CHAPTER VIII

“My dear boy, I intend to tell you all that I know and can verify.” The silky smoothness of the magnate’s tones had deepened in spite of himself, with a steely undernote.

“I don’t know when the project which spelled his ruin was first conceived by Mr. Lawton, but I believe that he started to put it into active operation over three years ago. He went into it with his usual cold nerve, and then, when the pendulum did not swing his way he kept heaping more and more of his securities on the pyre of his ambition and pride in himself, until he was forced to obtain large loans. That he did seek and obtain such loans I can prove to you at the present moment, in one instance at least, for it was through me the affair was negotiated. I think he fully realized his enormous error, but refused to admit it even to himself, and strove by sheer force of will-power to carry a hopeless scheme to success.”

“Sought loans! He––Pennington Lawton required loans and obtained them through you?” Ramon almost started from his chair. “Mr. Mallowe, you will forgive me, but I can scarcely credit it. I know, of course, that financiers, even those who conduct their operations on a far lesser scale than Mr. Lawton, frequently seek loans, but your manner and your speech just now led me to believe that you had some other motive in doing what you did for Mr. Lawton. From what you have told me I gather that it was owing more to your friendship for him, than to your financial relations, that he called upon you at that time.”

“And it was to my friendship at that time that he appealed, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Appealed? I cannot imagine Pennington Lawton appealing to any man. Why should he appeal to you?”

“Because, my dear boy, he was in a mighty bad fix when he had need to call upon me. Oh, by the way, I have the letter here in my safe––I found it only the other day.”

“The letter? What letter?”

“The letter Mr. Lawton wrote me from Long Bay asking me to get Mr. Moore’s help in the matter––here it is.”

Mallowe went to his safe, and opening it, withdrew from an inner drawer a paper which he presented to the young lawyer. After a cursory examination Ramon placed it upon the desk before him, and turning to Mr. Mallowe said:

“I am awfully sorry to have annoyed you with this matter, but you understand exactly how Miss Lawton and I feel about it––”

“Of course, Mr. Hamilton, I realize the situation fully. I am glad to have had this opportunity to explain to you how the matter stood as far as I personally was concerned. You know I will do anything that I can for Miss Lawton and I trust that you will call upon me.”

He rose with ponderous significance as if to state tacitly that the interview was at an end, but the younger man did not stir from his chair.

“This letter came to you––when did you say, Mr. Mallowe?”

“When Pennington Lawton and his daughter were at The Breakers at Long Bay, about two years ago last August, as nearly as I can remember.”

“If you still had the envelope, we could obtain the exact date from the postmark,” Ramon suggested significantly. “The letter I see is only headed ‘Saturday.’”

“Yes, it is unfortunate that I did not keep it,” the magnate retorted a little drily. “It was by the merest, most fortunate chance that the letter itself came to light. However, I cannot see at this late date what difference it could possibly make when the letter was mailed, since it establishes beyond any possibility of doubt the fact that itwasmailed. As to the matter of the negotiation of the loan, I would prefer that you apply to Mr. Moore himself for the particulars concerning it. I am sure that he will be quite as glad as I have been to give you such definite information as he possesses.”

This time the dismissal could not be ignored, and Ramon Hamilton took his departure, but not before he had marked well the particular drawer within the safe from which the letter had been taken.

As he went down the corridor, a saucy, red-cheeked young woman with business briskness in her manner came from an inner office and smiled boldly at him. She was Loretta Murfree, the new filing clerk who had been installed only that morning in Mr. Mallowe’s office.

Had Ramon known her to be the protégée of Anita Lawton and the spy of Henry Blaine, he might have glanced at her a second time.

The young man proceeded straight to the offices of Charlton Moore, the banker, and found that an interview was readily granted him. Mr. Moore remembered the incident of the loan, and his private accounts showed that it had been made on the sixteenth of August two years previously.

“Mr. Mallowe arranged the matter with you for Mr. Lawton, did he not?” Ramon asked.

“Yes, it was a purely confidential affair. Mr. Carlis came with him to interview me. They did not at first tell me that Mr. Lawton positively desired the loan,89but they made tentative arrangements asking if I would be in a position to give it to him should he desire it, and they said they came to me at this early date desiring to make no definite statement. Mr. Lawton had told them that once before I had accommodated him by carrying a note confidentially at his request. Of course I did not care to commit myself, as you can readily understand, Mr. Hamilton, until I was assured the proposition was bona fide.

“Mr. Mallowe and Mr. Carlis suggested that I call Mr. Lawton up on the private wire in his office, but the matter was so delicate that as long as he had not come to me in person I did not care to telephone him. Mr. Mallowe showed me a letter which he had recently received from Pennington Lawton corroborating his statement. But in the matter of the amount desired we could not definitely distinguish the figures. Mr. Mallowe was sure that it was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Mr. Carlis was equally certain that it was three hundred and eighty-five thousand. To make certain of the matter they called Mr. Lawton up from my office here in my presence, and he stated that the sum desired was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. There was only one odd thing about the entire transaction, and that was a remark Mr. Mallowe made as he was leaving. After the negotiations had been completed he turned and said, ‘You understand, Mr. Moore, that Mr. Lawton is so careful, so secretive, that he does not wish this matter ever mentioned to him personally, even if you think yourself absolutely alone with him.’”

