“That’s right,” Coley agreed; “I’ve looked up the Courtney side of the case, and it’s all as Miss Powell says. I don’t trust the fair Lulie, though,—do you?” and he looked at Elsie.
“No, I don’t. She adores Wallace, and I know she’ll tell him a whole lot of points from Kim’s play, which Mr. Courtney will use in his own. But I don’t care, if we can only get Kim back,—his play can go into the discard.”
“That’s the talk! Now, Miss Powell, who’s your suspect?”
“I’m of a divided opinion, between the Webbs and Mr. Courtney. And sometimes,—I don’t think it could have been either of them.”
“Spooks, then?”
“Oh, gracious, no! Cut out all thought of that idea!”
“But what about the queer things that have happened in the room Mr. Webb used? I’m told there have been unexplained sounds and missing jewels and pulled-off bedclothes—”
“All garbled reports of servants or the Webb ladies themselves, who are foolishly inclined to the supernatural.”
“Miss Webb, as well as her mother?”
“Partially. Henrietta doesn’t admit it, but she believes in visitations,—or premonitions, anyway.”
“Well, so much for suspects. Now, for motives: The Webbs’ motive being, of course, to prevent their beloved son and brother from making a match of which they don’t wholly approve.”
“Right,” said Elsie, her lip curling.
“Mr. Courtney’s motive being the sequestration of Kimball Webb, his rival playwright, until his own play is completed.”
“Motive enough in his estimation,” commented Elsie.
“Yes; motive enough for his desire to put the man away, but not enough to explain his accomplishment of what must have been for him a difficult feat. The abduction of Mr. Webb would have been easy enough for his own people but for no one else. That so?”
“Yes,” Elsie added. “But if his own people did it, where are they keeping him all this time?”
“The same question is pertinent, whoever is responsible for the disappearance. I’m leaving out the reckoning that Mr. Webb went away willingly. I don’t believe that for a minute. I’m working entirely on the assumption that he was kidnapped, abducted, carried off by force and for a wrong purpose. That means there’s a criminal to be found, and I’m going to find him. The witnesses against him are sleeping dogs, so far, but I’m going to stir them up! You’ll see!”
“But there couldn’t have been any witnesses,” exclaimed Elsie.
“Why not? Granting that somebody took Mr. Webb away from his home,—and, unless he’s still in that house, somebody did, why couldn’t some other body have seen him taken?”
“I suppose somebody could,” Elsie admitted, “but in that case, why haven’t they come forward and told of it?”
“There are lots of good and expensive reasons why they don’t.”
“But you know there’s a reward of fifty thousand dollars—”
“Which, to my mind, goes to prove that whoever took him had a bigger deal on than that. Now, let’s consider a motive. This isn’t a murder case,—so far as we know—oh, don’t do that!” for Elsie broke down at his implied suggestion and shook with sobs.
“Look here, Miss Powell, we’re going to stir up things and we must be prepared for whatever we find. I’ve not the slightest reason to think of foul play in the case, but we must hunt the criminal just as carefully as if we were looking for a murderer. Now, brace up and don’t be scared by a sleeping dog that isn’t there!”
“Go on about a motive,” said Gerty, who was listening intently.
“Well, we’ve got to admit that Kimball Webb has been stolen. We’ll use that term as being more graphic than kidnapped or abducted. The former always connotes an infant, and the latter seems to me to imply a girl. Let’s say Mr. Webb has been stolen, and we’re out to get back the stolen goods. Now, what’s the reason he was stolen? It’s got to be an awful big reason, for the robber took awful big risks. And it’s a daring,—a stupendously daring stunt that he pulled off! He’s been planning it for a long time,—I say, he,—but if it turns out to be the Webb ladies, we’ll change our pronoun. Now, there’s no reason big enough but money. I’m prepared to stand by that statement. Love is a strong motive for lots of crimes,—but you don’t suspect any of your disappointed suitors, do you, Miss Powell?”
“No,” and Elsie smiled at his expression. “There are lots of them heartbroken, of course, but none that I can think would have inclination or ability to cut up such a trick.”
