The engineer let down the speed a notch. The other boat crept up within twenty yards. Jones sought a perfect range. He would have to find this spot again.
"Surrender!" yelled Felton.
In reply Jones raised the precious box and deliberately dropped it into the sea. Then he turned his automatic upon his pursuers and succeeded in setting their boat afire.
All this within the space of an hour. During dinner that night (there was now a cook) Jones walked about the dining-table, rubbing his hands together from time to time.
"Jones," said Florence, "why do you rub your hands like that?"
"Was I rubbing my hands, Miss Florence?" he asked innocently.
"Did you get the range?" asked the countess, when that night Braine recounted his adventure.
"Range!" he snarled. "My girl, haven't I just told you that I had to fight for my life? My boat was in flames. We had to swim for it till we were picked up by a Long Island barge tug. I don't know what became of the motorman. He must have headed straight for shore. And I'm glad he did. Otherwise he'd be howling for the price of another boat. Olga, for the first time I've had to let one of the boys have a look at my face. Doesn't know the name; but one of these days he'll stumble across it, and the result will be blackmail, unless I push him off into the dark. It was accidental."
The countess leaned forward, her hands tightly clinched.
"But the box!"
Braine made a gesture of despair.
"Leo, are you using any drug these days?"
"LEO, ARE YOU USING ANY DRUGS THESE DAYS?""LEO, ARE YOU USING ANY DRUGS THESE DAYS?"
"Don't make fun of me, Olga," impatiently. "Did you ever see me drink more than a pint of wine or smoke more than two cigars in an evening? Poor fools! What! Let my brain go into the wastebasket for the sake of an hour or so of exhilaration? No, and never will I! I'm keen about the gray matter I've got, and by the Lord Harry, I'm going to keep it. There's only one dope fiend in the Hundred, and he's one of the best decoys we have; so we let him have his coke whenever he really needs it. But this man Felton has seen my face. Some day he'll see it again, ask questions, and then..."
"Then what?"
"A burial at sea," he laughed. The laughter died swiftly as it came. "Threw it into eight hundred feet of water, on a bar where the sands are always shifting. He'll never find it, even if he took the range. He could not have got a decent one. The sun was dropping and the shadows were long. He threw the chest into the water and then began pegging away at us, cool as you please, and fired our tank."
"It looks to me as if he had wasted his time."
"That depends. Between you and me and the gatepost, I've a sneaking idea that this man Jones, whom nobody has given any particular attention, is a deep, clever man. He may have been honestly attempting to find a new hiding place; the advertisement in the newspaper may have drawn him. He may have thrown the box over in pure rage at seeing himself checkmated. Again, the whole thing may have been worked up for our benefit, a blind. But if that's the case, Jones has us on the hip, for we can't tell. But we can do what in all probability he expects we'll cease to do—watch him just as shrewdly as before."
Olga caught his hand and drew him down beside her. "I wasn't going to bother you to-night, but it may mean something vital."
"What?" alertly.
For reply she rose and walked over to the light button. She pressed it and the apartment became dark.
"Come over to the window, quick!" She dragged him across the room. "Over the way, the house with the marble frontage."
A man emerged, lit a cigarette, and walked leisurely down the street.
"No!" she cried, as Braine turned to make for the door doubtless with the intention of finding out who the man was. "Every night after you leave he appears."
"Does he follow me?"
"No. And that's what bothered me at first. I believed he was watching some apartment above. But regularly when I turn out the lights he comes forth. So there's no doubt he watches you enter and takes note of your departure."
"But doesn't follow me. That's odd. What the devil is his idea?"
"I'd give a good deal to learn."
The shadow and the glowing cigarette disappeared around the corner, and the lights in the apartment were turned on again.
"He's gone. You really think he's watching me?"
"He is watching this apartment, I know that much."
And even at that moment the watcher was watching from his vantage behind the corner.
"Suspicious!" he murmured, tossing the cigarette into the gutter. "They're watching me for a change. I'll drop out. I know what I know. It's a great world. It's fine to be alive and kicking on top of it." He went on without haste and took the subway train for down-town.
"Is there any way I could get near him?" asked Braine.
"To-morrow night you might leave by the janitor's entrance. I'll keep the lights on till you're outside. Then I'll turn them off and you can follow and learn who he is."
"It's mighty important."
"Don't scowl. At your age a wrinkle is apt to remain it you once get it started."
He laughed. "Wrinkles!" She could talk of wrinkles!
"They are more important than you think. Every morning I rub out the wrinkle I go to bed with."
"I wish you could rub out the general stupidity which is wrinkling my brain. I've made three moves and failed in each. What's come over me?"
"Perhaps you've had too many successes. The wheel of chance is always turning around."
"May I smoke?"