“Mr. Lawton was a very peculiar man in many ways,” Ramon said meditatively. “His methods of conducting his affairs were not always easily understood. The negotiations were then completed shortly thereafter?”

“Yes, within a few days. I turned the amount required over to Mr. Mallowe and Mr. Carlis, and accepted Mr. Lawton’s note. I will show it to you if you care to see it.”

“That will not be necessary, Mr. Moore, but I am going to make a request that may seem very strange to you. Should it be necessary, would you be willing to show that note to some one whom I may bring here to you––some one who may prefer not to see you personally, but merely to be permitted to examine the note in the presence of some responsible people of your own choosing?”

“Certainly, Mr. Hamilton. I think I can safely promise that. But what does it mean––is there anything wrong with Pennington Lawton’s note?”

“Not that I am aware of, Mr. Moore,” Ramon answered, laughing rather shortly. “I am unable to explain just now, but I think the name of Pennington Lawton carries with it a sufficient guarantee that the note will be honored when it is presented.”

An hour later, at the close of the busiest day he had experienced since his graduation from the law school, young Hamilton presented himself at Henry Blaine’s office. The detective listened in silence to his story, and at its conclusion remarked quietly: “You did well, Mr. Hamilton. I am going to call one of my operatives and ask you to repeat to him in detail the location of that safe in Mallowe’s office and the drawer which contains Mr. Lawton’s letter from Long Bay.”

“Anyone would think you meant to steal it, Mr. Blaine.”

Young Hamilton’s laugh was now unrestrained. “There couldn’t possibly be anything wrong with the note or the entire transaction. Mr. Moore proved that91when he told me how Mr. Mallowe and Carlis called up Mr. Lawton in his presence on his private wire and discussed the negotiations.”

“Are you sure that they did, Mr. Hamilton?” The detective suddenly leaned forward across his desk, his body tense, his eyes alight with fervid animation. “Are you sure Pennington Lawton ever received that message?”

“He must have. According to Mr. Moore, the two men used Mr. Lawton’s private wire, the number of which was known only to a few of his closest intimates and which of course was not listed.”

“But some one who knew that the telephone message was coming might readily have been in Lawton’s office seated at his desk, alone, and replied to it in the financier’s name. Do you understand, Mr. Hamilton? The note may be a forgery, the letter may be a forgery; that we shall soon know. If it is, and the money so obtained from Moore has been converted to the use of the three confederates whom we suspect to have formed a conspiracy to ruin Miss Lawton, then her father’s entire fortune might have been seized upon in virtually the same way.”

Henry Blaine rose and paced back and forth as if almost oblivious of the other’s presence. “The mortgage of his was forged––we have proved that,” he continued. “Why, then, should not every other available security have been stolen in practically the same way?” he continued.

“But how would anyone dare? The whole thing is too bare-faced,” Ramon expostulated. “A man like Mr. Moore could not have been imposed upon by a mere forgery.”

“But if that note proves to be a forgery, Mr. Hamilton,92and the letter as well––we shall have picked up a tangible clue at last. I think I am beginning to see daylight.”

Late that night in the huge suite of offices of President Mallowe of the Street Railways, a very curious scene took place. The stolid watchman who had been on uneventful duty there for twenty years had made his rounds for the last time. With superb nonchalance, he settled himself for his accustomed nap in his employer’s chair. From the stillness and gloom of the semi-deserted office-building two stealthy figures descended swiftly upon him, their feet sinking noiselessly into the rich pile of the rugs. A short, silent struggle, a cloth saturated with chloroform pressed heavily over his face, and the guardian of the premises lay inert. The shorter, more stocky of the two nocturnal visitors, without more ado switched on a pocket electric light and made a hasty but thorough survey of the room. The taller one shrank back inadvertently from the drug-stilled body in the chair, then resolutely turned and knelt beside his companion before the safe. He dreaded to think of what discovery might mean. If he, Ramon Hamilton, were to be caught in the act of burglarizing, his career as a rising young lawyer would be at an end. The risk indeed was great, but he had promised Henry Blaine every aid in his power to help the girl he loved.

After a minute examination, the operative proceeded to work upon the massive safe door. With the cunning of aJimmy Valentinehe manipulated the tumblers. Ramon Hamilton, his discomfiture forgotten, watched with breathless interest while the keen, sensitive fingers performed their task. Soon the great doors swung noiselessly back and the manifold compartments within were revealed.

The young lawyer pointed out the drawer from which he had seen President Mallowe remove the letter that morning, and it, too, yielded quickly to the master-touch of the expert. There, on the very top of a pile of papers, lay the written page they sought.