“Well, then, grant the reason is acquisition of money, somehow. Perhaps the reward is not big enough,—”
“Fifty thousand dollars!”
“Maybe the criminal is out for bigger loot. Who would benefit financially by the disappearance of Kimball Webb?”
“Nobody; he is not a rich man by any means,” Elsie informed him.
The mass of brown hair wagged wildly, as Coley Cole shook his head.
“Not from his estate,—the man isn’t dead. But supposing you, Miss Powell, stuck to your resolution not to marry any one else, thereby losing your aunt’s money, who would benefit?”
“Joe Allison!”
“Exactly. No, we’ve no definite reason to suspect Mr. Allison, we’ve no scrap of evidence against him, no clue to his guilt. But I shall stir up some sleeping dogs and see how they bark at him.”
“Joe!” Gerty exclaimed; “ridiculous!”
“So, Mrs. Seaman? And whowouldn’tbe ridiculous?”
“The Webbs wouldn’t. It would be natural, quite in keeping with their way of doing things, and it wouldn’t be ridiculous to suspect them.”
“Now, I think it would,” Coley put his head on one side, and his blue eyes smiled at her. “I do think it would be ridiculous to imagine two staid, respectable ladies putting a man out of the way, against his will. And, if with his consent, why the mystery at all? Why not let the man go off of his own accord,—or, even tell Miss Powell of his wish to break off the affair, and ask her to release him.”
“He didn’t want to be released!” Elsie cried, indignantly, “and you know it, Gert!”
“Of course I know it! No, Mr. Coe, Elsie’s bridegroom never deserted her! I know him well, and I know his devotion to my sister was loyal and faithful.”
“Yes, I know all that, too,” Coley tossed back his hair. “If the Webbs are responsible for his disappearance, it was done without his knowledge or consent.”
“How do you mean?” Elsie exclaimed.
“I mean he was carried off while unconscious.”
“Impossible!”
“Any other theory is impossible. Mr. Webb is no weakling,—although hampered by his wounded knee. He would put up a stiff fight if he knew he was being stolen!”
“How do you know that?”
“Oh, I told you I had all the facts of the case. I’m getting fancies now,—and I’ll admit yours are illuminating.”
“Go on,” Elsie said, “ask for more,—we’ll give ’em.”
“Nope. Got enough now. Next I want to see friend Allison.”
“Don’t let him know you suspect him,” Gerty begged. “He can’t be the one.”
“Leave me to judge of that. How can I see him?”
“He’ll probably be here soon,” Elsie said, “but as Gerty says, don’t suspecthim,—it’s foolish.”
Coley glared at her, his blue eyes glinting with mock severity. “Don’t tell me whom to suspect, Miss Powell! I shall suspect everybody. Not omitting yourself, your mother, your sister,—or her babies! Now, will you be good?”
“Oh, if it’s merely a matter of universal suspicion, all right.”
“That’s my custom. Suspect everybody, and then eliminate the useless suspects as fast as you can.”
“Eliminate my two kiddies as soon as possible, won’t you?” laughed Gerty, and Coe promised.
Before Allison came, Fenn Whiting turned up.
He looked at Coley Coe with interest, as they were introduced, and Coe’s business there explained.
“Good work!” Whiting said, heartily. “Count on me to help.”
“First you must be suspected, Fenn,” Elsie said, and Whiting looked inquiringly at Coe.
“You’re after me?” he asked, genially.
“After everybody,” Coe returned. “I’ve just crossed off the two Seaman children as suspects, because of the pleadings of their mother, but no one else may be stricken from my list until he is proved to be beyond suspicion.”
“Good! Go ahead. Where do I get off? Want my alibi or what? I’m not impatient, but I’d like to be passed, so I can begin to help you.”
“Good for you, I want help. Start in, will you, by telling me whom you suspect,—if any?”
“Suspect is too strong a word,—but my theory is that Kimball Webb abducted himself, with the connivance and help of his butler and chauffeur.”
“And the knowledge and consent of his mother and sister?”
“That I’m not so sure of. But looked at from the viewpoint of plain common sense, there seems to me no other way for that man to have gotten out of that room and out of that house, but to have walked out voluntarily.”
