Knowing that the number of the four-wheeler was 872, it was not a difficult matter to begin the inquiry. But to secure any real information—that was different. The driver, a respectable albeit somewhat thick-headed Irishman, could offer only vague recollections of his business for the night of November 16th. He had been lucky enough to secure several fares, but there had been nothing in the appearance of any of his passengers to attract his attention. A gentleman in evening dress with his head tied up in a black bag and accompanied by a man wearing a red fez! Certainly he would have taken notice of anything like THAT. "Niver in my cab," asseverated honest Mulvihill. "I've been hacking it for twenty years and carried some quare cargoes. But of that sort—no, sorr!"
Clearly there was nothing to be learned from the cabman, and he was undoubtedly sincere in his protestations. The little peculiarities of costume that had originally caught my eye were obviously unsuited for public wear. The fez and the black bag had probably been brought into use after the men of mystery had entered the cab, and it was only through the accident of the suddenly released window-shade that Esper Indiman and I had seen what we did. "No thoroughfare" stood out plainly on this particular road. Then the humor took me to try conclusions with Chance herself, the method a la Indiman. I chucked a silver dollar to the cabman. "Whatever it's worth to you in time and distance," I said. "Don't ask me any questions—go as you please."
Hackman Mulvihill was a humorist in his way and he wanted to spare his horse. Six times in succession we made the circuit of Madison Square and never once off the walk. I was on the point of protesting, but I remembered the rules of the game and held my tongue. Finally, we started down-town by way of Fourth Avenue. Near Sixteenth Street and Union Square the cab pulled up to the curb, an intimation that my chartered voyage was over.
"And now which way?" I inquired, smilingly.
Mr. Mulvihill regarded me with compassionate and somewhat unflattering interest. "Be glory!" he said, frankly, "it's Bellevue that ye'll be wanting afore long, and badly, too. Come, now, jist jump in again and I'll rowl ye up there quiet and peaceable like. A touch of liver, sorr. I know how it takes them. Maning a drop too much of the 'red-eye,'" he added, under his breath. "Quiet, there, Noddy, ye black divil."
It was with some difficulty that I convinced this good Samaritan of my mental and physical equilibrium. Finally he drove off, wagging his head doubtfully.
"But which way?" I shouted after him. He would not answer in words, but pointed eastward with his whip-stock. Eastward then it was.
Between Union Square and Second Avenue there are several blocks of dwelling-houses—a once fashionable and still highly respectable residential neighborhood. The particular street does not matter, but I was proceeding in the general direction of Stuyvesant Square and had crossed Third Avenue.
Being on the lower or shady side it was something of a surprise to receive a flash of sunlight directly in the eye. I stepped back. On the pavement at my feet there floated a blot of quivering yellow light; it danced directly towards me, and again I was blinded by its dazzle.
The reflection from a mirror, of course, but it took me several minutes to determine its location.
Ah, there it was—a peculiar combination, in polished copper, of triple glasses fixed to the sill of a second-story window in the house directly opposite. The device is in common use in Philadelphia and Baltimore, but here in New York it must be classed as an exotic. Its very name is unfamiliar, and I dub it the "Philadelphia Quizzing-Glass" for want of a better term. You understand, of course, that the mirrors are hinged together and adjustable to any angle. It is consequently possible for an observer sitting in the room to remain entirely out of sight and yet command a view of all that passes in the street below. An ingenious contrivance, then, for keeping one's self informed upon the business of the neighborhood. But New-Yorkers, if not less inquisitive, are more energetic than their Quaker cousins, and prefer the direct method of leaning out of the window, or, if need be, going down into the street itself. Still, there is something to be said for the "quizzing-glass," for we may look upon it as the range-finder of the domestic fortress, forewarning us of the approach of the bore and the process-server. Obviously, the ability to look round a corner may save us from many of the minor complications that embitter modern life.
I was under surveillance—that was certain. Now, should I submit to the impertinence? It was easy to put an end to it by walking away. But I had aspired to be a disciple of Esper Indiman, gentleman adventurer, and here was a chance to take out a letter of marque on my own account—one must look Fortune in the face to catch her smile. And so I stood there immovable, until the dazzle in my eyes cleared away signifying that the ordeal was at an end. Then I lifted my hat and walked on, taking note of the house number—23l.
The next day, Wednesday, it rained, but Thursday was clear, and it was inevitable that I should pay a second visit to the house of the quizzing-glass, as I had mentally christened it. Again I submitted to a long scrutiny. Evidently the result was satisfactory, for the door of the house was opened and a man ran quickly down the steps and came towards me. He was a small man with an Oriental cast of features and he wore a red fez. It sounds incredible, I admit, but such was the fact. He addressed me civilly, but in somewhat imperfect English.
"Morning, sar. It is a fine walk-day."
"Delightful," I assented.
"My mistress, sar—the Lady Allegra—she will be obligated of the honor to have your company dinner. You have no engagement anticipatory?" He stood with his head cocked a trifle to one side, smiling amiably.
"To-night?" I asked.
"That, sar, is my counselment. To-night, at clock nine."
"Very good. I'll be here."
Red-Fez shook his head deprecatingly. Finally, and after much circumlocution, I gathered that I was not expected at No. 231. My instructions were simply to be in waiting at the Worth Monument in Madison Square at half-after eight; for the rest Red-Fez would hold himself responsible. And upon this understanding we parted.
"The Lady Allegra," I said, under my breath, as I walked home. "The Lady Allegra."
Up to this point I had kept my own counsel, but now I felt it my duty to make a confidant of Indiman. He listened to my story with grave attention.
"It promises well—decidedly so," admitted Indiman. "Confound it! If it were not for this unlucky accident of a sprained ankle—" and he glanced ruefully at his injured limb encased in its plaster-of-Paris form.
"I like the name," I went on, somewhat irrelevantly. "The Lady Allegra."
"There are possibilities in it," assented Indiman, grumpily. "Will you hand me my solitaire cards—and, for Heaven's sake! stop kicking the lacquer off the andirons."
"Oh, I beg your pardon."
"Of course you understand what I mean. It isn't the andirons, but the sight of your aggressively vigorous legs that moves me to childish wrath. To be tied down here like a trussed pigeon! Better leave me to my solitaire. I'll be more civilized after luncheon." Whereupon I smiled and went out.
Half-past eight o'clock; the Worth Monument; Red-Fez in a four-wheeler; the carefully drawn window-curtains; the production of the black silk bag with which to envelop my head—it all happened in accordance with the playbill. At first I tried to keep some idea of distance and direction, but I soon got confused and had to give it up. I could only conjecture that the course was a long one, for I heard a clock striking nine just as the cab stopped, and our pace had been a rapid one.
"Thisaway, sar," whispered my guide, and I yielded to the gentle pressure of his hand on my arm. The street door closed behind me, I felt myself guided up a pair of stairs, a sharp turn to the right, and we had arrived. But where? Then I realized that the black silk bag had been removed from my head and I was free to use my eyes. An ironical permission, truly, for I found myself in absolute darkness. Strain my vision as I might, not a ray of light met the sensitive surface of the retina. The blackness stood about me like a wall, immaterial, doubtless, but none the less impenetrable.