"Thanks. At least it proves you still have some consideration for me. You would smoke whether it was agreeable or not. But I like the odor of a good cigar. And it always helps you to think."
Braine lighted his cigar and began his customary pacing. At length he paused.
"Suppose we have a real old-fashioned coaching party out to the old mansion we know about?"
"And what shall we do there?"
"Make the mansion, an enchanted castle where sometimes people who enter can't get out. Do you think you could get her to go?"
"I can try."
"Olga, I must have that girl; and I must have her soon. Sometimes I find myself mightily puzzled over the whole thing. If Hargreave is alive, why doesn't he turn up now that it's practically known that his daughter presides over his household? I might understand it if I didn't know that Hargreave is really afraid of nothing. Where is the man with the five thousand, picked up at sea? What was the reason for Jones carrying that box out in broad daylight? Who is the chap watching across the street? Sometimes I believe in my soul—if I have one!—that Hargreave is playing with us, playing! Well," flinging the half consumed cigar into the grate, "the Black Hundred always goes forward, win or lose, and never forgets."
"We are a fine pair!" said the woman bitterly.
"We are exactly what fate intended us to be. They wrote you down in the book as a beautiful body with a crooked mind. They wrote me down as the devil, doomed to roam the earth's top till I'm killed."
"Killed?"
"Why, yes. I'm not the kind of chap who dies in bed, surrounded by the weeping members of the family, doctor, nurse, and priest. I'm a scoundrel; but it has this saving grace, I enjoy being the scoundrel. Now, I'm going up to the club. There's nothing like a game of billiards or chess to smooth that wrinkle which seems to worry you."
In the great newspaper office there was a mighty racket. Midnight always means pandemonium in the city room of a metropolitan daily. Copy boys were rushing to and fro, messengers and printers with sticky galleys in their hands; reporters were banging away at their typewriters, and intermingling you could hear the ceaseless clickety-click from the telegraph room.
The managing editor came out of his office and approached the desk of the night city editor.
"Editorial page gone down?"
"Twenty minutes ago," said the night city editor.
"I wanted a stick on that Panama rumpus."
"Too late."
"Where's Jim Norton?"
"At the chamber of commerce banquet. The major is going to throw a bomb into the enemy's camp."
"Nothing on the Hargreave stuff?"
"No. Guess I'd better put that in the cubbyhole. He's dead."
"No will found yet?"
"Not a piece as big as a postage stamp."
"That will leave the girl in a tough place. No will, no birth certificate; and, worst of all, no photograph of the old man himself. I don't see why Jim sidestepped this affair. He is the only man in town who knew anything about Hargreave."
"He hasn't given it up; but he wants to cover it on his own, turn the yarn over when he's got it, no false alarms."
"Ah! So that's the game?"
"Yes; and Jim is the sort every paper needs. When the time comes the story turns up, if there is one. Here he is now. Looks like an actor in the fourth act of a drama. Good-looking chap, though."
Norton came in through the outer gates. He was in evening clothes, top hat. A dead cigarette dangled between his lips.
"How much do you want?" asked the night city editor.
"Column and a half."
"Off with your glad rags!"
"Anything good?" asked the managing editor.
"The lid has been jammed on tight. No wine in any restaurant after one o'clock. There'll be a roundup of every gunman in town."
"Good work! Go to it."
It was one o'clock when Norton turned in his last sheet of copy and started for home. Just outside the entrance to the building a man with a slouch hat drawn down over his eyes stepped forward.
"Mr. Norton?"
"Yes." Norton stepped back suspiciously.
The other chuckled, raised and lowered his hat swiftly.
"Good lord!" murmured the reporter.
"Will you take a ride with me in a taxi?"
"All the way to Syracuse, if you say so. Well, I'll be tinker d—d!"
"No names, please!"
What took place in that taxicab was never generally known. But at ten o'clock the next morning Norton surprised the elevator boy by going out. Norton proceeded down-town to the national bank, where he deposited $5,000 in bills of large denominations. The teller had some difficulty in counting them. They stuck together and retained the sodden appearance of money recently submerged in water.
Florence was delighted at the idea of a coaching party. Often during her schoolgirl days she had seen the fashionable coaches go careening along the road, with the sharp, clear note of the bugle rising above the thunder of hoofs and rattling of wheels. Jones was not enthusiastic; neither was he a killjoy.
"But you are to go along, too," said Florence.
"I, Miss Florence?"
"The countess invited you especially. You will go with a hamper."
"Ah, in my capacity as butler; very good, Miss Florence." To her he gave no sign of his secret great satisfaction.
The hour arrived, and the gay party bowled away. They wound in and out of the streets toward the country to the crack of the whip and the blare of the horn. Florence's enjoyment would have been perfect had it not been for the absence of Norton. Why hadn't he been invited? She did not ask because she did not care to disclose to the countess her interest in the reporter. They were nearing the limits of the city, when the coach was forced to take a sharp turn to avoid an automobile in trouble. The man puttering at the engine raised his head. It was Norton, and Florence waved her hand vigorously.
