. Hatch?" inquired Mr. Randolph.
"I'm a reporter," was the reply.
"A reporter?" Mr. Randolph seemed surprised. "Of course, when I saw you in Mr. Herbert's rooms," he went on after a little pause, "I met you only as his friend. You saw what happened there. Now, may I ask you what you intend to publish about this affair?"
Hatch considered the question a moment. There seemed to be no objection to telling.
"I can't publish anything until I know everything, or until the police act," he confessed frankly. "I had been talking to Dick Herbert in a general way about this case when you arrived yesterday. I knew several things, or thought I did, that the police do not even suspect. But, of course, I can print only just what the police know and say."
"I'm glad of that—very glad of it," said Mr. Randolph. "It seems to have been a freak of some sort on Mr. Herbert's part, and, candidly, I can't understand it. Of course he returned the plate, as I knew he would."
"Do you really believe he is the man who came here as the Burglar?" asked Hatch curiously.
"I should not have done what you saw me do if I had not been absolutely certain," Mr. Randolph explained. "One of the things, particularly, that was called to my attention—I don't know that you know of it—is the fact that the Burglar had a cleft in his chin. You know, of course, that Mr. Herbert has such a cleft. Then there is the invitation-card with his name. Everything together makes it conclusive."
Mr. Randolph and the reporter shook hands. Three hours later the press and police had uncovered the Watertown end of the mystery as to how the express package had been sent. It was explained by the driver of an express waggon there and absorbed by greedily listening ears.
"The boss told me to call at No. 410 State Street and get a bundle," the driver explained. "I think somebody telephoned to him to send the waggon. I went up there yesterday morning. It's a small house, back a couple of hundred feet from the street, and has a stone fence around it. I opened the gate, went in, and rang the bell.
"No one answered the first ring, and I rang again. Still nobody answered and I tried the door. It was locked. I walked around the house, thinking there might be somebody in the back, but it was all locked up. I figured as how the folks that had telephoned for me wasn't in, and started out to my waggon, intending to stop by later.
"Just as I got to the gate, going out, I saw a package set down inside, hidden from the street behind the stone fence, with a dollar bill on it. I just naturally looked at it. It was the package directed to Mr. Randolph. I reasoned as how the folks who 'phoned had to go out and left the package, so I took it along. I made out a receipt to John Smith, the name that was in the corner, and pinned it to a post, took the package and the money and went along. That's all."
"You don't know if the package was there when you went in?" he was asked.
"I dunno. I didn't look. I couldn't help but see it when I came out, so I took it."
Then the investigators sought out "the boss."
"Did the person who 'phoned give you a name?" inquired Detective Mallory.
"No, I didn't ask for one."
"Was it a man or a woman talking?"
"A man," was the unhesitating reply. "He had a deep, heavy voice."
The investigators trailed away, dismally despondent, toward No. 410 State Street. It was unoccupied; inquiry showed that it had been unoccupied for months. The Supreme Intelligence picked the lock and the investigators walked in, craning their necks. They expected, at the least, to find a thieves' rendezvous. There was nothing but dirt, and dust, and grime. Then the investigators returned to the city. They had found only that the gold plate had been returned, and they knew that when they started.
Hatch went home and sat down with his head in his hands to add up all he didn't know about the affair. It was surprising how much there was of it.
"Dick Herbert either did or didn't go to the ball," he soliloquised. "Somethinghappened to him that evening. He either did or didn't steal the gold plate, and every circumstance indicates that he did—which, of course, he didn't. Dorothy Meredith either was or was not at the ball. The maid's statement shows that she was, yet no one there recognised her—which indicates that she wasn't. She either did or didn't run away with somebody in an automobile. Anyhow, something happened toher, because she's missing. The gold plate is stolen, and the gold plate is back. I knowthat, thank Heaven! And now, knowing more about this affair than any other single individual, I don't knowanything."
Low-bent over the steering-wheel, the Burglar sent the automobile scuttling breathlessly along the flat road away from Seven Oaks. At the first shot he crouched down in the seat, dragging the Girl with him; at the second, he winced a little and clenched his teeth tightly. The car's headlights cut a dazzling pathway through the shadows, and trees flitted by as a solid wall. The shouts of pursuers were left behind, and still the Girl clung to his arm.
