“Now, I’m also ready to cross off Wallace Courtney. He’s benefited largely by the absence of his rival playwright, but, even granting his willingness, I don’t see how he could have pulled it off. Owen Thorne is out of the question, also. Just because he is Elsie Powell’s trustee is no reason to think he would stick a finger in her romantic pie. As to his having played ducks and drakes with her money, and daren’t acknowledge it, I’ve yet to find any proof of that. So far as I can get hold of the facts, the Powell fortune is in honest hands, and is intact and safe.
“Now, I’m left with mighty few people to suspect. And those few I propose to run down pretty quick. There’s just one element that’s bothering me and that’s the supernatural one. Those yarns that Kimball Webb told at his club are not to be passed over lightly, for as far as I can make out Mr. Webb is a pretty much worthwhile chap. And judging from the line I’ve got on his character, he’s not the sort to tell those stories unless they were true. True that the things he related happened, I mean. Not true that they happened by supernatural forces. If there’s some sort of hocus-pocus possible in that room of Kimball Webb’s, that means somebody has access to it, when it’s apparently securely locked. It might be his mother, after all,—or that high and mighty sister. But Mrs. Webb is too sincerely a believer in the spirit business to fake it, and—well, it doesn’t fit in with that scheme of things called Henrietta!
“But what it is, or what it may be, I’ve got to find out,—and that with neatness and dispatch.”
Disentangling himself from his easy chair, Coe put on his hat, and started out on his quest.
But, according to his principle, “when in doubt, go to Elsie’s,” he went straight to the Powells’ home.
It was late afternoon, and he was not surprised to find the faithful pair, Allison and Whiting already there, and having tea.
It was no secret now, that these two men were rivals for Elsie’s hand. Urged on by her mother and sister, strongly advised by the Webb ladies, and even besought by her trustee and guardian to marry before her birthday, the poor child felt she would be unable to combat their decrees much longer.
The arguments that she was foolish to throw away a fortune, that she owed it to her mother and sister, that she’d be sorry afterward if she didn’t, all had no effect on her personal inclination, but they had the wearing action of constant dropping of water upon a stone, upon her will.
Her strong determination was giving way under pressure and she had no one to bolster up her side of the decision. Even Coe, with his clear vision and good judgment, did not dare advise her against marriage, for he feared she might later regret her course.
Yet, when alone, Elsie was as positive in her determination as ever, and vowed to herself that she would not be swayed by others, and that she would never marry if she could not marry the man she loved.
And, then, Gerty’s pale, martyr-like face, or her mother’s gentle coaxing would so shake the poor child’s will power, that she wavered and almost allowed herself to be convinced.
The great question was whom to marry. Gerty favoured Joe Allison, but Mrs. Powell inclined toward Fenn Whiting.
Gerty declared that Elsie could easily change Joe’s plan of a marriage after the birthday, if she made her consent conditional on an earlier date. For each day saw the young man more and more in love with Elsie, and he was rapidly approaching the stage where he would agree to anything if she would marry him.
Fenn Whiting, adhered to his statement that it was for Elsie to say whether she would marry him, a rich girl or a poor one. For his part, he had no advice to offer in that regard. He wanted the girl; if she wanted the fortune, all right,—if not, all right, also.
This was the only manly attitude for Whiting to take, but, as Gerty observed, there could be no possible reason for Elsie to throw away the money if she concluded to marry Fenn.
Elsie wouldn’t say what she would or wouldn’t do. She went around—as one in a daze; hoping against hope that something would transpire to give her some idea of what had happened to Kimball Webb.
And so, when Coe came in, bright and cheery as always, she turned to him with renewed hope and cried out:
“Anything new?”
“Nixy; except that I have crossed off some suspects and I’m going to cross off some more. Elimination’s the thing!”
“Go on,” cried Elsie, “tell me what.”
“Well, next, I’m going to sleep in that room of Mr. Webb’s. Do you suppose the powers that be will permit it?”
“I don’t see why not,” offered Whiting. “What’s the great idea?”
“I want to see if the Poltergeist snatch off my bedclothes, or any stunt like that.”
“I can’t see that it would get you anywhere,” Whiting laughed, “but there’s no harm in it.”
“It’s a good plan,” Allison said, slowly. “That Poltergeist business is the real thing. I’ve looked into those subjects, more or less, and I’m interested. Let me spend a night there with you, will you, Coe?”