"A coaching party," he murmured; "and your Uncle James was not invited! Oh, very well!" He laughed, and suddenly grew serious. It would not hurt to find out where that coach was going.
He set to work savagely, located the trouble, righted it, and set off for the Hargreave home. He found Susan and bombarded her with questions which to Susan came with the rapidity of rain upon the roof.
"So Jones went along?"
"In his capacity of butler only."
Norton smiled. "Well, I'll take a jaunt out there myself. You are sure of the location?"
"Yes."
"Well, good-by. I'll go as a waiter, since they wouldn't invite me. I'm one of the best little waiters you ever heard of; and all things come to him who waits."
What a pleasant, affable young man he was! thought Susan as she watched him jump into the car and go flying up the street.
Jones was a good deal surprised when Norton turned up at the old Chilton manor.
"What made you come here dressed like this?" the butler demanded.
"I'm a suspicious duffer; maybe that's the reason."
"Do you know anything?"
"Well, no; I can't say that I do. But, hang it, I just had to come out here."
"Maybe it's just as well you did," said Jones moodily.
"I know this place. The housekeeper used to be my nurse, and if she is still on the job she may be of service to us. You don't think they'll question or recognize me?"
"Hardly. I'll put in a word for you. I'll say I sent for you, not knowing if we had enough servants to take care of the luncheon."
"And now I'll go and hunt up Meg."
Sure enough, his old nurse was still in charge of the house; and when her "baby" disclosed his identity she all but fell upon his neck.
"But what are you doing here, dressed up as a waiter?"
"It's a little secret, Meg. I wasn't invited, and the truth is I'm very desperately in love with the young lady in whose honor this coaching party is being given. And ... maybe she's in danger."
"Danger? What about?"
"The Lord only knows. But show me about the house. I've not been here in so long I've forgotten the run of it. I remember one room with the secret panel and another with a painting that turned. Have they changed them?"
"No; it is just the same here as it used to be. Come along and I'll show you."
Norton inspected the rooms carefully, stowing away in his mind every detail. He might be worrying about nothing; but so many strange things had happened that it was better to be on the side of caution than on the side of carelessness. He left the house and ran across Jones carrying a basket of wine.
"Here, Norton; take this to the party. I want to reconnoiter."
"All right, m'lud! Say, Jones, how much do you think I'd earn at this job?" comically.
"Get along with you, Mr. Norton. It may be the time to laugh, and then it may not."
"I'm going back into the house and hide behind a secret panel. I've got my revolver. You go to the stables and take a try at my car; see if she works smoothly. We may have to do some hiking. Where is the countess in this?"
"Leave that to me, Mr. Norton," said the butler with his grim smile. "Be off; they are moving back toward the house."
So Norton carried the basket around to the lawn, where it was taken from his hands by the regular servant. He sighed as he saw Florence, laughing and chatting with a man who was a stranger and whom he heard addressed as count. Some friend of the countess, no doubt. Where was all this tangle going to end? He wished he knew. And what a yarn he was going to write some day! It would read like one of Gaboriau's tales. He turned away to wander idly about the grounds, when beyond a clump of cedars he saw three or four men conversing slowly. He got as near as possible, for when three or four men put their heads together and whisper animatedly, it usually means a poker game or something worse. He caught a phrase or two as they came down the wind, and then he knew that the vague suspicion that had brought him out here had been set in motion by fate. He heard "Florence" and "the old drawing room;" and that was enough.
He scurried about for Jones. It was pure luck that he had had old Meg show him through the house, otherwise he would have forgotten all about the secret panel in the wall and the painting. Jones shrugged resignedly. Were these men of the countess' party? Norton couldn't say.
THE SECRET PANELTHE SECRET PANEL
Norton made his hiding place in safety; and by and by he could hear the guests moving about in the room. Then all sounds ceased for a while. A door closed sharply.
"No; here you must stay, young lady," said a man's voice.
"What do you mean, sir?" demanded the beloved voice.
"It means that no one will return to this room and that you will not be missed until it is too late."
The sound of voices stopped abruptly, and something like scuffling ensued. Later Norton heard the back of a chair strike the panel and some one sat heavily upon it. He waited perhaps five minutes; then he gently slid back the panel. Florence sat bound and gagged under his very eyes. It was but the work of a moment to liberate her.
"It is I, Jim. Do not speak or make the least noise. Follow me."
Greatly astonished, Florence obeyed; and the panel slipped back into place. The room behind the secret panel had barred windows. To Florence it appeared to be a real prison.
"How did you get here?" she asked breathlessly.
"Something told me to follow you. And something is always going to tell me to follow you, Florence."