"Don't do that," he commanded abruptly. "You'll make me smash into something."
"Why, Dick, they shot at us!" she protested indignantly.
The Burglar glanced at her, and, when he turned his eyes to the smooth road again, there was a flicker of a smile about the set lips.
"Yes, I had some such impression myself," he acquiesced grimly.
"Why, they might have killed us!" the Girl went on.
"It is just barely possible that they had some such absurd idea when they shot," replied the Burglar. "Guess you never got caught in a pickle like this before?"
"I certainly never did!" replied the Girl emphatically.
The whir and grind of their car drowned other sounds—sounds from behind—but from time to time the Burglar looked back, and from time to time he let out a new notch in the speed-regulator. Already the pace was terrific, and the Girl bounced up and down beside him at each trivial irregularity in the road, while she clung frantically to the seat.
"Is it necessary to go so awfully fast?" she gasped at last.
The wind was beating on her face, her mask blew this way and that; the beribboned sombrero clung frantically to a fast-failing strand of ruddy hair. She clutched at the hat and saved it, but her hair tumbled down about her shoulders, a mass of gold, and floated out behind.
"Oh," she chattered, "I can't keep my hat on!"
The Burglar took another quick look behind, then his foot went out against the speed-regulator and the car fairly leaped with suddenly increased impetus. The regulator was in the last notch now, and the car was one that had raced at Ormonde Beach.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed the Girl again. "Can't you go a little slower?"
"Look behind," directed the Burglar tersely.
She glanced back and gave a little cry. Two giant eyes stared at her from a few hundred yards away as another car swooped along in pursuit, and behind this ominously glittering pair was still another.
"They're chasing us, aren't they?"
"They are," replied the Burglar grimly, "but if these tires hold, they haven't got a chance. A breakdown would——" He didn't finish the sentence. There was a sinister note in his voice, but the Girl was still looking back and did not heed it. To her excited imagination it seemed that the giant eyes behind were creeping up, and again she clutched the Burglar's arm.
"Don't do that, I say," he commanded again.
"But, Dick, they mustn't catch us—they mustn't!"
"They won't."
"But if they should——"
"They won't," he repeated.
"It would be perfectly awful!"
"Worse than that."
For a time the Girl silently watched him bending over the wheel, and a singular feeling of security came to her. Then the car swept around a bend in the road, careening perilously, and the glaring eyes were lost. She breathed more freely.
"I never knew you handled an auto so well," she said admiringly.
"I do lots of things people don't know I do," he replied. "Are those lights still there?"
"No, thank goodness!"
The Burglar touched a lever with his left hand and the whir of the machine became less pronounced. After a moment it began to slow down. The Girl noticed it and looked at him with new apprehension.
"Oh, we're stopping!" she exclaimed.
"I know it."
They ran on for a few hundred feet; then the Burglar set the brake and, after a deal of jolting, the car stopped. He leaped out and ran around behind. As the Girl watched him uneasily there came a sudden crash and the auto trembled a little.
"What is it?" she asked quickly.
"I smashed that tail lamp," he answered. "They can see it, and it's too easy for them to follow."
He stamped on the shattered fragments in the road, then came around to the side to climb in again, extending his left hand to the Girl.
"Quick, give me your hand," he requested.
She did so wonderingly and he pulled himself into the seat beside her with a perceptible effort. The car shivered, then started on again, slowly at first, but gathering speed each moment. The Girl was staring at her companion curiously, anxiously.
"Are you hurt?" she asked at last.
He did not answer at the moment, not until the car had regained its former speed and was hurtling headlong through the night.
"My right arm's out of business," he explained briefly, then: "I got that second bullet in the shoulder."
"Oh, Dick, Dick," she exclaimed, "and you hadn't said anything about it! You need assistance!"
A sudden rush of sympathy caused her to lay her hands again on his left arm. He shook them off roughly with something like anger in his manner.
"Don't do that!" he commanded for the third time. "You'll make me smash hell out of this car."