“Not the first trip. I don’t look for anything to happen, but it might and I want to tackle it alone.”
“What are you going to prove?” asked Gerty, puzzled.
“Only that if a Poltergeist comes after me, and I can’t catch him, that there’s a possibility that one carried off Kimball Webb.”
“Rubbish!” said Whiting.
“Rubbish, I admit,” said Coe, placidly, “but what’s a theory that isn’t rubbish?”
Nobody knew of any, and Coe soon departed for the Webb home to put his plan in action.
The Webb ladies liked the pleasant young man, with his winning smile and his good-natured ways.
His request to sleep for a night or two in Kimball Webb’s room met with a willing, though surprised consent.
“What in the world do you hope to learn that way?” Mrs. Webb asked, and Coley returned, gravely: “I want to test your theory, Mrs. Webb. If friend Poltergeist,—is that his name?—carries me through a closed and locked wooden door, I’m ready to drop all else and follow your cult for life!”
“You’re going to lock the door?” asked Henrietta.
“Surely, otherwise it’s no test! All New York city,—I mean any one of its inhabitants, might come in and play at poltering otherwise. Of course, I’m going to lock the door and bolt it, too.”
The broken lock on the inside of Kimball Webb’s door had been replaced with a new one, for no special reason save that the Webb ladies were too orderly by nature to leave anything incomplete in the way of household appointments.
And so, when that night, Coley Coe locked himself into the mysterious room, he was securely entrenched against attack from the hall.
He scrutinized the window fastenings and corroborated his knowledge that the patent catch enabled one to get sufficient ventilation, yet left no possible chance of a man entering or escaping that way.
Coley Coe locked himself into that room at ten-thirty, at one o’clock he was still hunting for the secret entrance that he had been so sure of finding. But his search had been utterly fruitless, and in an unusual spirit of despair, he decided to abandon it. He arrived at this decision only after a most exhaustive and repeated investigation of every part of the room. He proved to his own satisfaction that there was not a break in the walls, not a chance of a secret passage between the partitions.
He made sure the window frames or door frames could not be taken out bodily, as a whole. The old woodwork was as firm and true as when it was built, many decades before.
“And yet,” Coley observed to himself, “there’s got to be a secret entrance,—there’sgotto be! There’s no other way out!”
He smiled at his inadvertent play on words, and renewed his search. He paid special attention to the chimney, for except the windows and door that was the only outlet from the room.
It was a large fireplace, of the old fashioned style. There was an empty and scrupulously clean basket grate, wide but not deep, with horizontal bars in front after the fashion of most old grates. The black japanned parts were shining, and the gilded rim round the fireplace opening was brilliantly bright. Surely the Webbs had been scrupulous in their tidying up of Kimball’s room.
Coe looked about. The white paint was immaculate, the window panes fairly sparkled with cleanliness. He gave a sigh,—any clue that might have been left in that room must have been destroyed by the ruthless hands of the Webbs’ servants.
Coe poked his head well up the chimney, to the imminent peril of his waving forelocks, but the flue was not sooty at all. Neither was it in any way a possible means of escape. Coe’s imagination was well nigh boundless, but he couldn’t, by the wildest flight of fancy, see Kimball Webb making an exit that way. It was simply impossible.
He sat in a chair and strove to reconstruct the scene. Webb, perhaps, had sat in that very chair, the night before the day that was to have been his wedding day. Coe knew that Webb had every intention of attending his own wedding. He had learned from Elsie the indubitable truths of the man’s character and of his love for the girl he had chosen. Not for a minute did Coley Coe think Webb had absconded purposely.
And abduction presupposed one other person at least. How did that person get in,—and accompanied by Webb, get out?
“He couldn’t,” Coe decided, and then turned his attention to the idea that Webb had been lured away,—say, by means of an imperative message.
But that made the exit from the locked room no easier of solution, and Coley Coe gave it up, and turned in for the night.
As he stretched himself between the sheets of Kimball Webb’s bed, he realized there was no night light, as is usual in modern houses.
He thought of going down stairs for a candle, but concluded that the switch of the centre chandelier was within two jumps of his bedside and depended on that.
He thought of leaving the light on, but assumed that that would bar the intruder,—human or supernatural,—who, he felt sure, would come.
Worn out by his hard thinking and his long and indefatigable searching, the healthy young chap was soon asleep.
How long he slept, he had no idea, but he awoke suddenly, with a feeling of something happening.