“He’ll be all right. We haven’t done for him, have we?” Ramon Hamilton whispered anxiously, pointing to the watchman’s unconscious form, as, their mission accomplished, they stole from the room.

“Surest thing you know. He’ll come to in half an hour, none the worse,” the operative responded. “We made a good clean job of it.”

Henry Blaine could hardly suppress his elation when they laid the letter before him on their return to his office.

“It’s a forgery, just as I suspected,” he exclaimed, with supreme satisfaction. “Look, Hamilton; I’ll show you how it was done.”

“It is incredible. I can scarcely believe it. I know Pennington Lawton’s handwriting as well as I know my own, and I could swear that his fingers guided the pen. His writing was as distinctive as his character.”

“It’s that very fact,” the detective returned, “which would have made it easier to copy; but, as it happens, you are partially right. This was not a forgery in the ordinary sense. Those are Pennington Lawton’s own words before you, in his own handwriting.”

“Then how––” the young lawyer inquired, in a bewildered tone.

Henry Blaine smiled.

“You do not intend to specialize in criminal law, do you, Mr. Hamilton?” he remarked whimsically. “If you do, you will have to be up in the latest tricks of the trade. The man who forged this letter––the same man,94by the way, forged the signature on that mortgage––accomplished it like this: He took a bundle of Mr. Lawton’s old letters, cut out the actual words he desired, and pasted ’em in their proper order on the letter paper. Then he photographed this composite, and electrotyped it––that is, transferred it to a copperplate, and etched it. Then he re-photographed it, and in this way got an actual photograph of a supposedly authentic communication. There is only one man in this country who is capable of such perfect work. I know who that man is and where to find him.”

“Then if you can locate him before he skips, and make him talk, you will have won the victory,” Ramon exclaimed, jubilantly.

But the detective shook his head.

“The time is not yet ripe for that. The man is, in my estimation, a mere tool in the hands of the men higher up. He may not be able to give us any actual proof against them, and our exposure of him will only tip them off––put ’em on their guard. We needn’t show our hand just yet.”

“What’s the next move to be, then?” the young lawyer asked. “I don’t mean, of course, that I wish to inquire into your methods of handling the case––but have you any further commissions for me?”

“Only to accompany me to-morrow morning to the office of Charlton Moore and let me examine that note which Mr. Lawton presumably gave two years ago. Afterward, I have four little amateur detectives of mine to interview––then I think we’ll be able to proceed straight to our goal.”

The note also, as Henry Blaine had predicted, proved to be a forgery and to have been executed by the same hand as the letter.

With the cunning of a Jimmy Valentine he manipulated the tumblers. Ramon Hamilton, his discomfiture forgotten, watched with breathless interest.

The detective betrayed to the unsuspecting banker no sign of his elation at the discovery, but following their interview he returned to his office and sent for the four young girls whom he had taken from the Anita Lawton Club and installed in the offices of the men he suspected.

The first to respond was Margaret Hefferman, who had been sent as stenographer to Rockamore, the promoter.

“You followed my instructions, Miss Hefferman,” asked Blaine. “You kept a list for me of Mr. Rockamore’s visitors?”

“Yes, sir. I have it here in my bag. I also brought carbon copies of two letters which Mr. Rockamore dictated and which I thought might have some bearing on the matter in which you are interested––although I could not quite understand them myself.”

“Let me see them, please.”

Blaine took the documents and list of names, scanning them quickly and sharply with a practised eye. The names were those of the biggest men in the city––bankers, brokers, financiers and promoters. Among them, that of President Mallowe and Timothy Carlis appeared frequently. At only one did Henry Blaine pause––at that of Mark Paddington. He had known the man as an employee of a somewhat shady private detective agency several years before and had heard that he had later been connected in some capacity with the city police, but had never come into actual contact with him.

What business could a detective of his caliber have to do with Bertrand Rockamore?

The letters were short and cryptic in their meaning, and significant only when connected with those to whom96they were addressed. The first was to Timothy Carlis; it read:

Your communication received. We must proceed with the utmost care in this matter. Keep me advised of any further contingencies which may arise. P. should know or be able to find out. The affair is to his interests as much as ours.B. R.

B. R.

The second was addressed to Paddington:

Have learned from C. that your assistants are under espionage. What does it mean? Learn all particulars at once and advise.R.

Have learned from C. that your assistants are under espionage. What does it mean? Learn all particulars at once and advise.

“You have done well, Miss Hefferman,” said Blaine as he looked up from the last of the letters. “I will keep these carbon copies and the list. Let me know how often Mr. Mallowe and Timothy Carlis call, and try particularly to overhear as much as possible of the man Paddington’s conversation when he appears.”