Deprived of sight, every mental faculty was instantly concentrated upon the single sense of hearing. My conductor had left me. There was the sound of a closing door and of padded foot-falls that trailed off into nothingness; then silence.
Out of the void came a sharp click as of a well-oiled gun-lock. It was followed by the first notes of a piano-forte accompaniment. A soprano voice began singing Schubert's "Fischermadchen." What a delicious timbre! The clear resonance of a crystal bell.
The beautiful melody ceased, but still I seemed to hear the faint, sweet overtones born of its final breath, thin auditory flames that flickered for an instant against the blank wall of the subconscious sense, and then in their turn were gone. Entranced and motionless, I waited.
A sudden burst of light flooded the room, the radiation being indirect and proceeding from electroliers sunken behind the ceiling cornice. The apartment was of medium size, evidently the middle one of the ordinary series of three rooms characteristic of New York City houses, and it was furnished most simply—merely a table of Flemish oak with two leather-backed chairs to match and some rugs. The walls and door spaces were hung with red velvet draperies, which contrasted brilliantly with the gorgeous, gold-leafed plastic-work of the cornices and ceiling. A convex mirror, framed in massive silver gilt, hung on the side wall. A second look showed that it was really a bull's-eye of crackled glass, opal-tinted and translucent. It glowed as though illumined by some inward fire (doubtless a concealed electric-light bulb), and the shifting play of iridescent color was exquisitely beautiful. One could compare it only with an imprisoned rainbow. I looked and wondered.
"I have kept you waiting. A thousand apologies," said a voice at my back. I turned to face a gentleman who must have entered from the front room; so at least the draperies, still slightly swaying, attested. A tall man, gray-haired, and of an extraordinary thinness—a caricature of Don Quixote himself, if such a thing were possible.
"The Lady Allegra," he went on, "is unfortunately indisposed. She begs me to tender her apologies and regrets. I am her ladyship's resident physician, and my name is Gonzales." His eyes, hidden behind smoked glasses, examined me attentively.
I murmured some words of conventional regrets, and, truth to tell, I was bitterly disappointed. I turned as though to go.
"It is the Lady Allegra's wish that you should dine here this evening," continued Dr. Gonzales. "Solus, it is true, but the disappointment is a mutual one; of that you may be assured." Again I bowed and intimated my willingness to obey.
The dining-room was an apartment of unusual size, panelled in Santo Domingo mahogany, the rich color of the wood standing in admirable contrast to the dark-green, watered silk with which the walls were covered. A magnificent tapestry, representing Dido's hunting-party in honor of AEneas, filled nearly the whole of one side wall, and on the chimney-breast opposite hung a mirror similar in appearance to that in the drawing-room. The illumination of the room was peculiar but effective—four bronze female figures, each holding in her hands a globe of translucent glass through which a mellow radiance diffused itself.
The table, large enough to accommodate King Arthur and his knights, was beautifully set with plate and crystal, but only two covers had been laid. Red-Fez, who had now assumed the functions of a butler, showed me to my place, and then took up his stand behind the empty chair of his mistress. The two serving-men began immediately upon their duties.
It was an extraordinary repast, for to both my eye and my palate the viands were utterly unknown. In fact, every dish had as its basis a peculiar substance that in appearance faintly suggested isinglass. But it had no taste, that I could discover, other than the flavor communicated to it by the various sauces and dressings with which it was served. It appeared first in the soup, and then, omitting the fish course, I recognized it as the foundation of an excellent vol-au-vent. It served again as a substitute for meat, compressed and moulded in the form of French chops. There was even a passable imitation of a green goose. I had a slice from the breast, and it tasted very well. The philosophers tell us that there is an infinite power in suggestion. That may account, in part at least, for the complacency with which I accepted these remarkable perversions of the ordinary menu. If ideas are the only realities, my green goose might have come straight from Washington Market itself.
The two vegetables, cauliflower an gratin and boiled potatoes, were good to look at and good to eat, although neither of them had ever seen a garden. There was a salad, too, with an incomparable dressing. Finally, an excellent pudding. The wines and mineral waters, the liqueurs and the coffee, were genuine. The fantastic cuisine of my hostess extended only to the solid portions of the repast, and for this I was secretly thankful. I don't like chemical burgundies, and the "health-food" mochas and javas are only surprisingly good imitations of exceedingly bad coffee.
The chair opposite me remained unfilled, but each course was served at the cover as scrupulously as though the Lady Allegra were actually present. It made me feel a trifle uncomfortable at the first—the sight of that vacant chair set back a little from the table, the napkin half unfolded, the full wineglasses, the plate with its untouched food. And once, when the foot-man offered the cauliflower to my invisible vis-a-vis, it seemed as though she declined it. The man hesitated a second and then passed on without putting a portion on the plate. For the moment I was foolish enough to contemplate a similar refusal, but I reconsidered—I am very fond of cauliflower.
At the conclusion of dinner I took my cigar into the red drawing-room. The lights had been lowered, and only the opalescent bull's-eye glowed with undiminished brilliancy. I sat staring at it, and the outrageous perplexity of the situation began to get on my nerves. I must get out of here, and I half rose. Then I sank back, forgetting everything but that marvellous voice. Again the Lady Allegra was singing, and could I doubt that it was for me! David's "Charmant Oiseau," and then the gay little gavotte from "Manon."
What an astonishing repertoire—Chaminade, Schumann, Grieg, Richard Strauss. Finally Schubert, and Schubert only, the last and the best given, as it is meet, to him who is the master of all. The rainbow-tinted orb of the wall mirror continued to hold my eyes; they drooped and fell as the radiance grew fainter and yet fainter.
When I awoke Red-Fez was standing at the bedside, hot-water can in hand. "Morning, sar," he said, with gentle affability. "Will you permit me to shaver you?"
I jumped out of bed and went to the window. It was closed, although a ventilator at the top admitted plenty of the outside air, and the glass was of the opaque bull's-eye variety through which it is impossible to see. I tried to throw up the sash, but it would not budge.
I submitted in silence to the ministrations of Red-Fez, not choosing to enter into any discussion with a servant. But I was sorely tempted to protest when he proceeded to array me in an extraordinary robe of cardinal silk in lieu of the ordinary masculine habiliments. Certainly I could not leave the house enveloped in this ridiculous garment. My dress clothes would have been bad enough, but there was no trace of them to be seen. Evidently I should have to call Dr. Gonzales to account, and having descended to the now familiar red drawing-room, I sent Red-Fez with a request for an immediate audience. A few minutes later he appeared.
"Am I a prisoner here?" I asked, abruptly.
"You await the Lady Allegra's pleasure," he answered, imperturbably. "She is still indisposed. Possibly by to-night, but I cannot say definitely."