He rubbed his sleepy eyes, and saw plainly, though not clearly, a strange light at the foot of the bed. It seemed to be a wraith or phantom, of translucent, shimmering light.
Wide awake in an instant, Coe sprang out of bed and switched on the light.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing unusual in the room.
Nothing had been moved, nothing disturbed.
Coe ran about the room frantically. Not for a minute did he believe he had been dreaming or imagined the vision. He had just as surely seen that white, glimmering apparition as he now saw his own hand. He knew it,—and he knew too, it was some human agency that had compassed it. No supernatural for him! That ghost was the work of some mischievous or wicked human, and who it was Coley Coe determined to discover.
He determined to have another try at it some other night, for, he felt sure, there would be no further performance at this time.
He switched off the light, and went back to bed, feeling that he had at least accomplished something in having had any experience at all.
Again he slept,—and, again he awakened.
This time, he saw nothing. The room was pitch dark, but,—and his thatch of hair rose from his forehead,—he could certainly feel his bed clothes being pulled off!
He lay still a moment, unable to believe his senses, but there was no mistake, they were certainly slipping down,—down, away from his neck, his shoulders,—and then, as he gathered himself for a spring, they were pulled entirely off of him, and thrown back, helter-skelter over his face and head.
A low, and it seemed to him, demoniac chuckle reached his ears, and struggling to free himself from the entangling sheets and blankets, he finally got to the light switch and threw it on.
Again there was nothing to be seen,—nothing to be heard, of any human presence.
Coley sat down in the big chair, lighted a cigarette and began to size the matter up.
He thought a while, and then he again went the rounds of the room, only to find no more sign of a secret entrance than he had before discovered.
What was the explanation? Must he accept the foolish Poltergeist? He knew,—his reason told him, no supernatural agency could have pulled off those bedclothes and thrown them back over his face, but his reason failed to inform him who or what could have done it,—and above all how.
The door was still securely locked and bolted. The windows were untouched,—Coe knew this, for he had taken the precaution to sprinkle a little talcum powder beneath them, and this showed no marks of foot-prints. He looked up the chimney, where he had pasted across a strip of paper, just before he got into bed. The paper was intact.
In the brownest of brown studies he sat till morning, but he could imagine or invent no theory that would work. He knew,—he positivelyknewthe semi-luminous ghost was a fake,—he knew, he positively knew human hands had pulled off his sheets, and a human throat had sounded that low laugh, but how?—HOW?
At breakfast time he dressed and went down stairs.
He met Miss Webb’s eager questions as to what had happened with a denial that anything had. He wanted to see if a look of surprise or incredulity came to her face, but it didn’t. She only said,
“I scarcely thought it would. Are you satisfied, or do you want to try it again?”
“I may try it again later,” he thanked her, “but not at present.”
To Mrs. Webb who soon appeared he also denied that he had had any queer or inexplicable experience, having resolved to keep the matter strictly secret as the best chance of finding out who did it.
But at breakfast, the subject of Kimball’s past experiences in that room was mentioned.
“I don’t believe it,” Henrietta stated calmly. “Oh, Kimball told the truth, of course, or what he thought was truth. He dreamed so vividly that he really thought his dream was true. I am more convinced than ever,—since you saw or heard nothing unusual. Did you have any peculiar dreams?”
“No,” Coley said, truthfully. “I did not. I’m positive I did not.”
After breakfast, Coe went straight to Elsie. They went for a stroll in the Park, a not unusual proceeding with them, and he told her the whole story, for his plan of secrecy did not include the girl he was working for.
“It must be supernatural,” Elsie said, after she had heard the whole tale. “I’m ready to believe you when you say there’s no chance for any one to get in,—so it’s got to be spirits, or Poltergeist, or what ever you choose to call it. I’m no Spiritualist,—I think the whole thing is silly,—but whatarewe to think, after this?”
“We’re to think that somebody is too clever for me.”
“But lots of people have tried to find a secret entrance, and they can’t do it. Mr. Hanley said he was a sort of an architect, and Fenn Whiting is an architect, and they’ve both tried their best but they can’t find any loophole of escape. I tried, too,—oh, you needn’t laugh. Sometimes an ignoramus can succeed where the wiseacres fail.”
“I know it; but, look here, Miss Powell. Supposing, just for argument’s sake, that there is somebody back of it all,—some master-mind criminal who has made a way to get in and out of that room at his will, defying discovery, then you must admit, we’re up against it.”