When the young stenographer had departed, FifineDéchausséeappeared. She was the governess who had been sent to the home of Doctor Franklin, ostensibly to care for his children, but in reality to find, if possible, what connection existed between Carlis, Mallowe, Rockamore and himself. The young Frenchwoman’s report was disappointingly lacking in any definite result––save one fact. The man Paddington had called twice upon the minister, remaining the second time closeted with him in his study for more than an hour. Later, he had intercepted her when she was out with the children in the park; but she had eluded his attentions.

“I wish you hadn’t done so. If he makes any further attempt to talk with you, MademoiselleDéchaussée, encourage him, draw him out. If he tries to question you about yourself and where you came from, don’t mention97the Anita Lawton Club, but remember his questions carefully and come and tell me.”

“Certainly, m’sieur, I shall remember.”

Agnes Olson and Laurette Murfree, the switchboard operator to Carlis and filing clerk to Mallowe, respectively, added practically the same information as had the two preceding girls. Mark Paddington, the detective, had been in frequent communication with each of their employers. When the young women had concluded their reports and gone, Blaine telephoned at once to Guy Morrow, his right-hand operative, and instructed him to watch for Paddington’s appearance in the neighborhood of the little house in the Bronx, where they had located Brunell, the one-time forger.

98CHAPTER VIIIGUY MORROW FACES A PROBLEM

Morrow,meanwhile, had slowly become aware that he had a problem of his own to face, the biggest of his life. Should he go on with his work? In the event that James Brunell proved, indeed, to be guilty of the forgeries of which he was suspected by the Master Mind, it would mean that he, Morrow, would have betrayed the father of the girl he felt himself beginning to care for. Dared he face such a tremendous issue?

His acquaintance with Emily Brunell had progressed rapidly in the few days since his subterfuge had permitted him to speak to her. He had met her father and found himself liking the tall, silent man who went about the simple affairs of his life with such compelling dignity and courteous aloofness. Brunell had even invited him to his little shop and shown him with unsuspecting enthusiasm his process for making the maps which were sold to the public schools.

Morrow had seen no evidence of anything wrong, either in the little shop or the home life of the father and daughter; nor had he observed Paddington––who was well known to him––in the neighborhood.

Even in these few mornings it had become a habit with him to watch for Emily and walk with her to her subway station, and as frequently as he dared, he would await her arrival in the evening. After his last telephone conversation with Blaine, he called upon the two in the99little house across the way, determined to find out, if possible, if the man Paddington had come into their lives. He felt instinctively that James Brunell would prove a difficult subject to cross-examine. The man seemed to be complete master of himself, and were he guilty, could never be led into an admission, unless some influence more powerful than force could be brought to bear upon him.

But the girl, with her clear eyes and unsuspecting, inexperienced mind, could easily be led to disclose whatever knowledge she possessed, particularly if her interest or affections were aroused. It seemed cowardly, in view of his newly awakened feelings toward her, but he had committed far more unscrupulous acts without a qualm, in the course of his professional work.

Brunell was out when he called, but Emily led him into the little sitting-room, and for a time they talked in a desultory fashion. Morrow, who had brought so many malefactors to justice by the winning snare of his personality, felt for once at a loss as to how to commence his questioning.

But the girl herself, guilelessly, gave him a lead by beginning, quite of her own accord, to talk of her early life.

“It seems so strange,” she remarked, confidingly, “to have been so completely alone all of my life––except for Daddy, of course.”

“You have no brothers or sisters, Miss Brunell?” asked the detective.

“None––and I never knew my mother. She died when I was born.”

Morrow sighed, and involuntarily his hand reached forward in an expression of complete sympathy.

“Daddy has been mother and father to me,” the girl100went on impulsively. “We have always lived in this neighborhood, ever since I can remember, and of course we know everyone around here. But with my downtown position and Father’s work in the shop, we’ve had no time to make real friends and we haven’t even cared to––before.”

“Before when?” he asked with a kindly intonation not at all in keeping with the purpose which had actuated him in seeking her friendship.

“Before you brought my kitten back to me.” She paused, suddenly confused and shy, then added hurriedly, “We have so few guests, you know. Daddy, somehow, doesn’t care for people––as a rule, that is. I’m awfully glad that he has made an exception with you.”

“But surely you have other friends––for instance, that young fellow I’ve noticed now and again when he called upon you.”

Morrow’s thoughts had suddenly turned to that unknown visitor toward whom he had taken such an unaccountable dislike.

“Young fellow––what young fellow?” Emily Brunell’s voice had changed, slightly, and a reserved little note intruded itself which reminded Morrow all at once of her father.

“I don’t know who he is––I’m such a newcomer in the neighborhood, you know; but I happened to see him from my window across the way––a short, dapper-looking young chap with a small, dark mustache.”

“Oh!thatman.” Her lip curled disdainfully. “That’s Charley Pennold. He’s no friend of mine. He just comes to see Father now and again on business. I don’t bother to talk to him. I don’t think Daddy likes him very much, either.”