"I do not wish—"
"Chut!" he interrupted, irritably. "It is a matter not of your wishes but of her will. That is inevitable. Can you not understand?"
I looked at the immovable figures of two footmen at the door and then walked out to breakfast. An excellent meal it was, although I recognized that the food was only an ingenious variation upon the theme of the night before; that mysterious substance resembling isinglass was the basis of everything set before me. It was the same with luncheon and again at dinner. And, as on the previous night, it was an empty chair that confronted me. Well, what did it matter, after all. Can you even imagine what Schubert's "Linden-Tree" might be when perfectly sung?
Is it an hallucination, then, that possesses me—some subtle disturbance of the nerve-centres sapping the sources of will-power, enfeebling even the physical energies? I do not know. Sometimes I am ashamedly conscious that I do not greatly care. It is now a week since I entered this house, and I have made but one attempt to reassert my personal rights. Yesterday a sudden passion of resolution seized me; at all hazards I must break the bonds imposed upon me by this invisible enchantress. As I passed the door leading to the red drawing-room I put my fingers in my ears—Ulysses and the sirens. But when I reached the lower hall I walked plump into Dr. Gonzales, who fixed me with a penetrating look. "Go back!" he said, authoritatively. "The Lady Allegra sings—and for you." I listened; it was, "Ah, fors e lui."
I divide my time between the library on the third floor and the red drawing-room, where the strange beauty of the opal-tinted mirror holds me possessed for hours together. Remember that the Lady Allegra still maintains her tantalizing role of inviolable seclusion. It is through her voice alone that she impresses her personality upon my senses. That seems ridiculous, does it not? But then you have not heard her sing "Ah, fors e lui."
Yet, after all, the end came quickly. I shall be equally succinct in my chronicle of the events leading up to it.
As usual I had dined alone, and had afterwards submitted to the customary examination at the hands of Dr. Gonzales. Why he should deem it necessary to take my pulse and temperature and then ascertain my weight and power of grip with such scrupulous exactitude I never troubled to inquire. Indeed, it seemed such a puerile proceeding that I have hitherto refrained from even mentioning it. To-night he seemed ill-pleased with the results of his investigation. "You are losing weight," he said, severely, "and you don't begin to grip within ten pounds of what you registered a week ago."
"What does it matter?" I answered, as indifferently as I felt.
"You ought to eat more. No steam without fuel."
"I am not hungry."
"Bah!" he snorted, indignantly. "It is always the same story. Another failure! But no, I will not suffer it. Sooner than that I will have you penned and stuffed as though you were a Strasburg goose." But I only laughed at his petulance and walked on to the drawing-room.
I laughed, I say, and yet I had begun vaguely to realize that something was wrong. My head felt strangely light. I stumbled over a corner of the rug, and would have fallen out of pure weakness if I had not caught at the table for support. My respiration seemed more rapid than usual and the sweat from the slight exertion beaded my forehead. Then I forgot everything but that the Lady Allegra had begun to sing.
The desire, the impulse, they had crystallized into resolution. I would wait no longer. This very night the walls of the fortress should fall, unveiling the secret of this insolent loveliness, the desire of all the world. Ah, my lady Allegra, was it chance alone that led you to choose Isolde's "Liebestod" for this the supreme enchantment?
The music fell away into nothingness and I stepped forward, my hand on the knob of the folding-doors that led to the front room. I knocked twice—firmly, insistently. "Open!" I cried, and immediately the door-knob yielded to my touch.
"Stop!"
Dr. Gonzales stood at the hall entrance to the drawing-room. I saw something that gleamed like polished metal in his uplifted hand. Then he fell back and disappeared. It seemed as though some invisible force behind the portiere had taken sudden and irresistible possession of him. What did I care. I went forward and into the room, absolutely empty save for an upright cabinet of mahogany placed on a central pedestal. It was tall enough to conceal a person standing behind it, but it was not the Lady Allegra who came forward to meet me.
"Indiman!" I said, weakly. "Esper Indiman!"
"The carriage is waiting," he said. "Come."
"Never!" I retorted, passionately. "You don't understand—the Lady—Allegra—"
Well, I suppose I must have fainted from sheer inanition, and so Indiman explained it himself that next morning.
"You had been half starved for over a week, and no wonder you keeled over. No; you can't have another mouthful of that beef-steak. You'll have to wait for luncheon."
I sank back among the cushions of the couch rather resentfully. "Well, at least you can go on and tell me," I said.
"Certainly. There are cranks of all degrees, as you know. It was your luck to fall into the hands of one of the king-pins of the confraternity—Dr. Ferdinand Gonzales, alias Moses the Second.
"He wanted a new subject for his experiments upon the physical regeneration of the human race, and he caught you in his drag-net. It was a close call for you, old chap."
"I don't understand."
"You have been starving to death for ten days, and yet eating three meals a day right along. Nothing peculiar about that, eh?"
"It WAS rather curious stuff. It looked like isinglass."
"Perhaps it is. All I care about is the fact that the food you have been eating doesn't contain a particle of nourishment for the human system. But Moses the Second imagined that he had invented, or rather rediscovered, the one perfect nutriment for the race—nothing less than manna."
"Manna!"
"Don't you remember the manna in the wilderness, the children of Israel, and the forty years they fed upon it. Dr. Gonzales, who was really a fine chemist before he went dotty, got the idee fixe that all human ills were due to improper food. He tackled the problem, at first scientifically, but later on he had a vision that he was really the reincarnation of the Prophet Moses. Moses and manna—the connection is obvious and the secret was soon in his possession. He manufactured the stuff in his own laboratory and lived on it himself—at least to the verge of physical extinction. Then he went gunning for subjects, and you know the rest. The rubbish fills you up without nourishing you, and what you lived on was really stimulants alone—the wine and coffee."
"But will you tell me—how did you chance to find—"
"For the first few days I didn't dream of interfering—it was your own adventure. But on Monday—that's yesterday, you know—I determined to look things up a bit. So I walked into No. 231 and scared Mr. Red-Fez into a few plain truths. His real name is Dawson, you know."
"Yes."
"It was simply an immensely improved sort of phonograph that Gonzales had invented. None of the harshness and squeakiness of tone that you associate with the ordinary instrument. Partly a new method of making the records and partly a system of qualifying chambers that refine and purify the tones. It is wonderful enough to deceive anybody, and, of course, he had all his records ready to hand."
"Then the Lady Allegra, the Lady Allegra—"
"'Vox et preterea nihil,'" quoted Indiman. He left the room quietly, and I lay there on the lounge staring up at the ceiling. "'Vox et preterea nihil.'"
Two months have passed and I am slowly recuperating in body and mind. But there are some things not to be forgotten—for instance, "Ah, fors e lui," when sung by the most beautiful voice in all the world.
Indiman proposes that we shall go to the Utinam Club, dine, and spend the night. Well, we don't often indulge in that rather questionable amusement, although we are accustomed to use the club freely throughout the daytime. All the more reason, then, that once in a while—I need a distraction and there are some interesting psychological deductions—But hang casuistry; it is enough to say that we did go.