“How? What do you mean?”
“I mean that I can’t find the way he enters or leaves. I spent many hours last night seeking the means, and I admit I can’t succeed. There’s no use my trying again, for I went over every square inch of walls, floor and ceiling. I considered every plausible method or manner of entrance, and I’m at the end of my rope in that direction. If solving the mystery of Webb’s disappearance depends on finding a secret entrance to that room, I confess I’ll have to give it up.”
“Do you think it does depend on that?”
“Frankly, I do.”
“Then are we to give up all hope of seeing Kimball Webb again?” Elsie’s lips quivered, and Coe was so sorry for her he scarce knew what to say. But he had to tell her the truth.
“I fear we are, until after your birthday, at least.”
“Do you think he’ll return after that?”
“I can’t say. You see we haven’t decided definitely on the motive of the person or persons who abducted him. If the Webb ladies, and it may be, then they hope you’ll marry before the date, and he will then return. If not the Webb ladies,—then,—the motive is a very different one.”
“Meantime what do you advise me to do?”
“I am not going to give up entirely,—but I have to confess to you that I’m not sure I can discover a criminal who is so deep and so clever as this one.”
“You’ve been trailing the Webb ladies, what did you learn?”
“Nothing, so far, that affects the case,—and I doubt if we do. To tell the truth, Miss Powell, I’m discouraged,—deeply discouraged. I can’t solve the mystery of last night, so how can I solve the mystery of Webb’s disappearance—for I am positive the same agency compassed both.”
“Well, I’m ready to believe it was a supernatural agency. I never was before, but what you’ve told me convinces me. After all, lots of great and wise men believe in it—”
“Lots of great and wise fools! Pardon me, Miss Powell, but I’d rather be baffled by any human cleverness than to admit the possibility of superhuman intervention.”
“But that doesn’t help matters, Mr. Coe. Your preferences don’t solve mysteries,—your disbelief doesn’t help to find the truth. I’m vanquished,—I’m ready to go over to the other side. I’ll accept the theory of Poltergeist or disembodied spirits or levitation or anything, now that you tell me a human being couldn’t get into that room!”
“But a human being did!”
“You only assume that because you’re not willing to believe the other. Anyway, I can see you have no hope of restoring my lover to me?”
“I can’t say I’ve a definite hope,—that is a hope founded on belief,—but of course, I hope.”
“Oh, that kind of hope,—merely a wish or desire,—that doesn’t mean anything!”
Not blaming Coe, but deeply disappointed, Elsie turned her thoughts to duty. Her torn, bleeding heart knew at last the meaning of the word despair. Yet her unselfish nature would not let her forget those dependent upon her. And so she made up her mind what she would do.
That night Fenn Whiting renewed his suit.
“Have you any hope of Kimball’s return?” he asked, gently.
“No,” Elsie returned in a low voice, devoid of all inflection, “no, Fenn, I haven’t.”
“Then, oh, Elsie, won’t you marry me? Won’t you, dearest? Set the date yourself,—you know I don’t care about that confounded money,—but give me your promise.”
“I suppose I may as well,” she said, slowly.
“Elsie, darling! do you mean it? You make me so happy. When, dearest, when?”
“I’m going to marry you, Fenn, in time to get the money, for Mother and Gerty’s sake. So, I’ll set the day before my birthday,—the twenty-ninth of June.”
“Darling! Oh, Elsie, I can hardly believe it.”
“Yes; I mean it. And, Fenn, as soon as the ceremony is over; and as soon as I have signed the necessary papers to leave the fortune to Mother and Gerty, with a good bit for Joe Allison,—I shall kill myself.”
Fenn Whiting was not unversed in feminine ways. And, especially did he count himself familiar with the ways of Elsie Powell. And though the average woman would make a threat of killing herself as a melodramatic bluff, not so Elsie. Whiting knew, for a certainty, if she had made up her mind to such a desperate step, she would assuredly take it. No interference or hindrance could prevent her. She might be foiled in several attempts but she would succeed finally, if she had set her face that way. And she had. Further conversation only revealed the depth and steadfastness of her purpose. She was willing to die for her mother and sister but not to live for them.
“But, Elsie, darling,” Whiting urged, “I can’t marry you that way. You must choose some one else, then. Could you live with Allison?”