“And the locked doors?”
“A fabrication of the said servants. You may theorize and talk fairy tales all you like, but there’s no other rational explanation.”
“And the motive?”
“I can’t say. Quite aside from the rudeness and impoliteness of hinting any lack of his desire to marry Miss Powell, I can’t believe such a thing could be true. I’m positive that man, when at his own bachelor dinner, at which I was present, expected and intended to become a bridegroom the following day. Now, I believe something transpired, after his return home, that made it impossible or undesirable that he should be married. I can’t say what,—for I’ve no idea,—but something pretty big and unavoidable.”
“You mean something disgraceful?” the blue eyes of his questioner looked into his own.
The steel grey eyes of Fenn Whiting met the others squarely.
“I don’t want to say that,” he spoke slowly, “but it may have been. Better men than Kimball Webb have been brought to bay by force of circumstances; wiser men than he have been the victims of blackmailing schemes; stronger men than he have met disaster through no fault of their own. I make no suggestions,—I have none to make,—but I maintain the only logical theory of Webb’s disappearance is that he went voluntarily, if not willingly.”
“I think you’re horrid!” Elsie cried, her eyes flashing. “Kimneverdid anything wrong or underhanded! He couldn’t have been blackmailed! He couldn’t have been involved in any thing disgraceful! How idiotic!”
“If the idea is idiotic, Miss Powell, it will meet the fate it deserves. But we must stir up those sleeping dogs of blackmailers, if they exist. It is a plausible theory, if not the only possible one, and I shall remember it.”
Whiting gave the young detective a look of appreciative interest and the glance was returned, for the two men seemed to understand each other.
“I admit it’s only a theory,” Whiting said, his prominent, muscular jaw set with a grim decision, “but you’ll be hard put to it, to trump up a better one.”
“That may well be,” Coe agreed, “but I’d be sorry to depend on one theory alone. I like to have lots of them, then, if I pick up a clue here or there, I can fit it in where it belongs.”
Like a Skye Terrier, he blinked through the absurd mop of hair that covered his forehead, and Whiting, his own brow bared, showing lines that sloped up to a point, gazed at Coe with a fascinated curiosity.
He wondered why the man chose that peculiar haircut, but it was not his business and he asked no questions.
“All right,” he said; “any of your theories ripe for discussion?”
“Yes; one of them. I think a very strong motive could be ascribed to the young man from the West,—the alternative heir, you know.”
“Allison?” said Whiting. “Oh, come, now, you’ve nothing against him.”
“Only his certainty of inheriting the millions, in case Miss Powell doesn’t marry by the stated date. Fine scheme, to steal the bridegroom,—thus lessening by a large percentage the chances of her immediate wedding.”
“Yes, the motive is all right,” Whiting agreed, “but you don’t know Joe! Why, he’s the whitest young chap—”
“On the surface; why not? But, do you suppose a criminal goes about labelled? Count every man guilty until he’s proved innocent, is a better plan to work on than the reverse principle. If Joe Allison is innocent it will be far easier for him to prove it, than for me to prove it if he’s guilty.”
Whiting pondered over this, then he said,
“Well, I admit, you’re the most novel detective I’ve ever run up against! Have you usually succeeded in your quests?”
“That’s a leading question.” Coley Coe looked a little surprised at it, as if he thought it a breach of etiquette.
Whiting flushed and his thin lips shut together sharply, as they did when he was a bit embarrassed.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, simply. “That did sound rude, but honestly, I didn’t mean it so. It was the unconsidered expression of my interest in your methods,—which, if I may say it, are refreshingly unusual.”
Coe accepted the honourable apology, and met Whiting half-way.
“My methods are unusual, and I’m properly ashamed of them.” His eyes smiled. “But they do work,—and I have had successes,—oh, lots of ’em!” he wound up, boyishly.
Then Allison came.
The others looked on curiously as Coley Cole made his first survey of the young Westerner.
Unsuspectingly, Joe stood the ordeal well. He looked his usual frank, good-natured self, and he greeted the detective with unconcealed interest.