It is undeniably pleasant to be sitting here in the club dining-room sharing a ruddy duck and a bottle of burgundy. Yes, and to feel the cares, the disappointments, the burdens of life dropping off one by one; to be able to dismiss them with a nod as one gives an unfortunate beggar his conge. Ills that one need not bear; evils that it is no longer necessary to endure—they have all been eliminated by the simple process of excluding from the spectrum the ultra blue-and-violet rays. A palpable evasion, of course. Call it immoral, if you will, and I shall not lift the gauntlet. Why should we quarrel over phrases when it is only required to return thanks to the good Dr. Magnus for his beneficent discovery? That is enough for me at least. Carpe diem, or, more precisely, noctem.
It was Dr. Magnus himself who later on introduced us to Chivers in the common room—Chivers, a little man of Semitic physiognomy, with a hard, knobbed face and a screw of black beard. He addressed himself effusively to Indiman, while the doctor and I remained spectators, silent but interested.
"A dealer in adventures, a specialist in the grotesque—ah, I like that, Mr. Indiman. The rest of us"—this with a gesture inexpressibly mean and fawning—"prefer to haggle over the lion's skin after it has been cured and dressed. It's a mere question of temperament, dear sir."
"What have you to say to me?" inquired Indiman, abruptly. I could see that he wanted to kick him.
"I have an adventure—of the first class. I desire to dispose of it."
"Yes."
"A noble, a surpassing adventure. Moreover, a commercial opening that is not to be despised—fifty per cent on your capital every six months."
"Yes."
"I offer you, then, my well-established business of adjuster of averages, good-will and office fixtures included."
"But I never even heard of such a profession. I know nothing about averages and their adjustment."
"What difference! It is the adventure that particularly concerns you, is it not? The business—pouf! it runs itself." "And the terms?"
"I make them ridiculously easy. You are to take over the business, including the lease of my offices in the Barowsky Brothers' bank building, William H. Seward Square. In return for this accommodation I am prepared to pay you the sum of ten thousand dollars." Mr. Chivers grinned cheerfully as he concluded this astounding proposition. He pulled ten new one-thousand-dollar bills from his waistcoat-pocket and laid them on the table.
Indiman regarded the little man thoughtfully. "You have been in business for your health?" he inquired, with an affectation of polite interest.
"You have hit it exactly," returned the imperturbable Chivers. "I was pretty rocky when I first went to William H. Seward Square. But the air in that Yiddish country—wonderful, dear sir. Regard me; punch, poke, pound where and how you like. Sound as a bell you'll find me. Now I pass on. I yield place to you. The honor, dear sir, is mine."
"I confess that I am interested," said Indiman. "The conditions are simply—"
"Your personal day and night tenancy of the chambers in the Barowsky Building for a period of not less than three months. I should have explained that the rooms really form a bachelor's suite, all furnished, of course."
"There are papers to sign?"
"Only the assumption of the office lease, and I'll give you a bill of sale for the furniture." Mr. Chivers laid the documents before Indiman; the latter glanced them over and drew out his fountain-pen. A quick look, one of satisfaction and understanding, passed between Chivers and Dr. Magnus. I caught it and tried to convey a warning to my friend. But he had already affixed his signature to the lease of the offices in the Barowsky bank building. Chivers did the same for the bill of sale.
Indiman gathered up the ten one-thousand-dollar bills and stuffed them into his pocket. "Want a receipt?" he asked.
"It is not necessary."
"Well, at least, we must have a bumper to celebrate the conclusion of the transaction. Waiter."
We took a cab in the gray of the dawning hour and drove home. As might have been predicted, my spirits had dropped to the zero-point again.
"I don't like it—frankly, I don't, old man. What if it should be a trap?"
Indiman laughed heartily. "Why, of course, it's a trap," he said. "That's plain as a pike-staff, whatever a pike-staff itself may be. It's the particular kind of a trap that interests me. The why and the wherefore."
Arrived at the house, Indiman handed a bill to the driver and we ascended the steps. But the cabman seemed dissatisfied with his treatment. "Hey, there!" he called once, and then again. Indiman turned impatiently.
"Well, what is it?" he asked
"You can see for yourself, guv'nor. A mistake, ain't it?"
It was one of the thousand-dollar bills that the honest cabby was holding up. What a phenomenon in the way of a hackman! And yet the New York night-hawks are no fools and thousand-dollar bills are easy to trace. Indiman gave the man fifty dollars as a reward of virtue and he was more than satisfied. But something still remained on his conscience thus agreeably stimulated.
"'Scuse me, guv'nor," he went on, "but here's another little job in the same line of business. I drove a gentleman to your club early in the evening, and he must have left it accidental in the cab. Maybe you know him."
It was a plain white envelope bearing the typewritten address:
Mr. Orrin Chivers, Nos. 13-15 Barowsky Chambers, Seward Square, New York.
The envelope had been opened, but the enclosure still remained in it.
"Thank you," said Indiman. "I'll take charge of it." The cabman touched his hat and drove away.
We went up to the library and proceeded to examine the treasure trove. It consisted of a long strip of thin bluish paper less than a quarter of an inch in width and containing a succession of apparently arbitrary and unmeaning characters written in ink. I reproduce a section of the strip, which should make my description more intelligible.
Indiman looked at the hieroglyphics musingly. "Important—if true," he murmured.
It was on December 21st that Indiman took up his tenancy of the offices in the Barowsky Building. I should have been glad to have accompanied him, but he would not have it. It was the dealer's hand at bridge and must be played alone. And owing to the accident of a slight attack of grippe it was some ten days later before I was able to call upon him in his new quarters.
William H. Seward Square has its unique features. Lying in the heart of the East Side, it is outside the regular lines of north and south travel. There are thousands of otherwise well-informed New-Yorkers to whom its very name is unknown. And yet it is an important political centre, the capital of the Yiddish country, and the recipient of many special favors at the hands of a paternal municipality. There are still streets in the up-town districts whose pavement is the antiquated Belgian blocks or even cobble-stones, but none in Yiddishland; here everything is asphalted. You may trust the district leader to take care of his own.
A fine, stone building forms the principal architectural feature of the square on the west side. It contains the free baths and would be a credit to any part of the city. Most of the remaining space is given over to the children for a playground. There is a semi-enclosed gymnasium for the boys, hand-ball and tether-ball courts, a separate enclosure for the girls and smaller children—in a word, every form of amusement and exercise that is practicable in a public institution of comparatively limited area. The children enjoy it, too. They come in droves, and the swings and flying rings are in constant use.
It is like going to a foreign country. The shop signs, written in Hebrew characters, suggest a combination of horseshoes and carpet-tacks, and you may walk for blocks without hearing an English word spoken. Ask your whereabouts of a street boy and he will quite likely turn pale and edge away. He does not understand. You are an alien, a foreign devil.