“No! I couldn’t live with any man except Kimball Webb. And I never will! But my people have hounded me about that money, until I can’t stand it another minute. I must marry before my birthday, in order that they may get it,—but I don’t have to live onafterthat!” The big brown eyes were wide with despair, and the suffering, hunted look on Elsie’s face went to Whiting’s heart.
“Marry me, dearest,” he said, softly; “I’ll engage that you sha’n’t kill yourself afterward. Why, sweetheart, I’ll make life a continuous round of pleasure for you; you shall have your own way in everything—everything! I’ll be your humble slave, and you may command me—”
“Hush, Fenn. I’ve told you the course I shall take. Now, I think I may as well marry you as any one else. Then I’ll be legally entitled to the money. I’ve made a will, which I must sign after I’m married,—and then—”
“Don’t, Elsie! You’re talking rubbish! Girls don’t kill themselves so easily, with friends around to prevent.”
“Never mind about that,” Elsie smiled mysteriously, “the way is already provided. And I shall make no horrible scene, I shall merely go away from this horrid, horrid world!”
“But I shall transform the horrid world into a world of light and flowers and love! Give me a chance, Elsie, let me prove my words—”
“Don’t discuss it, Fenn,” Elsie was imperious, “you know nothing of my heart,—you couldn’t even appreciate my feelings if you knew them. But I do like you, and you are a friend. Marry me, then, and the rest is in my hands.”
“No; Elsie. I refuse to marry you under such conditions. What man would?”
“That’s the trouble,—no man would! That’s why I’ve decided on you, as my only hope. Marry me, Fenn, to save the money for my people. I’ll leave you a goodly share, too—”
“Elsie!” Whiting’s look made her flush.
“Well,” she defended herself, “that’s only fair, if you’re my husband.”
“But I won’t be,—I can’t be,—the way you’ve arranged things!”
“Yes, you can, and you will! Don’t desert me, Fenn, it’s the only thing you can do for me. I’d marry some one else, and not tell my plans,—but I don’t think it fair to any man.”
“I should say not!”
“But you,—you have always been a friend of Kim’s and I want you to be friend enough of mine to go through the ceremony with me, and for me. Why, Fenn, there’s no way for me to get that money without marrying,—and no way else, to secure the happiness of my people.”
“If only Gerty would marry Joe,—”
“That would fix it all right,—but in the first place, Gert wouldn’t marry anybody just yet,—it’s too soon,—and, oh, Fenn, it’s an awful thing to tell, but I sounded Joe,—and he—he doesn’t want to marry Gerty.”
“Of course he doesn’t! He’s insanely in love with you!”
“I know it,—and he’s too nice a boy for me to marry him and then—and then carry out my plan.”
“So’m I, for that matter!” Whiting tried to speak jocularly.
“I know you are,—any man would be. But, you’re my only hope. I’ve thought this thing out to the bitter end. Whoever took Kimball away has killed him. That I am sure of.”
“Oh, no, Elsie, I don’t believe that.”
“I know it. He isn’t in this world. And so, I want to go where he is,—I don’t care where that may be.”
Elsie’s gaze was a little wild, her voice a trifle hysterical, but she was in complete control of her speech.
“Well, let’s wait a bit, anyway. There’s nearly three weeks yet before the birthday, and in that time you may hear something from Kim.”
“No, I won’t. And I’d rather get it over with. Marry me at once,—won’t you, Fenn?”
“Well, for a young woman whom I’ve begged and coaxed to marry me, it’s turning the tables to have you urging me to marry you!”
“All the same,—will you?”
“Not this week. Do wait a few days, and consider matters a little more fully. I promise to tell nobody of this plan of yours, so you can revise it when you wish. But, oh, Elsie,—my little girl,—if you’ll marry me and stay right here on earth with me,—I’ll engage to make earth a heaven for you!”
“Nobody could do that but Kimball,” and Elsie’s eyes filled with tears.
True to his promise, Whiting told no one of Elsie’s gruesome plan. For, he decided, to tell her mother or sister would only stir up trouble in their household. And he hoped Elsie would change her mind. It was a forlorn hope, for the girl was so positive in her decisions and was rarely if ever known to change one. He thought of telling it all to Coley Coe, but decided against it, for he could see no use in passing the hateful secret on to anybody.
Any other woman he would have expected to weaken when the time came for the tragic deed. But he knew Elsie’s determination well enough to believe that she had the means already at hand,—poison, probably,—and that if prevented several times, would finally manage to turn the trick.