Startled by the violence of his tone, she recoiled dumbly, and the car swept on. As before, the Burglar looked back from time to time, but the lights did not reappear. For a long time the Girl was silent and finally he glanced at her.
"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I didn't mean to speak so sharply, but—but it's true."
"It's really of no consequence," she replied coldly. "I am sorry—very sorry."
"Thank you," he replied.
"Perhaps it might be as well for you to stop the car and let me out," she went on after a moment.
The Burglar either didn't hear or wouldn't heed. The dim lights of a small village rose up before them, then faded away again; a dog barked lonesomely beside the road. The streaming lights of their car revealed a tangle of crossroads just ahead, offering a definite method of shaking off pursuit. Their car swerved widely, and the Burglar's attention was centred on the road ahead.
"Does your arm pain you?" asked the Girl at last timidly.
"No," he replied shortly. "It's a sort of numbness. I'm afraid I'm losing blood, though."
"Hadn't we better go back to the village and see a doctor?"
"Notthisevening," he responded promptly in a tone which she did not understand. "I'll stop somewhere soon and bind it up."
At last, when the village was well behind, the car came to a dark little road which wandered off aimlessly through a wood, and the Burglar slowed down to turn into it. Once in the shelter of the overhanging branches they proceeded slowly for a hundred yards or more, finally coming to a standstill.
"We must do it here," he declared.
He leaped from the car, stumbled and fell. In an instant the Girl was beside him. The reflected light from the auto showed her dimly that he was trying to rise, showed her the pallor of his face where the chin below the mask was visible.
"I'm afraid it's pretty bad," he said weakly. Then he fainted.
The Girl, stooping, raised his head to her lap and pressed her lips to his feverishly, time after time.
"Dick, Dick!" she sobbed, and tears fell upon the Burglar's sinister mask.
When the Burglar awoke to consciousness he was as near heaven as any mere man ever dares expect to be. He was comfortable—quite comfortable—wrapped in a delicious, languorous lassitude which forbade him opening his eyes to realisation. A woman's hand lay on his forehead, caressingly, and dimly he knew that another hand cuddled cosily in one of his own. He lay still, trying to remember, before he opened his eyes. Someone beside him breathed softly, and he listened, as if to music.
Gradually the need of action—just what action and to what purpose did not occur to him—impressed itself on his mind. He raised the disengaged hand to his face and touched the mask, which had been pushed back on his forehead. Then he recalled the ball, the shot, the chase, the hiding in the woods. He opened his eyes with a start. Utter darkness lay about him—for a moment he was not certain whether it was the darkness of blindness or of night.
"Dick, are you awake?" asked the Girl softly.
He knew the voice and was content.
"Yes," he answered languidly.
He closed his eyes again and some strange, subtle perfume seemed to envelop him. He waited. Warm lips were pressed to his own, thrilling him strangely, and the Girl rested a soft cheek against his.
"We have been very foolish, Dick," she said, sweetly chiding, after a moment. "It was all my fault for letting you expose yourself to danger, but I didn't dream of such a thing as this happening. I shall never forgive myself, because——"
"But——" he began protestingly.
"Not another word about it now," she hurried on. "We must go very soon. How do you feel?"
"I'm all right, or will be in a minute," he responded, and he made as if to rise. "Where is the car?"
"Right here. I extinguished the lights and managed to stop the engine for fear those horrid people who were after us might notice."
"Good girl!"
"When you jumped out and fainted I jumped out, too. I'm afraid I was not very clever, but I managed to bind your arm. I took my handkerchief and pressed it against the wound after ripping your coat, then I bound it there. It stopped the flow of blood, but, Dick, dear, you must have medical attention just as soon as possible."
The Burglar moved his shoulder a little and winced.
"Just as soon as I did that," the Girl went on, "I made you comfortable here on a cushion from the car."
"Good girl!" he said again.
"Then I sat down to wait until you got better. I had no stimulant or anything, and I didn't dare to leave you, so—so I just waited," she ended with a weary little sigh.
"How long was I knocked out?" he queried.
"I don't know; half an hour, perhaps."
"The bag is all right, I suppose?"
"The bag?"