The Barowsky Brothers' bank building is the show-place of the district. It is a staring white structure covered with gilt business signs and adorned with abortive minarets that give it an air distinctly Oriental. The entrance hall and the banking-rooms are sumptuous. They recall the Arabian Nights and the word-painting of a circus poster. Mirrors, gilding, mosaics—it is all a dream of luxury and impresses one with a realizing sense of the financial standing of the Barowsky Brothers. You must have a good front in the Yiddish country if you expect to handle other people's money.
Esper Indiman, adjuster of averages, occupied a suite of rooms on the fifth floor. I proceeded thither and found him in. We sat down and smoked amicably.
"How is business?" I asked. "Have you adjusted many averages to-day? And, by-the-way, I'm rather taken with the title of your new trade. 'Adjuster of averages'—there's an imposing note of omnipotence in the words."
"It's a perfectly legitimate occupation. You'll find it listed in the business directory."
"Of course, and never mind the details. I'm satisfied with its face value, a brevet of vice-gerency. God knows there are plenty of averages to be adjusted in this weary old world."
"Well, I may have some accounts to balance before I take down my sign," said Indiman, with a grim little smile. "I'm glad you came in to-day, Thorp; I've been wanting to have a talk with you."
"Fire away," I answered, flippantly.
"Come into the back room," and he led the way.
The suite ran through the building. There was a good-sized room facing on the square, fitted up with ordinary office furniture; back of that a bath-room, and then the rear office, which had been turned into a bachelor's living-room. There were bookcases, rugs, pictures, a big mahogany writing-table, an open fireplace, easy-chairs—everything to make life comfortable. "And the couch over there is my bed," concluded Indiman. "I'm pretty well fixed, you see."
"Decidedly so."
"Intellectual diversion in abundance; even the artistic element is not wholly wanting."
He stepped over to a table in the far corner; a phonographic machine of some kind stood upon it. Indiman touched a lever, and again I heard that unforgettable melody, "Ah, fors e lui," and in her voice—her voice! A cry escaped me. Indiman pushed me back into my chair. "Be good enough to listen," he said, and I obeyed.
"While you have been laid up," he began, "I have been amusing myself with a little theory building. I had taken the liberty to sequestrate the remarkable phonographic apparatus of your quondam friend Dr. Gonzales; in fact, I carried it away in the same carriage with your honorable self from the house of the Philadelphia 'quizzing-glass.' The police didn't notice—that was all.
"Dr. Gonzales was a genius, and his instrument is a revolution in phonographs—purity of tone, perfect enunciation, and all that. But the really interesting thing (to me as to you) was not the machine, but the records that it used. To whom belonged the voice that these little disks and cylinders so faithfully reproduced? It was a real woman who had poured the passion and sorrow of life into this insentient mechanism. And the medium had been sufficient; your heart had responded.
"You were my friend, and I could not be indifferent to aught that concerned you. We are, neither of us, sentimental, so the bare statement of the fact is sufficient. You were on your back, and so it was my part to go to work. I did.
"It is unprofitable business looking for a needle in a hay-stack when you can buy a packet of the best helix No. 8's at any shop for a nickel. But after spending a blank week interviewing the makers of phonographic records I began to feel doubtful of my economic theory. Nowhere could I find the slightest trace of this particular job of record-making. And then one day I ran across a chap named Hugens, who was in the business in a small way. His place was three blocks east of the Bowery, but I've forgotten the name of the cross street.
"It was the usual experience at first—no information—but something told me that the man was lying. Finally, I pretended to give up the inquiry and left the shop. It was after dark on a snowy January afternoon, and I started to walk over to the Madison Avenue cars. I dawdled along purposely so as to give the telephone time to get in its work, and the affair turned out exactly as I had foreseen. At Elm Street a couple of fellows jostled against me, and when the mix-up was over the parcel containing my two sample records was gone. That was all that had been wanted; my watch, pin, and money had not been touched.
"It was plain, then, that some one had an interest in preventing my tracing up these particular records. Not Hugens, of course, but his client, whoever he might be. Well, at least, it made the case more interesting—yes, and more promising. Two nights later the house in Madison Avenue was entered by second-story men while I was at dinner. But the records and repeating apparatus had been removed to the safe-deposit vaults, and my unknown opponent had drawn another blank.
"Getting exciting, wasn't it? And then for a month or more nothing happened. You continued to convalesce and I kept on thinking.
"This impersonal opposition—well, there had been something of the same sort once or twice before. You remember, in particular, the affair of the private letter-box. A devilish intelligence had been at work there, and some day, as I told you, the mystery would be cleared up.
"Then did we ever know who Mr. Aram Balencourt really was? An agent of the 'Forty'? Well, perhaps so, but I can't help thinking that there was always a bigger man behind him. The same conclusion would apply to the case of that poor wretch Grenelli in the affair of the Russia and the box of dynamite. Some one with brains pulled the strings to make all these marionettes dance.
"Finally, there was your own adventure with the amiable Dr. Gonzales. Did he ever remind you, even indefinitely, of some one else whom you had known? Think carefully. Well, it doesn't matter. I was deceived myself, and when I afterwards went to the Bellevue insane pavilion to make some inquiries I found that he had long since been discharged as cured.
"There was just one hypothesis—the existence somewhere of a strong and alert personality; a genius along mechanical and scientific lines; a creature of abnormally developed mentality and correspondingly defective ethical nature; an intelligence absolutely passionless and ruthless, playing the game entirely for its own sake, and equally indifferent to the end and to the means used to attain it—in other words, a monster. Quite an elaborate theory, you observe; but the difficulty was to fit it to the individual. Looking back on the problem, I accuse myself of being rather slow-witted. Right under my eyes and yet only an accident opened them.
"Well, you recall the night at the Utinam when we met Mr. Chivers and I accepted his very liberal proposition to become an adjuster of averages. Of course, it was a trap, but what connoisseur of the adventure grotesque could refuse such a bait? All I wanted to know was with whom I was expected to match wits.
"Of course, the thousand-dollar bills were counterfeits—stage money? Not at all; every one was as good as the gold it called for at the sub-treasury. Bribery? From whom and for what? Doubtless I should know later. As it happened, I found out a little ahead of time.
"You remember the incident of the honest cabman and the hieroglyphic letter which he turned over to me? Here it is, addressed, as you observe, to Mr. Chivers."
Indiman drew from a locked drawer in the big centre-table the long strip of bluish paper covered with its incomprehensible dashes. "One of the oldest of devices for secret writing," he remarked. "This slip of paper was originally wrapped about a cylinder of a certain diameter and the message traced upon it, and it can only be deciphered by rerolling it upon another cylinder of the same diameter. Easy enough to find the right one by the empiric method—I mean experiment. Once you recognize the fundamental character of the cryptogram the rest follows with ridiculous certainty. Behold!"