“Miss Powell told me about you,” he said, “and I’m downright glad you’ve begun to look into this thing. It seemed to me nothing was being done. Not that it’s my business,—but I’m more or less mixed up in it, and I want to see the mystery cleared up.”
“When did you arrive in New York?” Coe asked him, with a straightforward glance.
“About a week after the disappearance of Mr. Webb. Why?”
“Merely getting information. You’ve no objection to giving it?”
“Not a bit. But if you’re suspecting me, say so, right out. I’d like it better.”
“I daresay you would, but we detectives don’t always ask suspects their preferences.”
Joe’s blank look of surprise at this speech was funny to see. He glared at Coe, and then under the influence of the shining eyes and the ridiculous hair, Allison laughed and said, “You’ll do! And so you don’t suspect me, after all? Why don’t you?”
“That’s part of the tricks of my trade,” Coe returned. “I never let my suspects think I suspect them. It would spoil my investigation work if I did.”
“By George!” ejaculated Allison; “you’ll get me scared if you talk like that. I suppose you think I had a motive for putting Mr. Webb out of the way—”
“Oh, Joe,” cried Gerty, “don’t take Mr. Coe so seriously; of course he doesn’t suspect you.”
“Of course I do,” said Coley, calmly. “I suspect everybody. I’ve told you that before. At this moment I suspect every person who I’ve heard has any connection with the matter at all,—anyconnection, mind you,—and I shall finally fasten the guilt on one of my suspects.”
“Do you know already which one?” Elsie cried, quickly.
“I do not; but I’ll say that I suspect some more than others,—though I may be mistaken. I’m not infallible.”
No one deemed Kimball Webb dead, yet the grave itself could not have been more silent than the circumstances of his absence.
The public generally were divided into two classes, those who thought he had decamped to avoid his wedding and those who thought he had been abducted for some undiscovered reason.
The Webb family were extremely reticent, and neither Mrs. Webb nor Henrietta expressed definite beliefs or fears. Even to their nearest and dearest friends they showed an attitude of patient waiting and cheery hopefulness of Kimball’s return. This caused, in many minds, suspicion that they knew where Kimball was, and had no fears for his safety.
The Powell family,—that is, Mrs. Powell and Gerty, were growing daily more alarmed and anxious about the future. If Kimball did not reappear before the thirtieth of June, and if Elsie persisted in her refusal to marry any one else, their present income would cease entirely, they would have to move out of their luxurious home, and the outlook was most dismal.
There were many men ready and willing to marry Elsie Powell, and not alone for the fortune she would inherit. Elsie had had “shoals of suitors” ever since her school days, and though when she met Kimball Webb, she discarded all serious thought of the others, they did not so easily give her up.
Fenn Whiting was the most zealous and insistent of the lot. He had worshipped Elsie for years. He had been forced to step aside in Webb’s favour, but now, with Webb out of the running, he renewed his suit with all the ardour of his intense nature.
He put the matter before Elsie in every possible light. He offered to marry her after her birthday had passed and she was a poor girl, or before her birthday, when the marriage would assure her the fortune. The decision was left to her. Or, he suggested, he would consider her engaged to him, she could set the wedding day whenever she chose, and, then, if Webb turned up before the hour, he would abdicate in his favour.
No one could make more generous or more magnanimous proposals, and Elsie was touched by his patience and devotion.
Yet she could not bring herself to agree to his plans. There was nearly a month, still, before her birthday, and much might happen in a month.
Then, too, Joe Allison was to be considered. He, also, wanted to marry Elsie, but he adhered to his plan of waiting until after her birthday when the control of the fortune would be his.
This, he declared, in no way reflected on his love or consideration for her, but it seemed to him, more fitting in every way, that the husband should own the fortune,—especially as he was willing to give his wifecarte blancheand also to provide liberally for her family.
Elsie rather admired the staunchness of his purpose in this respect, for she had come to know Allison well enough to appreciate his strong will and his hard common sense.
Meantime, Coleman Coe was busily stirring up his sleeping dogs.
He seemed to possess an uncanny intuition as to where sleeping dogs were lying, and he went straight, though secretly, after them.
His methods were, perhaps, unusual, for he depended largely on assistants. His belief was, that he could do better work by farming out the drudgery of his pursuit, and doing only the thinking parts himself.