The more Whiting thought it over, the more he was convinced he would marry her. If he didn’t, she would pick up somebody else and marry him without telling her plan,—for she could never secure a bridegroom who was in her confidence. Then, he argued, he would stand a better chance of persuading her to give up her tragic course, than if he were not her husband. He thought he could watch her so closely that she would have no chance for a time, at least, and then if he couldn’t persuade her to live for him and with him, he could offer her the privilege of divorcing him,—and the money, the great object in Elsie’s dilemma, would be all right.
So Whiting determined that if nothing transpired to change the situation he would soon urge Elsie to announce their engagement, and trust to Fate that all might yet turn out well.
Elsie, after her talk with Whiting felt better than she had done since her sorrow came to her. She was filled with an exaltation that buoyed her spirit up, and she went around as one in a trance.
It may be that her strange experiences had affected her brain a little but except for a slight absent-mindedness she showed no eccentric impulses.
And then, in her morning’s mail she received a letter.
A letter that she had sub-consciously looked for,—a letter she had vaguely expected,—a letter from the people who had stolen Kimball Webb!
Realizing its purport, she went off to her own room to read it by herself.
Written in a strong, bold hand, on decent, inconspicuous paper, it read:
Miss Elsie Powell:We have Kimball Webb hidden and in confinement. Where he is neither you nor your smarty-cat young detective can ever discover. We make no secret of the fact that we abducted him for ransom. How we secured his person, though a clever performance, will never be known by any one,—not even himself. The whole point of this message is, do you want him back enough to pay us fifty thousand dollars,—and no questions asked? If so, follow our directions implicitly,—if not, the incident may be considered closed and neither you nor any one else will ever see the gentleman in question again. We are no bunglers, we have covered our tracks, and have no fear of being caught. If you want to pay the money and if you are willing to agree not to refer this matter to anybody, not to speak of it to your people or to the police, you may hang a white towel,—or a handkerchief out of a window of your own room any time tomorrow afternoon. This will be taken to mean that you agree to our terms. If you play any tricks, Mr. Webb will vanish at once from this world of ours. We enclose a bit of a note from him that you may have faith in the reality of our story.
Miss Elsie Powell:
We have Kimball Webb hidden and in confinement. Where he is neither you nor your smarty-cat young detective can ever discover. We make no secret of the fact that we abducted him for ransom. How we secured his person, though a clever performance, will never be known by any one,—not even himself. The whole point of this message is, do you want him back enough to pay us fifty thousand dollars,—and no questions asked? If so, follow our directions implicitly,—if not, the incident may be considered closed and neither you nor any one else will ever see the gentleman in question again. We are no bunglers, we have covered our tracks, and have no fear of being caught. If you want to pay the money and if you are willing to agree not to refer this matter to anybody, not to speak of it to your people or to the police, you may hang a white towel,—or a handkerchief out of a window of your own room any time tomorrow afternoon. This will be taken to mean that you agree to our terms. If you play any tricks, Mr. Webb will vanish at once from this world of ours. We enclose a bit of a note from him that you may have faith in the reality of our story.
The letter was not signed, but the enclosure was. It was from Kimball himself,—there was no mistaking his small, scholarly writing, and even before reading it, Elsie pressed it to her lips in a frenzy of joy. Then she read:
Elsie, darling! do as the note says. It is the only way. I love you! Kim.
It was no forgery, every word, every letter was the work of the hand of Kimball Webb. Elsie knew his writing too well to be deceived. And there were peculiar little quirks and twirls that made it impossible for the note to be a forgery.
It was the real thing! And, noting the date on the letter, Elsie suddenly bethought her that today was the day to hang out her flag of truce! Her white handkerchief,—no, a small towel would be more visible,—must be displayed that very afternoon.
Quivering with excitement, she got out the towel, and was of half a mind to hang it out at once, but desisted, as she wished to follow instructions implicitly.
How to get all that money troubled her not a whit. She hadn’t a tenth of it at her command, but get it she would, if she had to break a bank! And then she began to think. A wild suggestion of breaking a bank meant nothing,—she couldn’t do it, with all the will in the world. And how could she get it from Mr. Thorne unless she told her story? And if she did that,—the writer of the note would find it out,—already she pictured him in her mind as omniscient,—and the whole deal would be off!
But, even with no plan for getting the money, she obeyed the written instructions. She told no one of the letter. That afternoon she hung out a small towel, and it hung undisturbed until sundown.