101

She caught her breath in sharply as she spoke, and looked away from Morrow in sudden reserve. He felt a quick start of suspicion, and searched her averted face with a keen, penetrating glance.

If this Charley Pennold, whoever he might be, wished to see James Brunell on legitimate business, why did he not go to his shop openly and above-board in the day-time? Could he be an emissary from some one whom the old forger had reason to evade? If he were, did Emily know for what purpose he came, and was she annoyed at her own error in involuntarily disclosing his name?

“He is a map-maker, too?” leaped from Morrow’s lips.

“He is interested in maps––he gives Daddy large orders for them, I believe.”

Emily spoke too hurriedly, and her tones lacked the ring of sincerity which was habitual with them.

The trained ear of the detective instantly sensed the difference, and his heart sank.

So she had lied to him deliberately, and her womanly instinct told her that he knew it.

She began to talk confusedly of trivialities; and Morrow, seeing that it would be hopeless to attempt to draw her back to her unguarded mood, left her soon after––heartsick and dejected.

Should he continue with his investigations, or go to Henry Blaine and confess that he had failed him? Was this girl, charming and innocent as she appeared, worth the price of his career––this girl with the blood of criminals in her veins, who would stoop to lies and deceit to protect them? Yet had not he been seeking deliberately to betray her and those she loved, under the guise of friendship? Was he any better than she or her father?

102

Then, too, another thought came to him. Might she not be the tool, consciously or unconsciously, of a nefarious plot?

He felt that he could not rest until he had brought his investigations to a conclusion which would be satisfactory to himself, even if he decided in the end, for her sake, never to divulge to Henry Blaine the discoveries he might make.

A few days later, however, Morrow received instructions from Blaine himself, which forced his hand. The time had come for him to use the skeleton-key which he had had made. He must proceed that night to investigate the little shop of the map-maker and look there for the evidence which would incriminate him––the photographic and electrotyping apparatus.

Early in the evening he heard Emily’s soft voice as she called across the street in pleasant greeting to Miss Quinlan, but he could not bring himself to go out upon the little porch and speak to her, although he did not doubt his welcome.

He waited until all was dark and still before he started upon his distasteful errand. It was very cold, and the streets were deserted. A fine dry snow was falling, which obliterated his footprints almost as soon as he made them, and he reached the now familiar door of the little shop without meeting a soul abroad save a lonely policeman dozing in a doorway. He let himself into the shop with his key and flashed his pocket lamp about. All appeared the same as in the day-time. The maps were rolled in neat cases or fastened upon the wall. The table, the press, the binder were each in their proper place.

Morrow went carefully over every inch of the room and the curtained recess back of it, but could find no evidence103such as he sought. At length, however, just before the little desk in the corner where James Brunell kept his modest accounts, the detective’s foot touched a metal ring in the floor. Stepping back from it, he seized the ring and pulled it. A small square section of the flooring yielded, and the raising of the narrow trap-door disclosed a worn, sanded stone stairway leading down into the cellar beneath.

Blaine’s operative listened carefully but no sound came from the depths below him; so after a time, with his light carefully shielded, he essayed a gingerly descent. On the bottom step he paused. There was small need for him to go further. He had found what he sought. Emily Brunell’s father was a forger indeed!

104CHAPTER IXGONE!

Guy Morrow,after a sleepless night, presented himself at Henry Blaine’s office the next morning. The great detective, observing his young subordinate with shrewd, kindly eyes, noted in one swift glance his changed demeanor: his pallor, and the new lines graven about the firm mouth, which added strength and maturity to his face. If he guessed the reason for the metamorphosis, Blaine gave no sign, but listened without comment until Morrow had completed his report.

“You obeyed my instructions?” he asked at length. “When you discovered the forgery outfit in the cellar of Brunell’s shop, you left everything just as it had been––left no possible trace of your presence?”

“Yes, sir. There’s not a sign left to show any one had disturbed the place. I am sure of that.”

“Not a foot-print in the earth of the cellar steps?”

“No, sir.”

“And the outfit––was there any evidence it had been used lately?”

“No––everything was dust-covered, and even rusty, as if it had not even been touched in months, perhaps years. The whole thing might be merely a relic of Jimmy Brunell’s past performances, in the life he gave up long ago.”

105

Morrow spoke almost eagerly, as if momentarily off his guard, but Blaine shook his head.

“Rather too dangerous a relic to keep in one’s possession, Guy, simply as a souvenir––a reminder of things the man is trying to forget, to live down. You can depend on it: the outfit was there for some more practical purpose. You say Paddington has not appeared in the neighborhood, but another man has––a man Brunell’s daughter seems to dislike and fear?”

“Yes, sir. There’s one significant fact about him, too––his name. He’s Charley Pennold. It didn’t occur to me for some time after Miss Brunell let that slip, that the name is the same as that of the precious pair of old crooks over in Brooklyn, the ones Suraci and I traced Brunell by.”