So, he had a fairly good-sized corps of assistants, whom he had trained to do just what he told them and no more.
By far the greater part of them were shadowers.
Not professional trailers, from a detective Bureau, but men, boys,—and also girls, whom he had picked here and there with a view to their special adaptation for the work.
Coe’s great first principle was to learn what a suspect is doing when he doesn’t think he is watched.
Therefore, with careful and comprehensive effort, he was making a list of the people he wanted shadowed.
Coley Coe, was neither visionary nor imaginative. He did depend a great deal on intuition, but only when it was undoubtedly in accordance with facts.
His list completed, he put his machinery in motion, and soon had quiet but efficient trailers following the daily routine of both Henrietta Webb and her mother, also their two men servants, Hollis and Oscar.
Then, a competent shadow never lost sight of Joe Allison. Another was unobtrusively at the heels of Fenn Whiting, and another reported duly every move of Wallace Courtney.
Lulie Lloyd was under secret surveillance, as was Owen Thorne, the trusted trustee.
This work in the hands of efficient workers was neither difficult nor onerous, and it gave Coe a wide outlook of possibilities when the reports came in.
Nor was Coley himself idle. He could cover a great many occasions denied to his underlings. He could see the Webb ladies in their home surroundings; could call on Allison or Whiting when he chose, could demand an interview with Wallace Courtney however much that busy gentleman might object; and could see Lulie Lloyd any time he cared to invite her out for an evening.
In fact, Lulie was quite taken with the gay young Coe, and small wonder, for he deliberately determined that she should be.
No girl of Lulie Lloyd’s stamp could resist the lure of Coley’s admiring blue eyes, or the fascination of the tossing hair above his brow.
Even Elsie found him so agreeable that her mother said pettishly, “If that young busy-body never succeeds in finding Kim, you might marry him—”
She stopped, a little frightened at the look Elsie gave her.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she cried.
“Then never say anything of that sort again,” Elsie warned her, in a severe voice. “I’ve trouble enough, mother, without such thoughtless, heartless speeches from you.”
“Oh, pshaw, Elsie,” spoke up Gerty, “mother didn’t mean anything. If you take it so seriously I shall think you’re really interested in Coley Coe.”
“I am, to the extent of his work for me,—and no further.”
“I’ve yet to see any extent to his work,” sneered Gerty; “it seems to me that he doesn’t get anywhere.”
“Give him time,” Elsie retorted. “He’s only been on the case about a week. But, truly, Gert, I have faith in him. I believe he’ll find Kimball yet!”
“Well, I don’t. You may rest assured that whoever put Kim out of the way will keep him out till after your birthday. And I think, Elsie, you ought to decide what you’re going to do. It’s too awful for you to sit still, and let your birthday go by, without marrying anybody.”
“Far more awful to marry somebody you don’t care for. Look here, you and mother both married for love; why shouldIsacrifice myself for the greed of my family—”
“Oh, Elsie,” cried her mother, “what a way to put it!”
“It’s the truth,” said Elsie, doggedly, “and you two must admit it. You want me to marry just so you can continue to live here in luxury, and have no care about money matters.”
“I’m sure I think more of your welfare than my own,” insisted Mrs. Powell. “I want my child to secure the inheritance that was left to her.”
“At the cost of all my happiness in life!” stormed Elsie. “At the cost of a broken heart and a loveless marriage,—the saddest fate that can befall a woman!”
“Rubbish!” exclaimed Gerty. “Cut out the histrionics, Elsie. You’re too young to think your heart is for ever bound up in Kimball Webb. There are lots of men as good as he,—and if you’d never met him, you would have been entirely satisfied with Fenn Whiting,—who is really the finer man of the two.”
“Gerty, I’m ashamed of you. Suppose somebody had told you another man was better or finer than Philip, would you have calmly agreed?”
“That’s different. And it doesn’t matter. Had I been situated as you are, I would have thought it my duty to marry some good man rather than let my mother and sister know want.”
“Yes, had you been situated as I am, you would have married anybody, for your own sake, rather than lose five million dollars!”