"The bag with the stuff—the one I threw in the car when we started?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose so! Really, I hadn't thought of it."
"Hadn't thought of it?" repeated the Burglar, and there was a trace of astonishment in his voice. "By George, you're a wonder!" he added.
He started to get on his feet, then dropped back weakly.
"Say, girlie," he requested, "see if you can find the bag in the car there and hand it out. Let's take a look."
"Where is it?"
"Somewhere in front. I felt it at my feet when I jumped out."
There was a rustle of skirts in the darkness, and after a moment a faint muffled clank as of one heavy metal striking dully against another.
"Goodness!" exclaimed the Girl. "It's heavy enough. What's in it?"
"What's in it?" repeated the Burglar, and he chuckled. "A fortune, nearly. It's worth being punctured for. Let me see."
In the darkness he took the bag from her hands and fumbled with it a moment. She heard the metallic sound again and then several heavy objects were poured out on the ground.
"A good fourteen pounds of pure gold," commented the Burglar. "By George, I haven't but one match, but we'll see what it's like."
The match was struck, sputtered for a moment, then flamed up, and the Girl, standing, looked down upon the Burglar on his knees beside a heap of gold plate. She stared at the glittering mass as if fascinated, and her eyes opened wide.
"Why, Dick, what is that?" she asked.
"It's Randolph's plate," responded the Burglar complacently. "I don't know how much it's worth, but it must be several thousands, on dead weight."
"What are you doing with it?"
"What am I doing with it?" repeated the Burglar. He was about to look up when the match burned his finger and he dropped it. "That's a silly question."
"But how came it in your possession?" the Girl insisted.
"I acquired it by the simple act of—of dropping it into a bag and bringing it along. That and you in the same evening——" He stretched out a hand toward her, but she was not there. He chuckled a little as he turned and picked up eleven plates, one by one, and replaced them in the bag.
"Nine—ten—eleven," he counted. "What luck didyouhave?"
"Dick Herbert, explain to me, please, what you are doing with that gold plate?" There was an imperative command in the voice.
The Burglar paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Oh, I'm taking it to have it fixed!" he responded lightly.
"Fixed? Taking it this way at this time of the night?"
"'It must be several thousands, on dead weight'""'It must be several thousands, on dead weight'"
"Sure," and he laughed pleasantly.
"You mean you—you—youstoleit?" The words came with an effort.
"Well, I'd hardly call it that," remarked the Burglar. "That's a harsh word. Still, it's in my possession; it wasn't given to me, and I didn't buy it. You may draw your own conclusions."
The bag lay beside him and his left hand caressed it idly, lovingly. For a long time there was silence.
"What luck didyouhave?" he asked again.
There was a startled gasp, a gurgle and accusing indignation in the Girl's low, tense voice.
"You—youstoleit!"
"Well, if you prefer it that way—yes."
The Burglar was staring steadily into the darkness toward that point whence came the voice, but the night was so dense that not a trace of the Girl was visible. He laughed again.
"It seems to me it was lucky I decided to take it at just this time and in these circumstances," he went on tauntingly—"lucky for you, I mean. If I hadn't been there you would have been caught."
Again came the startled gasp.
"What's the matter?" demanded the Burglar sharply, after another silence. "Why don't you say something?"
He was still peering unseeingly into the darkness. The bag of gold plate moved slightly under his hand. He opened his fingers to close them more tightly. It was a mistake. The bag was drawn away; his hand grasped—air.
"Stop that game now!" he commanded angrily. "Where are you?"
He struggled to his feet. His answer was the crackling of a twig to his right. He started in that direction and brought up with a bump against the automobile. He turned, still groping blindly, and embraced a tree with undignified fervour. To his left he heard another slight noise and ran that way. Again he struck an obstacle. Then he began to say things, expressive things, burning things from the depths of an impassioned soul. The treasure had gone—disappeared into the shadows. The Girl was gone. He called, there was no answer. He drew his revolver fiercely, then reconsidered and flung it down angrily.
"And I thoughtIhad nerve!" he declared. It was a compliment.