Then next morning she received the second letter.
This one was as explicit as the first.
Miss Powell:Glad to see you’re amenable to reason. Now, you may have plenty of ways to raise the cash, but if not, use the enclosed card. You may go to that address without fear of any unpleasantness or publicity. Remember, if you give us the money as we direct, you will have your lover in time for you to secure your inheritance by marriage with him. Here are the directions. You will not hear from us again. Have the money in cash, with no bill larger than one hundred dollars. Go to Altman’s tomorrow morning, and when you come out, take a taxicab that will be waiting. You will know which one when you see a driver with a yellow plaid cap. We are relying on you not to have anybody with you, or in watching,—if you do, we shall know it, and the whole deal is off. You will not hear from us again. If you attempt anything,—anything at all but the most perfect good faith and honesty in your course, you will be more than sorry. In a word, you will then bring about the sudden death of the man you love. There is no more to be said on that score. Get into the taxi and when it stops, near another taxi, make a quick change. Have the money with you in a small compact parcel. The second taxi will take you along a certain road. When it meets a certain car, it will slow down and you will hand the parcel to the man who leans out of that car for it. That is all. Good-bye.
Miss Powell:
Glad to see you’re amenable to reason. Now, you may have plenty of ways to raise the cash, but if not, use the enclosed card. You may go to that address without fear of any unpleasantness or publicity. Remember, if you give us the money as we direct, you will have your lover in time for you to secure your inheritance by marriage with him. Here are the directions. You will not hear from us again. Have the money in cash, with no bill larger than one hundred dollars. Go to Altman’s tomorrow morning, and when you come out, take a taxicab that will be waiting. You will know which one when you see a driver with a yellow plaid cap. We are relying on you not to have anybody with you, or in watching,—if you do, we shall know it, and the whole deal is off. You will not hear from us again. If you attempt anything,—anything at all but the most perfect good faith and honesty in your course, you will be more than sorry. In a word, you will then bring about the sudden death of the man you love. There is no more to be said on that score. Get into the taxi and when it stops, near another taxi, make a quick change. Have the money with you in a small compact parcel. The second taxi will take you along a certain road. When it meets a certain car, it will slow down and you will hand the parcel to the man who leans out of that car for it. That is all. Good-bye.
Elsie read and re-read the missive.
She was uncertain what to do. Her impulse was to lay the whole matter before Whiting or Coleman Coe, and follow their advice.
But suppose they should say,—as so many people do,—make no bargains with the kidnappers. Treat any such communications with silent contempt,—or, arrange for police protection, even if it is forbidden.
The more she thought it over, the more she was inclined to manage the whole affair alone. She could do it,—and she was not afraid. It was all to be done in broad daylight, there was no danger if she herself acted in good faith. And if she brought any one else into it, there was grave danger, not only to herself but to Kimball.
She looked curiously at the card that had come in the letter.
It was an address on Broadway, and was evidently,—even to her inexperienced mind,—the office of a loan broker.
From him she could get the necessary money on the assurance of her nearby wedding and consequent inheritance. Arrangements had, of course, been made by the perpetrators of the crime against Kimball Webb. They must be a clever and powerful set,—they were so unafraid of anything or anybody. The thought of her restored lover and their wedding at last, so thrilled Elsie, that she began preparations at once.
She could scarcely control her impatience to get to the broker’s office.
Once there, she found indeed, that all had been arranged.
The affable Hebrew, who presided over the establishment, was confidentially minded, and was quite ready to advance the large sum required in return for Elsie’s signed promise to pay,—with exorbitant interest, the day after her marriage.
For Elsie Powell and her affairs were well known to newspaper readers and the affable Jew felt no qualms of doubt as to his future reimbursement and his usury.
The parcel, made up neatly and inconspicuously, was handed to Elsie and her signed document carefully put away in a big safe.
The transaction meant little to Elsie, herself, so wrapped up was her whole soul in her coming adventure.
She would get Kimball back! That was all she knew or cared about!
She went to Altman’s, her precious package in her handbag, which she carried with seeming carelessness, but with a watchful eye.
She had a strange feeling of security because of the character and appearance of the notes she had received. Had they been illiterate scrawls she would have hesitated to go ahead as she had done, but the educated and socially correct tone of the letters gave her the impression of brains and character, however big a villain the writer might be.