“Charley Pennold!” Blaine repeated thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of him. He’s old Walter Pennold’s nephew. The boy was running straight the last I heard of him, but you never can tell. Guy, I’m going to take you off the Brunell trail for a while, and put you on this man Paddington. I’ll have Suraci look up Charley Pennold and get a line on him. In the meantime, leave your key to the map-making shop with me. I may want to have a look at that forgery outfit myself.”

“You’re going to take me off the Brunell trail!” Morrow’s astonishment and obvious distaste for the change of program confronting him was all-revealing. “But I’ll have to go back and make some sort of explanation for leaving so abruptly, won’t I? Will it pay to arouse their suspicions––that is, sir, unless you’ve got some special reason for doing so?”

Blaine’s slow smile was very kindly and sympathetic as he eyed the anxious young man before him.

“No. You will go back, of course, and explain that106you have obtained a clerkship which necessitates your moving downtown. Make your peace with Miss Brunell if you like, but remember, Guy, don’t mix sentiment and business. It won’t do. I may have to put you back on the job there in a few days, and I know I can depend on you not to lose your head. She’s a young girl and a pretty one; but don’t forget she’s the daughter of Jimmy Brunell, the man we’re trying to get! Pennington Lawton had a daughter, too; remember that––and she’s been defrauded of everything in the world but her lover and her faith in her father’s memory.” His voice had gradually grown deeper and more stern, and he added in brisk, businesslike tones, far removed from the personal element. “Now get back to the Bronx. Come to me to-morrow morning, and I’ll have the data in the Paddington matter ready for you.”

The young detective had scarcely taken his departure, when Ramon Hamilton appeared. He was in some excitement, and glanced nervously behind him as he entered, as if almost in fear of possible pursuit.

“Mr. Blaine,” he began, “I’m confident that we’re suspected. Here’s a note that came to me from President Mallowe this morning. He asks if I inadvertently carried away with me that letter of Pennington Lawton’s written from Long Bay two years ago, in which I had shown such an interest during our interview the other day. He has been unable to find it since my departure. That’s a rather broad hint, it seems to me.”

“I should not consider it as such,” the detective responded. “Guilty conscience, Mr. Hamilton!”

“That’s not all!” the young lawyer went on. “He says that a curious burglary was committed at his offices the night after my interview with him––his watchman was chloroformed, and the safe in his private office107opened and rifled, yet nothing was taken, with the possible exception of that letter. Mallowe asks me, openly, if I knew of an ulterior motive which any one might have possessed in acquiring it, and even remarks that he is thinking of putting you, Mr. Blaine, on the mysterious attempt at robbery. That would be a joke, wouldn’t it, if it wasn’t really, in my estimation at least, a covert threat. Why should he, Mallowe, take me into his confidence about an affair which took place in his private office? He did not make the excuse of pretending to retain me as his attorney. I think he was merely warning me that he was suspicious of me.”

“Probably a mere coincidence,” Blaine observed easily.

“I wonder if you’ll think so when I tell you that twice since yesterday my life has been attempted.” Ramon spoke quietly enough, but there was a slight trembling in his tones.

“What!” Blaine started forward in his chair, then sank back with an incredulous smile, which none but he could have known was forced. “Surely you imagine it, Mr. Hamilton. Since your automobile accident, when you were run down and so nearly killed on the evening you sent for me to undertake Miss Lawton’s case, you may well be nervous.”

As he spoke he glanced at the other’s broken arm, which was still swathed in bandages.

“But these were no accidents, Mr. Blaine, and I have always doubted that the first one was, as you know. Yesterday afternoon, a new client’s case called me down to the sixth ward, at four o’clock. In order to reach my client’s address it was necessary to pass through the street in which that shooting affray occurred which filled the papers last evening. Two men darted out of a108house, shot presumably at each other, then turned and ran in opposite directions without waiting to see if either of the shots took effect. You know that isn’t usual with the members of rival gangs down there. Remember, too, Mr. Blaine, that it was prearranged for me to walk alone through that street at just that psychological moment. It seemed to me that neither man shot at the other, but both fired point-blank at me. I dismissed the idea from my mind as absurd, the next minute, and would have thought no more about it, beyond congratulating myself on my fortunate escape, had not the second attempt been made.”

“The sixth ward––” Blaine remarked, meditatively. “That’s Timothy Carlis’ stamping ground, of course. But go on, Mr. Hamilton. What was the second incident?”

“Late last night, I had a telephone message from my club that my best friend, Gordon Brooke, had been taken suddenly ill with a serious attack of heart-trouble, and wanted me. Brooke has heart-disease and he might go off with it at any time, so I posted over immediately. The club is only a few blocks away from my home, so I didn’t wait to call my machine or a taxi, but started over. Just a little way from the club, three men sprang upon me and attempted to hold me up. I fought them off, and when they came at me again, three to one, the idea flashed upon me that this was a fresh attempt to assassinate me.