“I should,” Gerty calmly agreed; “and ninety-nine women out of a hundred would do the same.”
“Then I’m the hundredth,” Elsie spoke with a quiet decision, “for I repeat, what you already know, I will never marry any one but Kimball Webb,—money or no money,—family or no family.”
“That I should live to hear a child of mine talk like that!” wailed Mrs. Powell. “Elsie, have you no heart? Have you no compassion for an invalid mother,—a sorrow-stricken sister,—two helpless little children? What sort of a monster are you?”
“Don’t, mother!” Elsie begged, her lovely face aghast at the accusations hurled at her.
“Mother is right,” said Gerty; “I haven’t the same authority over you, as your mother, but if I had, I should command you to do what is so clearly your duty. I do not speak for myself, but for mother’s sake, and for the sake of my lovely innocent children, I humiliate my pride and beg of you,—beg of you, Elsie, to save us from disgrace and poverty.”
“You do speak for yourself,” Elsie’s clear eyes rested on her sister, “you do think of yourself first, Gerty, you always do,—though you pretend you don’t. And I don’t see how you can! It is outrageous,—heathenish for you to talk as you do,—both of you! You practically want to sell me,—sell me for your own comfort and ease! And I refuse to be sold!”
“Very well, then,” and Gerty looked despairing, “there’s no more to be said. We may as well begin to get ready to leave this apartment. Where we can go, I’ve no idea. You know what rents are, now; you know how impossible it is to get an apartment of any sort,—and, too, we can’t affordanyapartment! I suppose we shall have to live in a tenement house,—or go into the country.”
“I expect to get work,” said Elsie.
“Don’t be ridiculous, child,” said her mother. “What work can you possibly do?”
“Oh, there are lots of things,—stenography,—private secretary, open a tea room—”
“Elsie,” and Gerty looked very stern. “Do try to talk sense! If you’re really thinking you can do those things, let me remind you that stenography requires a year, at least, for tuition and practice; a tea room requires capital, influence and a special adaptation for that sort of thing,—which you haven’t got. As for a private secretary, you’re about the least fitted for that of any one I know! You can’t keep your own desk in order, or your own correspondence looked after. You’re for ever forgetting engagements, and you’re accustomed to an idle life, getting up when you choose and being absolute mistress of your time. You couldn’t adapt yourself to routine work, or to being always at the beck and call of anybody, so you couldn’t make a success of any of those things. The result would be that instead of providing a home, you would be everlastingly sent back home from your work because of your failure to give satisfaction.”
Elsie looked at her sister, a dumb acquiescence in her big brown eyes. They had a hunted expression, as of a frightened fawn at bay.
“Then, whatcanI do! Oh, Gerty, help me! You’re my older sister, give me some real help—tell me some way I can satisfy you and mother, and not—not be sold like a slave in the market!”
“Dear child,” and Gerty became suddenly suave and gentle, “it isn’t being sold to give yourself to some good and worthy man. And, it is as your loving elder sister that I advise you as I do. I speak truly, when I tell you you could never earn your living at any business. In this day, skilled labour is required; the services of experienced, efficient girls are demanded and a beginner, a learner, has no chance at all. Now, marriage, with a true-hearted, honourable man, is the best lot that could befall you,—”
“Without love!”
“Love will come. No woman can remain insensible to the devotion of a loving husband. Fenn Whiting—”
“I won’t marry Fenn Whiting! I hate him!”
“Well, Mr. Harbison—”
“I hate him, too!” Elsie was white with angry excitement. “I hate everybody but Kim!”
“Oh, well, if you’re going to act like that!” Gerty gave up the argument.
But Mrs. Powell took it up.
“Your sister is right, Elsie, dear,” she said; “and I’m sure you must know your own mother would be the last person in the world to advise you to do anything wrong or anything that might endanger your happiness. But a woman’s happiest life is the married life. You will eventually believe this; you will some day marry, and if Kimball never returns, it will be some other man. Why not realize this, and marry now, thus securing the great wealth that is rightfully your own but can be attained only by your marriage. Don’t harp on love,—as Gerty says, it will come with your married life. It will unfold like a beautiful flower as the time goes on,—as you live with and in the companionship of a good kind man—”
“Mother, do stop!” Elsie cried, in desperation. “If you want me to sacrifice myself for that detestable money, say so! But don’t get off all that foolish argument about love coming after marriage and all that! In fact you stand a better chance of persuading me, if you say frankly it’s for your sake and Gerty’s, than if you talk rubbish about me.”