Indiman took a long, round, slender stick from the mantel-piece and proceeded to wrap the ribbon of bluish paper about it, touching both ends with paste to keep the slip in place. It read in part:
"He will not find the girl, but so long as those records remain in his possession the possibility continues to exist. I leave it with you to make the bargain, and if he is not altogether a fool he will be content with his ten thousand dollars, and Nos. 13-15 Barowsky Chambers will be again without a tenant. Otherwise—and it is generally otherwise with these meddlers—there will have to be a new adjustment of averages—what a felicitous phrase!—and this, as usual, I will take upon myself. One way or the other, and, personally, I don't care a straw which it is."
The name signed to this curious epistle was David Magnus.
"Our Dr. Magnus of the Utinam," explained Indiman, but I hardly heard him. One overwhelming thought obscured everything else—there was a real Lady Allegra, after all. That was it—to find her, and I had the clew. I must go at once. But Indiman restrained me.
"Yes, that is precisely what I want you to do, only let us first understand the situation thoroughly. I intend remaining here during the progress of the investigation, and if anything should happen—"
"What do you mean?"
"Pleasant rooms, aren't they?" and he looked about him approvingly. "And yet three men have been found sitting dead in the particular chair that I am now occupying."
I only stared at him.
"No marks of violence," continued Indiman. "Nothing to indicate foul play; nothing, mind you. 'Dead by the visitation of God,' according to the coroner, but I should call it an 'adjustment of averages.' That is a felicitous phrase. I got my facts, by-the-way, from the janitor. He is rather proud of the affair Barowsky, as we may call it."
"A monster, indeed!" I exclaimed, warmly.
"Oh, we mustn't misjudge our good Dr. Magnus," said Indiman, indulgently. "I used the word 'monster' in a purely psychological sense. You can't call such a being immoral; he is simply unmoral."
"Not even a criminal lunatic."
"Certainly not. But I acknowledge that society would be justified in protecting itself from such a creature. And it will."
"But why should you remain here, exposed to danger?"
"My dear Thorp, I want to play the game. I'm sure it's one worthy of my best attention."
We argued it out for an hour or more, but Indiman was not to be moved from his position. So it came back to his original proposition. I was to take up the search on the outside for the Lady Allegra, and Indiman was to hold the fort at Nos. 13-15 Barowsky Chambers. I rose to go.
"You don't need these, do you?" he asked, a little doubtfully, picking up one of the phonographic cylinders. I shook my head. As though I could have forgotten the smallest inflection of that voice! So we parted.
It had resolved itself into the needle in a hay-stack, after all. Where was I to look and for what? A voice! "Vox et preterea nihil," to quote again that beloved Vergilian line. To the unprejudiced mind it would seem hopeless enough, and yet I never doubted for an instant but that I should find her. If a man is sure that the world holds the one woman intended for him he may be equally confident that their paths will somewhere, somehow, sometime intersect.
It was the middle of the musical season, and I attended everything from grand opera to music-hall. For the first and most obvious procedure was to assume that the Lady Allegra was a professional singer. Either that or in the very front rank of amateurs. As to the latter, I had always been more or less in with the musical set, and I knew of no one who came within a mile of filling my bill of particulars.
A professional, then, but not necessarily high up on the ladder. Merit may wait a long time for its due recognition. So I did not despise the humble field of vaudeville and of the continuous performance houses.
Week after week passed without result, and it was now the 1st of March. I saw Indiman every few days and the game dragged equally with him. Chivers had called half a dozen times, and was now openly negotiating for the possession of the phonographic cylinders. But Indiman fenced skilfully and kept him hanging on.
One night I was strolling through East Houston Street. A transparency caught my eye. It announced that a performance of high-class vaudeville was in progress. I paid my dime and entered.
A long, low-studded room, dim with tobacco-smoke and redolent of stale beer. At the far end a small stage with faded red hangings. The card read No. 7, and the programme informed me that the turn was "A Bouquet of Ballads." A slight, fair-haired girl appeared on the stage. Her cheeks were burning, and she kept her eyes fixed on the floor. The piano jangled, and she began her song, Schubert's "Linden-Tree." Her voice shook and quavered as she went on, but I knew it. I had found the Lady Allegra.
The audience listened indifferently. This sort of thing did not appeal to East Houston Street sensibilities, and there was no applause at the end. The girl essayed a few bars of her second number, a popular air in trivial waltz time, but with even poorer success. Then she broke down altogether and retired distressfully. Cat-calls and jeers, of course.
But one turn had been allotted to "Mavis," as she was called in the bill, and I assumed that she would shortly leave the place. I went outside and waited. Within ten minutes I saw her emerging from the performer's entrance, cloaked and deeply veiled. But I could not be mistaken. I stood stock-still like any fool as she passed close to me. What was I to do?
Then good-fortune smiled for once, and in gratitude for that surpassing indulgence I hereby relinquish all claim upon the lady for favors to come, now and forever. As the girl passed down the street a couple of pasty-faced young men stepped forward. I saw her stop and shrink away. A half-dozen steps and I had shoved in between them. The presumptuous youths sprawled to opposite points of the compass and I had drawn her hand through my arm. I could feel it tremble, but I carried her onward exultantly, masterfully. A man takes his own when he finds it. Then at the next street-lamp I stopped and released her. Within the circle of the light we stood and gazed into each other's eyes.
The Lady Allegra who was! It seems odd to think of her now as Alice Allaire—a pretty enough name but not particularly romantic. And when she changes it to Thorp, as she has just promised to do—But perhaps I am going a bit too fast. However, her story is simplicity itself.
My dear girl is an orphan, and six months ago she went to live with her guardian and uncle, David Magnus. But the situation quickly became intolerable. The attentions of the odious creature Olivers were openly encouraged by Dr. Magnus, and the child, although friendless and in a strange city, had no recourse but to run away. Surely, her voice would secure her a living! But the weeks passed and her store of money was running dangerously low. The Houston Street vaudeville had been the one chance that had offered, and she had hoped to make it good. But that first appearance had been her last. After the fiasco of which I had been a witness she had been discharged on the spot. We smile as we recall it now, but it had been a terrible catastrophe to contemplate at the time. What would you have done?
We went straight to Indiman, and he listened with close attention.
"You have property, then?" he asked.
Miss Allaire looked troubled. "There is money. I even think it must be a large estate. But I don't know; my uncle never spoke of my affairs."
"One of those cases where it is virtually impossible to prove anything," said Indiman to me. "Nevertheless, Magnus would be quite satisfied to have the absence of his niece made a permanent one—it saves the bother of making any explanations whatever."
"The phonographic records were the only clew," I observed. "At least he thought so."
"Yes, and consequently he has been working all this while to get them away from me. We're ready now to make a deal, but I'd like to know what stakes are on the table before playing a card."
"There was an ante of ten thousand dollars, you remember."
"Quite so. Well, Miss Allaire, if you are willing to have me play the partie in your behalf—"
"I could ask for nothing better," said the girl, quickly.