“I shouted for help, and then ran. When I reached the club I found Brooke there, sitting in a poker game and quite as well as usual. No telephone message had been sent to me from him. I tried this morning, before I came to you, to have the number traced, but without success. Do you blame me now, Mr. Blaine, for believing,109after these three manifestations, that my life is in actual danger?”

“I do not.” The detective touched an electric button on his desk. “I think it will be advisable for you to have a guard, for the next few days, at least.”

“A guard!” Ramon repeated, indignantly. “I’m not a coward. Any man would be disturbed, to put it mildly, over the conviction that his life was threatened every hour, but it was of her I was thinking––of Anita! I could not bear to think of leaving her alone to face the world, penniless and hedged in on all sides by enemies. But I want no guard! I can take care of myself as well as the next man. Look at the perils and dangers you have faced in your unceasing warfare against malefactors of every grade. It is common knowledge that you have invariably refused to be guarded.”

“The years during which I have been constantly face to face with sudden death have made me disregard the possibility of it. But I shall not insist in your case, Mr. Hamilton, if you do not wish it; and allow me to tell you that I admire your spirit. However, I should like to have you leave town for a few days, if your clients can spare you.”

“Leave town? Run away?” Ramon started indignantly from his chair, but Blaine waved him back with a fatherly hand.

“Not at all. On a commission for me, in Miss Lawton’s interests. Mr. Hamilton, you have known the Lawtons for several years, have you not?”

“Ever since I can remember,” the young lawyer said with renewed eagerness.

“Two years ago, in August, Pennington Lawton and his daughter were at ‘The Breakers,’ at Long Bay, were they not?”

110

“Yes. Anita and I were engaged then, and I ran out myself for the week-end.”

“I want you to run out there for me now. The hotel will be closed at this time of year, of course, but a letter which I will give you to the proprietor, who lives close at hand, will enable you to look over the register for an hour or two in private. Turn to the arrivals for August of that year, and trace the names and home addresses on each page; then bring it back to me.”

“Is it something in connection with that forged letter to Mallowe?” asked Ramon quickly.

“Perhaps,” the detective admitted. He shrugged, then added leniently, “I think, before proceeding any further with that branch of the investigation, it would be well to know who obtained the notepaper with the hotel letterhead, and if the paper itself was genuine. Bring me back some of the hotel stationery, also, that I may compare it with that used for the letter.”

A discreet knock upon the door heralded the coming of an operative, in response to Blaine’s touch upon the bell.

“There has been a slight disturbance in the outer office, sir,” he announced. “A man, who appears to be demented, insists upon seeing you. He isn’t one of the ordinary cranks, or we would have dealt with him ourselves. He says that if you will read this, you will be glad to assent to an interview with him.”

He presented a card, which Blaine read with every manifestation of surprised interest.

“Tell him I will see him in five minutes,” he said. When the operative had withdrawn, the detective turned to Ramon.

“Who do you think is waiting outside? The man who threatened Pennington Lawton’s life ten years ago,111the man whose name was mentioned by the unknown visitor to the library on the night Lawton met his death: Herbert Armstrong!”

“Good heavens!” Ramon exclaimed. “What brings him here now? I thought he had disappeared utterly. Do you think it could have been he in the library that night, come to take revenge for that fancied wrong, at last?”

“That is what I’m going to find out,” the detective responded, with a touch of grimness in his tones.

“But you don’t mean––it isn’t possible that Mr. Lawton was murdered! That he didn’t die of heart-disease, after all!”

“I traced Armstrong to the town where he was living in obscurity, and followed his movements.” Blaine’s reply seemed to be purposely irrelevant. “I could not, however, find where he had been on the night of Mr. Lawton’s death. Now that he has come to me voluntarily, we shall discover if the voice Miss Lawton overheard in that moment when she listened on the stairs, was his or not.... Come back this afternoon, Mr. Hamilton, and I will give you full information and instructions about that Long Bay errand. In the meantime, guard yourself well from a possible attack, although I do not think another attempt upon your life will be made so soon. Take this, and if you have need of it, do not hesitate to use it. We can afford no half-measures now. Shoot, and shoot to kill!”

He opened a lower drawer in his massive desk and, drawing from it a business-like looking revolver of large caliber, presented it to the lawyer. With a warm hand-clasp he dismissed him, and, going to the telephone, called up Anita Lawton’s home.

“I want you to attend carefully, Miss Lawton. I112am speaking from my office. A man will be here with me in a few minutes, and I shall seat him close to the transmitter of my ’phone, leaving the receiver off the hook. Please listen carefully to his voice. I only wish you to hear a phrase or two, when I will hang up the receiver, and call you up later. Try to concentrate with all your powers, and tell me afterward if you have ever heard that voice until now; if it is the voice of the man you did not see, who was in the library with your father just before he died.”

He heard her give a quick gasp, and then her voice came to him, low and sweet and steady.

“I will listen carefully, Mr. Blaine, and do my best to tell you the truth.”