“I thought you’d see your duty,” Gerty cried, clutching at the straw Elsie had tacitly held out. “Do it for us, then, Elsie! Marry whomever you will, goodness knows you’ve enough to choose from, but do it before the thirtieth of June! Will you,—willyou, Elsie?”
She hung on her sister’s words, she listened for Elsie’s decision.
“Oh, Gerty, let me think—”
“You’ve had time enough to think. If you’re to be married before the thirtieth, it’s time we began preparations.”
“Preparations? They’re all made. I have my trousseau,—”
“Yes, of course. The principal preparation is to decide on the right man.”
“There’s only one right man,” and Elsie’s eyes were piteous.
“Yes, yes,” said Gerty, hurriedly, “I mean the nicest man except Kimball. Now, let’s think him over. You don’t really hate Fenn, do you?”
“No, I don’t hate him,—he’s a good friend, and all that. But, oh, Gert, I couldn’t live with him! He has no,—no imagination.”
“You mean no love of hifalutin poetry, and that sort of thing that you and Kim fooled so much time over.”
“Yes,—I suppose I do.”
“Well, let me tell you, a strong, sound personality like Fenn Whiting, is worth a lot more in the long run than a mooning, visionary sort of person.”
“Kim isn’t mooning and visionary.”
“Never mind Kim. Say, Elsie, how do you like Joe?”
“Joe Allison! Marry him! Oh, Gerty, ridiculous! And, too, he insists on having the money in his own right.”
“He won’t, if you insist the other way. Joe’s over head and ears in love with you, and if you like you can twist him round your finger.”
“I suppose I could,—but Joe is so—so—, oh, sort of raw—”
“Raw! Joe Allison! Why, Elsie, he’s most polished,—most correct of manner, most delightful conversationalist—”
“Hold on, Gert, you’re making him out a paragon! If he’s all that, in your eyes, why don’t you marry him yourself? You’re bound to marry again, sooner or later, and really, it would settle things beautifully, if I let my birthday pass, let Joe get the money, and then let him marry you instead of me. You could give me enough to live on,—and I could wait for Kim.”
“Great scheme, Elsie,” Gerty said, coldly; “there’s only the objection,—Joe wouldn’t have me.”
“Oh, so you’ve thought it over, have you? Well, Gerty, I don’t know just what I shall do. But I’m not going to be pushed to a decision. I’m waiting on Mr. Coe’s actions. He may find Kim for me—”
“Not likely!” Gerty scoffed.
“No, I fear it isn’t likely. But I’m still hoping for it. Anyway, I won’t be forced into this wedding you insist upon. If I agree, I’ll tell you in time for you to make the ‘preparations’ you talk about. But I won’t have a big wedding—”
“No, dearest, just a small, quiet affair,—oh, Elsie, how sweet you are! I knew you’d see reason at last—”
“I haven’t seen it yet,—and I haven’t said positively that I will!”
Gerty kept silent, lest she should lose the ground she had already gained in the conflict.
That evening Coley Coe called to report to Elsie.
“Let’s go out somewhere where we can talk unheard,” he urged.
“Oh, we’re all right in the drawing room,” Elsie demurred, “no one can overhear us here.”
“Yes, they can. Come out somewhere.”
So Elsie agreed and they went for a stroll, winding up at a quiet pleasant restaurant where they had supper.
“I’ve a lot of wild information,” Coe informed her; “and I believe when it’s sifted out, we’ll find out things, decidedly important, if true!”
“Such as?” Elsie asked, smiling at his impetuous manner.
“I’ve had my minions out stirring up sleeping dogs, and by George, Miss Powell, they’ve wakened up some mighty funny curs!”
“Tell me all about it,” and Elsie’s interest equalled Coley’s own.