"Agreed, then. And, really, I think it is the only chance. Magnus is too clever a man not to have covered his tracks, and in an ordinary legal battle you would probably be worsted. But he doesn't want a fight if he can help it, and that is the club I propose to use. Now you'll have to go, for I expect Chivers at two."
I am glad that I glanced back for that last time as we left the room. Indiman was smiling, his head thrown back and his eyes aglow. The fight was on, and he was awaiting it as another man might his bride. To be remembered at one's best; I know I should wish that for myself.
A fortnight passed. I had not heard a word from Indiman, and I dared not intrude upon him without an invitation. I had taken Miss Allaire to the Margaret Louise Home for Women, but two weeks is the limit of residence there. What was to be done now? My own slender funds were exhausted and Alice had not a penny. So we did the wisest possible thing under the circumstances—or the most foolish, whichever you care to term it. An hour after we had been married I went down to Printing House Square and literally forced a city editor's hand for an assignment to general reportorial work. At least we should not starve. I informed Indiman by letter of the event, but received no reply.
On the afternoon of the 21st of March I was in the city room of the Planet. Mr. Dodge, the city editor, beckoned to me. He spoke quickly:
"Our representative at Police Headquarters has just telephoned that a man has been found dead in the Barowsky Brothers' bank building, and there's some yarn to the effect that he is the fourth to die alone in that particular office. Better go down and take a look at things. May be a good story in it."
So there was, but the Planet never published it; they accepted my resignation in lieu of an explanation.
I tried to think of indifferent matters as I hurried over to William H. Seward Square, but my heart kept pounding against my ribs. Could it be that Indiman—that he had lost the game?
There was the usual crowd of curiosity-mongers hanging about the bank building, and of course the police had taken charge. But the sergeant happened to be well disposed towards newsmen, and my Planet badge procured me instant admission to the scene of the tragedy. I passed into the back room. I could see the rigid figure sitting in the big chair. I forced myself to look at him squarely.
The dead man was David Magnus.
I went straight from William H. Seward Square to our boarding-house. A bulky package had just come for me through a special-delivery messenger. It contained negotiable securities to the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars; also a half-dozen sheets of letter-paper in Indiman's handwriting. I transcribe the latter:
"Congratulations, my dear Thorp, on your marriage. They're a bit belated, I know, but I haven't been in the mood for writing of late. Moreover, I wanted to make sure of Mrs. Thorp's dowry. I enclose the proceeds of the campaign, and fancy that the settlement isn't so far out of the way. But then our good friend Magnus never expected that he would be called upon to pay it. Here's the story as I wrote it down from day to day.
"March 1. It's plain enough that Magnus has been embezzling the fortune of his niece, Miss Allaire. From what the girl could tell me of her late parent's mode of living I put them down as being comfortably off, if not rich. So I have intimated that I might consider an offer of fifty thousand dollars for the phonographic records in my safe-deposit vault. At least I will now draw the enemy's fire.
"March 3. Chivers has called and affects to regard my proposition as absurd. I have riposted by raising my price to seventy-five thousand dollars. He protested angrily, and I immediately made it one hundred thousand dollars.
"March 8. Five days of silence and then another call from Chivers. I met him with the statement that now I would not take less than one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. He seemed flurried and said that he would have to consult his principal. 'As you like,' I remarked, carelessly, 'but it will then cost you one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.' Magnus is evidently alarmed and is wondering how much I really know.
"March 9. No word from the hostile camp. The inference is that I may now look for a move on my antagonists' part, 'Otherwise,' as he says in that precious note, 'there will have to be a new adjustment of averages.' Precisely.
"The position is probably a dangerous one, and I must take the obvious precautions. To begin with, I shall not leave these rooms until the affair is over, and I have made arrangements with an up-town restaurant to supply me with my meals in sealed vessels. I am thus insured against a street assault and poison. But all this is probably useless. The Magnus method of attack will be far more subtle.
"I have just written to Chivers that two hundred thousand dollars will now be necessary if he wants those phonographic records.
"March 11. I have had a talk with Louis, the janitor, about the Barowsky 'affairs.' Three men found dead in the big chair that faces the centre-table in my living-room. The date in every case was the 21st of March. If not an extraordinary coincidence there is food for reflection in this plain statement. It gives me ten clear days, and I can eat my dinner to-night in comparative comfort.
"March 12. I have assumed that the psychological moment is scheduled for March 21st, but both the direction and the nature of the blow are still unknown. I have made a minute examination of the rooms and all that they contain, but can discover nothing in the nature of a trap. There are no secret doors, no collapsing walls, no hidden tubes for the dissemination of poisonous vapors. My windows are not overlooked from any outside point of vantage, thus eliminating the silent bullet of the air-gun. In a word, the machinery of the melodrama seems to be entirely non-existent. And yet I know that unless I can get the end of the clew before the 21st of March I shall sit dead in the big chair over there, just as the three who have gone before me.
"March 18. Still no answer from Chivers. I have sent him a final communication fixing my price at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and saying that unless the proposition is accepted within three days further negotiations will be broken off.
"March 19. The offer is accepted. At noon on Friday, the 21st, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in negotiable securities will be placed in my hands, and I am to give in return an order on the safe-deposit company for the phonographic plates. But there is one paragraph in the letter that puzzles me. It reads:
"'My client will come in person on Friday to conclude the business, but only in the event of the day being bright and sunny. If rainy or cloudy you may expect him at a somewhat earlier hour on Saturday or the next clear day whichever it may be.'
"Now what does this mean? On the face of it, a disinclination on the part of an elderly gentleman to expose himself to these chill March winds. But Magnus is not very old, and he does not look in the least rheumatic.
"I have forgotten to mention the one peculiarity that I discovered in the furniture of my living-room. The big chair is immovably fixed to the floor, its heavy pivot-base being riveted down to an iron bed-plate. And the chair itself is not made of mahogany, as I had supposed, but of an unknown metallic alloy that simulates the wood very closely. Well, I was prepared for something like this.
"Another interesting point. The windows in the living-room face in a southerly direction, and the sun is now every day getting a little farther round, penetrating a little deeper, at every noon hour, into the room. On the 21st it will cross the line, and at least one ray will illumine a spot that for several months has not been touched by the direct sunlight. What spot?
"It is nearing twelve o'clock, and as I sit in the big chair I can see the bar of golden light creeping steadily onward. It reaches the chair, and half-way around the pivot-base. Then the heavenly clock begins its retrograde movement, and the ray of sunlight is forced to retreat. But to-morrow it will come a little farther, and so again on the day after.
"Around the sash in the big window the architect has inserted a row of glass bull's-eyes, a style of ornamentation suited to the semi-Oriental tastes of William H. Seward Square. I go up and examine them closely. They seem ordinary enough—but stop! The third from the bottom; it has a peculiar depth and clearness. It might very well be a lens—a burning-glass, to use the old-fashioned term. How close has the sun drawn to this particular bull's-eye? To-morrow I will take note.