The detective pulled a large leather chair close to the telephone, and Herbert Armstrong was ushered in.

The man was pitiful in appearance, but scarcely demented, as the operative had described him. He was tall and shabbily clothed, gaunt almost to the point of emaciation, but with no sign of dissipation. His eyes, though sunken, were clear, and they gazed levelly with those of the detective.

“Come in, Mr. Armstrong.” Blaine waved genially toward the arm-chair. “What can I do for you?”

The man did not offer to shake hands, but sank wearily into the chair assigned him.

“Do? You can stop hounding me, Henry Blaine! You and Pennington Lawton brought my tragedy upon me as surely as I brought it upon myself, and now you will not leave me alone with my grief and ruin, to drag my miserable life out to the end, but you or your men must dog my every foot-step, spy upon me, hunt me down like a pack of wolves! And why? Why?”

The man’s voice had run its gamut, in the emotion113which consumed him, and from a menacing growl of protest, it had risen to a shrill wail of weakness and despair.

Henry Blaine was satisfied.

“Excuse me, Mr. Armstrong,” he said gently. “The receiver is off my telephone, here at your elbow. It would be unfortunate if we were overheard. If you will allow me––”

But he got no further. Quick as he was, the other man was quicker. He sprang up furiously, and dashed the telephone off the desk.

“Is this another of your d––d tricks?” he shouted. “If it is, whoever was listening may hear the rest. You and Pennington Lawton between you, drove my wife to suicide, but you’ll not drivemethere! I’m ruined, and broken, and hopeless, but I’ll live on, live till I’m even, do you hear? Live till I’m square with the game!”

His violence died out as swiftly as it had arisen, and he sank down in the chair, his face buried in his bony hands, his thin shoulders shaken with sobs.

Blaine quietly replaced the telephone and receiver, and seated himself.

“Come, man, pull yourself together!” he said, not unkindly. “I’m not hounding you; Lawton never harmed you, and now he is dead. He was my client and I was bound to protect his interests, but as man to man, the fault was yours and you know it. I tried to keep you from making a fool of yourself and wrecking three lives, but I only succeeded in saving one.”

“But your men are hounding me, following me, shadowing me! I have come to find out why!”

“And I would like to find out where you were on a certain night last month––the ninth, to be exact,” responded Blaine quietly.

“What affair is it of yours?” the other man asked114wearily, adding: “How should I know, now? One night is like another, to me.”

“If you hate Pennington Lawton’s memory as you seem to, the ninth of November should stand out in your thoughts in letters of fire,” the detective went on, in even, quiet tone. “That was the night on which Lawton died.”

“Lawton?” Herbert Armstrong raised his haggard face. The meaning of Blaine’s remark utterly failed to pierce his consciousness. “The date doesn’t mean anything to me, but I remember the night, if that’s what you want to know about, although I’m hanged if I can see what it’s got to do with me! I’ll never forget that night, because of the news which reached me in the morning, that my worst enemy on earth had passed away.”

“Were you in Illington the evening before?” asked Blaine.

“I was not. I was in New Harbor, where I live, playing pinochle all night long with two other down-and-outs like myself, in a cheap hall bed-room––I, Herbert Armstrong, who used to play for thousands a game, in the best clubs in Illington! And I never knew that the man who had brought me to that pass was gasping his life away! Think of it! We played until dawn, when the extras, cried in the street below, gave us the news!”

“If you will give me the address of this boarding-house you mention, and the names of your two friends, I can promise that you will be under no further espionage, Mr. Armstrong.”

“I don’t care whether you know it or not, if that’s all you want!” The gaunt man shrugged wearily. “I’m115tired of being hounded, and I’m too weak and too tired to oppose you, even if it did matter.”

He gave the required names and addresses, and slouched away, his animosity gone, and only a dull, miserable lethargy sagging upon his worn body.

When the outer door of the offices had closed upon him, Henry Blaine again called up Anita Lawton. This time her voice came to him sharpened by acute distress.

“I did not recognize the tones of the person’s voice, Mr. Blaine, only I am quite, quite sure that he was not the man in the library with my father the night of his death. But oh, what did he mean by the terrible things he said? It could not be that my father brought ruin and tragedy upon any one, much less drove them to suicide. Won’t you tell me, Mr. Blaine? Ramon won’t, although I am convinced he knows all about it. I must know.”

“You shall, Miss Lawton. I think the time has come when you should no longer be left in the dark. I will tell Mr. Hamilton when he comes to me this afternoon for the interview we have arranged that you must know the whole story.”

But Ramon Hamilton failed to appear for the promised interview. Henry Blaine called up his office and his home, but was unable to locate him. Then Miss Lawton began making anxious inquiries, and finally the mother of the young lawyer appealed to the detective, but in vain. Late that night the truth was established beyond peradventure of a doubt. Ramon Hamilton had disappeared as if the earth had opened and engulfed him.

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