“Well, to begin with, the Hen, Henrietta, is a most mysterious person. That is, she goes on most mysterious errands, secretly and alone.”
“To visit her brother! In his concealment!” Elsie jumped at the conclusion.
“Dunno yet. Know where she goes, all right,—but not what for. But we’ll find out. Things are working. Then, Mrs. Webb, the old lady, she goes on private missions also. They’re a queer pair!”
“Doesn’t that seem as if they must have Mr. Webb hidden? Or, at least know where he is hiding?”
“Looks a little that way, I admit. Then we’re trailing the Webb servants, you know. Well, Hollis seems all right, but Oscar’s a lame duck!”
“How?”
“He goes to the same place Miss Webb goes to, and he goes on the sly, too. I’ll get onto it, but I haven’t been able to do so yet.”
“Go on,—who else?”
“Then there’s Mr. Courtney. I doubt there’s anything wrong about him, after all. I think he’s tickled to death at Mr. Webb’s disappearance for he’s fairly digging at his play, but I don’t think he had anything to do with the crime.”
“Crime?”
“Sure. Abduction is a crime,—and I’m positive that Kimball Webb never went away of his own initiative! Never!”
“I agree to that! What about Joe Allison?”
“Can’t pin anything on him,—nor on Fenn Whiting.”
“I didn’t expect you would.”
“Well, I’m having them both watched. Allison frequents second-hand jewellery shops, that’s the only queer thing about him.”
“You’re thinking of my diamond pendant.”
“I am. Maybe Mr. Webb has that with him,—wherever he is, and then again maybe he hasn’t.”
Elsie looked thoughtful. “If the Webb ladies know where he is, they know where the diamonds are,” she declared. “I can’t help thinking there may be a thief in the matter though. You see, he showed the diamonds at his dinner party,—oh, I don’t mean his guests,—but, maybe the waiters,—”
“I’ve thrashed that all out,—and there’s small chance of burglary. If anybody had wanted to steal that valuable pendant, he wouldn’t have attempted to get away with the man at the same time! And, if anybody wanted to abduct the man, the diamonds would have been a secondary consideration. To be sure the abductor might have stolen them,—just because they were handy by,—but in that case, they won’t be on the market for a long time, and then, not here.”
“Then how do you mix Joe Allison with it all?”
“I don’t know. But he’s such a good one to suspect.” Coley grinned, and tossed his brown mane back like a war horse, prancing. “You see, if he can’t get the fortune, it’s a next best thing to get that big diamond haul. I’m told it was a pretty high-priced gewgaw.”
“Oh, it was. And the Webb ladies were mad as mad that Kimball bought it for me.”
“That’s not enough to stamp them as burglars,—but their disapproval of the match is quite enough to lay them open to suspicion as to the disappearance. And the necklace would be missing in either case.”
“Haven’t you done anything toward finding out how Kim got out of the locked room?”
“Not a thing. If the Webb ladies made up that yarn, there’s no use worrying over it. And if they didn’t, I’ll know soon that they didn’t.”
“How?”
“By finding out where their secret errands take them to.”
Coley Coe sat in his somewhat eccentric looking den, in an attitude characteristic of his working hours. He occupied a big over-stuffed chair, and while his head and shoulders rested on one of its wide arms, his feet and legs were draped carelessly over the other. His remarkable hair fountained out over his forehead and almost hid his eyes, which were fairly blinking in the earnestness of his thought.
He was clearing out his always methodical mind, and tabulating his ideas as he went along.
“There are two distinct things to hunt for,” he said to himself; “first, Mr. Kimball Webb, and second the abductor of Mr. Kimball Webb. In fact it doesn’t matter which I find first,—one will doubtless lead to the other. Now, it’s practically hopeless to hunt for Mr. Webb, for if he could have escaped his confinement,—granting that he is confined,—he would have been heard from before this. There’s the theory that he’s staying away willingly, but that I do not believe. Now, so far as I can see, there’s nobody likely to know anything about where he is, except the person or persons who put him there. And while his mother and sister are possible suspects, they are not, to my mind, plausible ones. For,—oh, well, I just can’t see ’em in that light.