With a beating heart, but with a steady step she came out of Altman’s shop and seemed to glance casually about for a cab.
Seeing a driver with a yellow plaid cap, she beckoned him and got into his cab.
No word was spoken as she settled herself on the seat, and watched the man start the car.
He, too, was nonchalant of manner, and drove away toward Madison Avenue.
From there they followed a devious course, turning often, returning on their own tracks, wheeling suddenly, performing various eccentric detours, all, doubtless in an endeavour to detect a follower, if any.
Elsie sat quietly, unmoved by these strange motions, and full of buoyant hope that all would be well, since she had not betrayed her trust.
After a time the taxicab stopped at a curb, another cab drew up at its side, and Elsie stepped from one to the other.
The second cab had also a taciturn, grave-faced driver. Though he said no word, gave no look of intelligence, Elsie felt a sense of safety with him, from his very silence. She was free from all fear, and looked forward eagerly to the consummation of her errand.
This time it was a long drive. On they went, northward from the city and into a pleasant, wooded locality. Swiftly the car flew and after an hour’s journey they were on a smooth road, with groves of trees on either side. But it was a travelled road, and its well-kept asphalt proclaimed its nearness to civilization.
Elsie kept her eyes open and her mind clear. She grew impatient for the end of her trip, but she preserved her poise and her balance.
“Here’s the car, miss,” the taxi driver said suddenly, and she saw a red roadster approaching swiftly.
Both cars slowed down and then stopped.
From the red car a man leaned out. He had a small mask on that concealed most of his features, but Elsie caught a gleam of many gold filled teeth in his lower jaw. Into his outstretched hand, conveniently near, Elsie placed the packet, from her hand-bag. She felt a shock of disappointment that she did not receive Kimball in return, right then and there, but she had no time to speak. In a flash, the driver on the cab she was in, sprang from his seat, jumped into the red car, and like a streak the roadster disappeared.
Alone, in a driverless taxicab, Elsie sat, unable for a moment to realize what had happened.
Slowly it dawned upon her that she had been tricked,—swindled,—but no, she couldn’t believe that! She felt sure that the men had only carried out their plans for safety. That they feared pursuit and had made off with the money and would restore Kimball in their own good time, she had no doubt. The thing was, now, how was she to get home?
She wasn’t greatly alarmed, for the well-kept road gave hope of frequent travellers, and somebody would take her back to New York.
And, after a time, somebody did. She let several cars pass before she asked help, and though curious looks were cast at her, no one intruded upon her. But when she saw a car come by, with a good chauffeur, and a benignant looking lady in the tonneau, she asked for a ride to New York.
The benignant looking lady was not all that could be hoped for in the way of cordiality, but when Elsie explained that the taxicab had refused to go and the chauffeur had gone for help and that she was in great haste to get to the city the lady agreed to take her. Remarking, however, that for a girl who wanted to get to New York in haste, her cab was turned astonishingly in the opposite direction!
But Elsie’s smile and winning manner soon overcame the other’s asperity, and they were affably chatting long before they reached the city.
Naturally enough, the kind lady asked the name of her passenger, but Elsie, knowing the necessity for caution, gave an assumed name and address and made up a story of her life that was as plausible as it was false.
But she dared take no chances on breaking her pledge of inviolate secrecy, lest she lose her chance of getting Kimball back, and after all she had gone through, that would be unbearable.
She asked to be set down at the Grand Central Station, as she was going back to her home,—avowedly in Boston,—that night.
Warmly friendly by this time, the benignant lady set her down as requested, after exacting a promise to hear from her by letter.
Alone again, Elsie flew for a taxicab and went straight home. She glanced at the mail, arrived since her departure, but was not surprised to find no letter in the writing of her new correspondent. He had said he would not write again, and she did not think he would.
She had nothing to do now, but wait. She had conscientiously fulfilled her part of the bargain, and she had utter faith that the abductors of Kimball would do the same. They had their money—what more did they want?
She waited all that evening, dully patient, quietly serene of manner, but with a heart that beat wildly when the door bell or telephone sounded.
Occasionally, she telephoned to the Webb house, hardly thinking Kimball would go there before coming to her, but unable to resist general inquiry.
At bedtime, she had heard nothing from him, and resolved to go to bed and to sleep in happy hopes of a blessed meeting tomorrow.
She could not sleep,—slumber does not come for the willing of it and as she tossed in wide awake suspense, her thoughts took a new turn.