Extravagantly brilliant the sun popped up out of the east—not an unusual occurrence—and stared unblinkingly down upon a country road. There were the usual twittering birds and dew-spangled trees and nodding wild-flowers; also a dust that was shoe-top deep. The dawny air stirred lazily and rustling leaves sent long, sinuous shadows scampering back and forth.
Looking upon it all without enthusiasm or poetic exaltation was a Girl—a pretty Girl—a very pretty Girl. She sat on a stone beside the yellow roadway, a picture of weariness. A rough burlap sack, laden heavily, yet economically as to space, wallowed in the dust beside her. Her hair was tawny gold, and rebellious strands drooped listlessly about her face. A beribboned sombrero lay in her lap, supplementing a certain air of dilapidated bravado, due in part to a short skirt, heavy gloves and boots, a belt with a knife and revolver.
A robin, perched impertinently on a stump across the road, examined her at his leisure. She stared back at Signor Redbreast, and for this recognition he warbled a little song.
"I've a good mind to cry!" exclaimed the Girl suddenly.
Shamed and startled, the robin flew away. A mistiness came into the Girl's blue eyes and lingered there a moment, then her white teeth closed tightly and the glimmer of outraged emotion passed.
"Oh," she sighed again, "I'm so tired and hungry and I just know I'll never get anywhere at all!"
But despite the expressed conviction she arose and straightened up as if to resume her journey, turning to stare down at the bag. It was an unsightly symbol of blasted hopes, man's perfidy, crushed aspirations and—Heaven only knows what besides.
"I've a good mind to leave you right there," she remarked to the bag spitefully. "Perhaps I might hide it." She considered the question. "No, that wouldn't do. I must take it with me—and—and—Oh, Dick! Dick! What in the world was the matter with you, anyway?"
Then she sat down again and wept. The robin crept back to look and modestly hid behind a leaf. From this coign of vantage he watched her as she again arose and plodded off through the dust with the bag swinging over one shoulder. At last—there is an at last to everything—a small house appeared from behind a clump of trees. The Girl looked with incredulous eyes. It was really a house. Really! A tiny curl of smoke hovered over the chimney.
"Well, thank goodness, I'm somewhere, anyhow," she declared with her first show of enthusiasm. "I can get a cup of coffee or something."
She covered the next fifty yards with a new spring in her leaden heels and with a new and firmer grip on the precious bag. Then—she stopped.
"Gracious!" and perplexed lines suddenly wrinkled her brow. "If I should go in there with a pistol and a knife they'd think I was a brigand—or—or a thief, and I suppose I am," she added as she stopped and rested the bag on the ground. "At least I have stolen goods in my possession. Now, what shall I say if they ask questions? What am I? They wouldn't believe me if I told them really. Short skirt, boots and gloves: I know! I'm a bicyclist. My wheel broke down, and——"
Whereupon she gingerly removed the revolver from her belt and flung it into the underbrush—not at all in the direction she had intended—and the knife followed to keep it company. Having relieved herself of these sinister things, she straightened her hat, pushed back the rebellious hair, yanked at her skirt, and walked bravely up to the little house.
An Angel lived there—an Angel in a dizzily beflowered wrapper and a crabbed exterior. She listened to a rapidly constructed and wholly inconsistent story of a bicycle accident, which ended with a plea for a cup of coffee. Silently she proceeded to prepare it. After the pot was bubbling cheerfully and eggs had been put on and biscuits thrust into a stove to be warmed over, the Angel sat down at the table opposite the Girl.
"Book agent?" she asked.
"Oh, no!" replied the Girl.
"Sewing-machines?"
"No."
There was a pause as the Angel settled and poured a cup of coffee.
"Make to order, I s'pose?"
"No," the Girl replied uncertainly.
"Whatdoyou sell?"
"Nothing, I—I——" She stopped.
"What you got in the bag?" the Angel persisted.
"Some—some—just some—stuff," stammered the Girl, and her face suddenly flushed crimson.
"What kind of stuff?"
The Girl looked into the frankly inquisitive eyes and was overwhelmed by a sense of her own helplessness. Tears started, and one pearly drop ran down her perfect nose and splashed in the coffee. That was the last straw. She leaned forward suddenly with her head on her arms and wept.