"March 20. At high noon the sun has reached within a hair's-breadth of the third bull's-eye from the bottom. To-morrow it will surely shine through my suspect, and if the latter be a true lens it will concentrate, for several minutes, a high degree of heat at the particular spot upon which its rays are focussed. That spot I have found, by experiment, to be one of a series of small bosses set in the pivot-base of the big chair. I applied the flame of a match and immediately the metal boss began to soften. I understand now. The boss is made of a fusible alloy that melts at a certain prearranged temperature; it is simply a variation of the common safety plug used in all the systems of mechanical protection against fire. At noon to-morrow, March 21st, the rays of the sun will be concentrated by the lens in the window-sash and will fall upon this boss of fusible metal. The plug will melt, releasing a spring, let us say, and a train of action will be set in motion.
"The precise nature of that action I shall probably not discover. I incline to the belief that it is of an electrical nature. A connection is to be thereby established with one of the deadly currents that can be tapped for the asking here in New York. It may be objected that the men who died in the chair over there showed no external marks of death by electrical shock. But the autopsy, if it had been performed by Coroner Lunkhead, might have told a different story. Magnus is as good an electrician as he is a chemist, and he could easily rig up some kind of transformer reducing the power of the current just enough to paralyze the victim—death by a myriad of small shocks instead of one big one. Now it is plain why the spider will not come to spring his trap unless the sun shines on the 21st of March. If it doesn't, the play goes over to the next clear day, only that the curtain will rise a minute or so earlier in correspondence with the onward march of the sun-god, the executioner in the cast of our drama. Well, I have made my preparations to counter-check. To-morrow we shall see what we shall see.
"March 21. I have still an hour before the expressman will come for the clock-case, and I must take the opportunity to finish my notes. The dead man sits opposite me at the table, but that does not matter. There is plenty of room for us both.
"The day dawned clear and fine, and at ten o'clock the sun was shining brightly. He will come then.
"At eleven I began to wonder how Dr. Magnus proposes to witness my last agonies without risk of suspicion attaching to his precious self. If he is seen entering and leaving my room this morning he may be called upon for an explanation later. One cannot be too careful in playing the delicate role of the amateur assassin.
"But I have wronged my excellent friend. He has foreseen the difficulty and provided against it. At precisely half after eleven a couple of expressmen delivered what purported to be a clock-case at my outer office. It was addressed to me and I receipted for it without hesitation.
"'I understand that we are to call for it again at two o'clock,' said one of the men. 'That'll give you time to pack up the other clock?'
"'Very good,' said I.
"'And Mr. Gill said that you would set the case out on the landing if you had to leave the office before we got back. I'll put the receipt under the door.'
"'I understand,' I answered, carelessly. 'Get yourself some cigars,' and I slipped a half-dollar in the man's hand. He thanked me and withdrew. I sat down and waited.
"The lid of the case was removable from the inside. I watched the screws fall one after another to the floor. Then the lid followed, and Dr. Magnus stood before me. His eyes, distorted horribly by the extra powerful lenses of his spectacles, fixed me with a steady look. He came close as though to assure himself that there was no mistake. His face almost touched mine. He put on his second and third pair of glasses, and again I felt like the fly under the microscope.
"We did not go through the farce of exchanging salutations. This was war and we should both know it. It was now nearly noon and the sun was rapidly approaching the zenith. I led the way into the rear room.
"'Here are the securities,' said Magnus. I looked them over and announced myself as satisfied.
"'Kindly sit down and write me out an order on the safe-deposit company,' he went on, in rather a petulant tone. He was standing by the big chair. He bent forward as though to turn it in my direction.
"The psychological moment had come, but the trick was even easier than I had anticipated. Being in a stooping posture, he was partially off his balance. A sharp jerk at his coat-collar and he was seated in the big chair. He bit at my hand savagely as a dog snaps, but I had been too quick for him. Then a couple of turns of stout window-cord put everything secure.
"The man seemed dazed. He made no attempt to release himself. He did not even speak. But then his lips were dry. They opened and shut mechanically. His eyes, staring through their triple glasses, were turned towards the window. The sunlight, shining in full strength, was creeping steadily towards the row of bull's-eyes on the right of the sash. It lay in a broad, golden band on the polished floor.
"A decrepit fly crawled out of a crack and made feebly for the welcome warmth. The prisoner's feet were free and he advanced one of them slowly, stealthily towards the miserable insect, then smashed ruthlessly down upon it. In my turn I looked away, gazing steadily at the window and the sun beyond. A few minutes now and we would know.
"A little cloud no bigger than a man's hand. It was travelling directly towards the sun's disk. Suppose now that its veil obscured, at the final moment, the fatal ray. He saw it too. Together we watched it slowly drifting through the brilliant blue of the sky—a little cloud no bigger than a man's hand.
"The currents of air in the upper regions first accelerated and then retarded the progress of the vaporous island. It seemed to stop; then it hung for an instant directly on the lower limb of the great ball of light. A sensation of intolerable cold pervaded my entire body. Involuntarily I shut my eyes.
"I forced myself to look. The cloud had disappeared. Its imponderable essence had been absorbed into the clear ether as a drop of water sizzles into nothingness on a red-hot stove. The sunlight, shining through the third bull's-eye from the bottom, was instantly transformed into a single concentrated beam. The heat-ray impinged upon the boss of fusible metal. I saw the alloy begin to melt. I turned and ran into the other room.
"Twenty minutes of silence and then I re-entered. I was horribly afraid, but he sat there quiet and still. I unwound the cord and threw it out of the window. It was clouding over in earnest now. These March days are so changeable.
"It is close to two o'clock, and I must be getting ready to depart. I have set the clock-case out in the passageway, and the lids and screws are in readiness. The expressman will doubtless be punctual. He will carry the case down-stairs and load it on his wagon. I shall be delivered in due course at my destination. What is it to be? Well, I shall have plenty of time in which to reflect upon the possibilities of the journey that lies before me.
"One moment in which to seal up these notes, together with the bundle of securities. Fortunately, I have a special-delivery stamp in my pocket, and I can post the packet in the mail-chute. Best wishes, my dear Thorp, for the future happiness of yourself and your charming wife. You have now given a hostage to fortune and will no longer care to sail on uncertain seas. But the Wanderlust in my blood seems to be ineradicable. Again the gates of chance are opening before me and I am eager to enter in. Good-bye."
Here the record ends abruptly. And there has been no sequel. Not the slightest sound nor sign has been vouchsafed from the void. He who was Esper Indiman is gone, like a stone dropped into the gulf, and I have lost something that is not easily replaced—a friend. But since it is his wish, there is nothing more to be said. He may return—a message may come—
The gates of chance! Well, it is exactly a year and a day since that eventful afternoon when Esper Indiman's visiting-card was thrust into my unconscious hand. I have travelled along some strange ways in the course of that twelvemonth, and henceforth I shall be content to trudge along the common high-road of life. The gates of chance—for me they are closed forever. But I look over at my wife's dear face and know that it is better so.