"Please, please don't ask questions!" she pleaded. "I'm a poor, foolish, helpless, misguided, disillusioned woman!"
"Yes'm," said the Angel. She took up the eggs, then came over and put a kindly arm about the Girl's shoulders. "There, there!" she said soothingly. "Don't take on like that! Drink some coffee, and eat a bite, and you'll feel better!"
"I have had no sleep at all and no food since yesterday, and I've walked miles and miles and miles," the Girl rushed on feverishly. "It's all because—because——" She stopped suddenly.
"Eat something," commanded the Angel.
The Girl obeyed. The coffee was weak and muddy and delightful; the biscuits were yellow and lumpy and delicious; the eggs were eggs. The Angel sat opposite and watched the Girl as she ate.
"Husband beat you?" she demanded suddenly.
The Girl blushed and choked.
"No," she hastened to say. "I have no husband."
"Well, there ain't no serious trouble in this world till you marry a man that beats you," said the Angel judicially. It was the final word.
The Girl didn't answer, and, in view of the fact that she had sufficient data at hand to argue the point, this repression required heroism. Perhaps she will never get credit for it. She finished the breakfast in silence and leaned back with some measure of returning content in her soul.
"In a hurry?" asked the Angel.
"No, I have no place to go. What is the nearest village or town?"
"Watertown, but you'd better stay and rest a while. You look all tuckered out."
"Oh, thank you so much," said the Girl gratefully. "But it would be so much trouble for——"
The Angel picked up the burlap bag, shook it inquiringly, then started toward the short stairs leading up.
"Please, please!" exclaimed the Girl suddenly. "I—I—let me have that, please!"
The Angel relinquished the bag without a word. The Girl took it, tremblingly, then, suddenly dropping it, clasped the Angel in her arms and placed upon her unresponsive lips a kiss for which a mere man would have endangered his immortal soul. The Angel wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and went on up the stairs with the Girl following.
For a time the Girl lay, with wet eyes, on a clean little bed, thinking. Humiliation, exhaustion, man's perfidy, disillusionment, and the kindness of an utter stranger all occupied her until she fell asleep. Then she was chased by a policeman with automobile lights for eyes, and there was a parade of hard-boiled eggs and yellow, lumpy biscuits.
When she awoke the room was quite dark. She sat up a little bewildered at first; then she remembered. After a moment she heard the voice of the Angel, below. It rippled on querulously; then she heard the gruff voice of a man.
"Diamond rings?"
The Girl sat up in bed and listened intently. Involuntarily her hands were clasped together. Her rings were still safe. The Angel's voice went on for a moment again.
"Something in a bag?" inquired the man.
Again the Angel spoke.
Terror seized upon the Girl; imagination ran riot, and she rose from the bed, trembling. She groped about the dark room noiselessly. Every shadow lent her new fears. Then from below came the sound of heavy footsteps. She listened fearfully. They came on toward the stairs, then paused. A match was struck and the step sounded on the stairs.
After a moment there was a knock at the door, a pause, then another knock. Finally the door was pushed open and a huge figure—the figure of a man—appeared, sheltering a candle with one hand. He peered about the room as if perplexed.
"Ain't nobody up here," he called gruffly down the stairs.
There was a sound of hurrying feet and the Angel entered, her face distorted by the flickering candlelight.
"For the land's sakes!" she exclaimed.
"Went away without even saying thank you," grumbled the man. He crossed the room and closed a window. "You ain't got no better sense than a chicken," he told the Angel. "Take in anybody that comes."
If Willie's little brother hadn't had a pain in his tummy this story might have gone by other and devious ways to a different conclusion. But fortunately he did have, so it happened that at precisely 8.47 o'clock of a warm evening Willie was racing madly along a side street of Watertown, drug-store-bound, when he came face to face with a Girl—a pretty Girl—a very pretty Girl. She was carrying a bag that clanked a little at each step.
"Oh, little boy!" she called.
"Hunh?" and Willie stopped so suddenly that he endangered his equilibrium, although that isn't how he would have said it.
"Nice little boy," said the Girl soothingly, and she patted his tousled head while he gnawed a thumb in pained embarrassment. "I'm very tired. I have been walking a great distance. Could you tell me, please, where a lady, unattended, might get a night's lodging somewhere near here?"
"Hunh?" gurgled Willie through the thumb.
Wearily the Girl repeated it all and at its end Willie giggled. It was the most exasperating incident of a long series of exasperating incidents, and the Girl's grip on the bag tightened a little. Willie never knew how nearly he came to being hammered to death with fourteen pounds of solid gold.
"Well?" inquired the Girl at last.
"Dunno," said Willie. "Jimmy's got the stomach-ache," he added irrelevantly.
"Can't you think of a hotel or boarding-house near by?" the Girl insisted.
"Dunno," replied Willie. "I'm going to the drug store for a pair o' gorrick."
The Girl bit her lip, and that act probably saved Willie from the dire consequences of his unconscious levity, for after a moment the Girl laughed aloud.
"Where is the drug store?" she asked.
"'Round the corner. I'm going."
"I'll go along, too, if you don't mind," the Girl said, and she turned and walked beside him. Perhaps the drug clerk would be able to illuminate the situation.
"I swallyed a penny oncst," Willie confided suddenly.
"Too bad!" commented the Girl.
"Unh unnh," Willie denied emphatically. "'Cause when I cried, Paw gimme a quarter." He was silent a moment, then: "If I'd 'a' swallyed that, I reckin he'd gimme a dollar. Gee!"
This is the optimism that makes the world go round. The philosophy took possession of the Girl and cheered her. When she entered the drug store she walked with a lighter step and there was a trace of a smile about her pretty mouth. A clerk, the only attendant, came forward.
"I want a pair o' gorrick," Willie announced.
The Girl smiled, and the clerk, paying no attention to the boy, went toward her.
"Better attend to him first," she suggested. "It seems urgent."
The clerk turned to Willie.
"Paregoric?" he inquired. "How much?"
"About a quart, I reckin," replied the boy. "Is that enough?"
"Quite enough," commented the clerk. He disappeared behind the prescription screen and returned after a moment with a small phial. The boy took it, handed over a coin, and went out, whistling. The Girl looked after him with a little longing in her eyes.
"Now, madam?" inquired the clerk suavely.
"I only want some information," she replied. "I was out on my bicycle"—she gulped a little—"when it broke down, and I'll have to remain here in town over night, I'm afraid. Can you direct me to a quiet hotel or boarding-house where I might stay?"
"Certainly," replied the clerk briskly. "The Stratford, just a block up this street. Explain the circumstances, and it will be all right, I'm sure."
The Girl smiled at him again and cheerfully went her way. That small boy had been a leaven to her drooping spirits. She found the Stratford without difficulty and told the usual bicycle lie, with a natural growth of detail and a burning sense of shame. She registered as Elizabeth Carlton and was shown to a modest little room.
Her first act was to hide the gold plate in the closet; her second was to take it out and hide it under the bed. Then she sat down on a couch to think. For an hour or more she considered the situation in all its hideous details, planning her desolate future—women like to plan desolate futures—then her eye chanced to fall upon an afternoon paper, which, with glaring headlines, announced the theft of the Randolph gold plate. She read it. It told, with startling detail, things that had and had not happened in connection therewith.
This comprehended in all its horror, she promptly arose and hid the bag between the mattress and the springs. Soon after she extinguished the light and retired with little shivers running up and down all over her. She snuggled her head down under the cover. She didn't sleep much—she was still thinking—but when she arose next morning her mind was made up.
First she placed the eleven gold plates in a heavy card-board box, then she bound it securely with brown paper and twine and addressed it: "Stuyvesant Randolph, Seven Oaks, via Merton." She had sent express packages before and knew how to proceed, therefore when the necessity of writing a name in the upper left-hand corner appeared—the sender—she wrote in a bold, desperate hand: "John Smith, Watertown."
When this was all done to her satisfaction, she tucked the package under one arm, tried to look as if it weren't heavy, and sauntered downstairs with outward self-possession and inward apprehension. She faced the clerk cordially, while a singularly distracting smile curled her lips.
"My bill, please?" she asked.
"Two dollars, madam," he responded gallantly.