She pressed his hand. It was to her as if one of those book heroes had stepped out of a book; only book heroes always had tremendous fortunes and did not have to work for a living. Oddly enough, she was not afraid.
"Who was the man?" he asked.
"The Count Norfeldt. Some one has imposed upon the countess."
"Do you think so?" with a strange look in his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing just now. The idea is to get out of here just as quickly as we can. See this painting?" He touched a spot in the wall and the painting slowly swung out like a door. "Come; we make our escape to the side lawn from here."
At the stable they were confronted with the knowledge that Norton's car was out of commission; Jones could do nothing with it. Then Norton suggested that he make an effort to commandeer the limousine of the countess; but there were men about, so the limousine was out of the question.
"Horses!" whispered Jones. "There are several saddle horses, already saddled. How about these people, the owners?"
"Oh, they are beyond reproach. They have doubtless been imposed upon. But let us get aboard first. There will be time to talk later. I'll have to do some explaining, taking these nags off like this. We won't have to ride out in front where the picnickers are. There's a lane back of the stable, and a slight detour brings us back into the main road."
The three mounted and clattered away. To Florence it had the air of a prank. She was beginning to have such confidence in these two inventive men that she felt as if she was never going to be afraid any more.
When the Countess Olga saw the three horses it was an effort not to fly into a rage. But secretly she warned her people, who presently gave chase in the limousine, while she prattled and jested and laughed with her company, who were quite unaware that a drama was being enacted right under their very noses. The countess, while she acted superbly, tore her handkerchief into shreds. There was something sinister in the way all their plans fell through at the very moment of consummation; and that night she determined to ask Braine to withdraw from this warfare, which gradually decimated their numbers without getting anywhere toward the goal.
Jones shouted that the limousine was tearing down the road. Something must be done to stop it. He suggested that he drop behind, leave his horse, and take a chance at potting a tire from the shrubbery at the roadside.
"Keep going. Don't stop, Norton, till you are back in town. I'll manage to take good care of myself."
When all three finally met at the Hargreave home Florence suddenly took Jones by the shoulders and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Jones started back, pale and disturbed.
Norton laughed. He did not feel the slightest twinge of jealousy, but he was eaten up with envy, as the old wives say.
"You are wondering if I suspect the Countess Perigoff?" said Jones.
"I am." This man Jones was developing into a very remarkable character. The reporter found himself side glancing at the thin, keen face of this resourceful butler. The lobe of the man's left ear came within range. Norton reached for a cigarette, but his hands shook as he lit it. There was a peculiar little scar in the center of the lobe.
"Well," said Jones, "I can find no evidence that she has been concerned in any of these affairs."
"You are suspicious?"
"Of everybody," looking boldly into the reporter's eyes.
"Of me?" smiling.
"Even of myself sometimes."
Conversation dropped entirely after this declaration.
"You're a taciturn sort of chap."
"Am I?"
"You are. But an agreement is an agreement, and while I'd like to print this story, I'll not. We newspaper men seldom break our word."
Jones held out his hand.
"Sometimes I wish I'd started life right," said the reporter gloomily. "A newspaper man is generally improvident. He never looks ahead for to-morrow. What with my special articles to the magazines, I earn between four and five thousand the year; and I've never been able to save a cent."
"Perhaps you've never really tried," replied Jones, with a glance at his companion. It was a good face, strong in outline; a little careworn, perhaps, but free from any indications of dissipation. "If I had begun life as you did, I'd have made real and solid use of the great men I met. I'd have made financiers help me to invest my earnings, or savings, little as they might be. And to-day I'd be living on the income."
"You never can tell. Perhaps a woman might have made you think of those things; but if you had remained unattached up to thirty-one, as I have, the thought of saving might never have entered your head. A man in my present condition, financially, has no right to think of matrimony."
"It might be the saving of you if you met and married the right woman."
"But the right woman might be heiress to millions. And a poor devil like me could not marry a girl with money and hang on to his self-respect."
"True. But there are always exceptions to all rules in life, except those regarding health. A healthy man is a normal man, and a normal man has no right to remain single. You proved yourself a man this afternoon, considering that you did not know I occupied the wheel seat. Come to think it over, you really saved the day. You gave me the opportunity of steering straight for the police station. Well, good-by."
"Queer duck!" mused the reporter as, after telephoning, he headed for his office. Queer duck, indeed! What a game it was going to be! And this man Jones was playing it like a master. It did not matter that some one else laid down the rules; it was the way in which they were interpreted.
Braine heard of the failure. The Black Hundred was finding its stock far below par value. Four valuable men locked up in the Tombs awaiting trial, to say nothing of the seven gunmen gathered in at the old warehouse. Braine began to suspect that his failures were less due to chance than to calculation, that at last he had encountered a mind which anticipated his every move. He would have recognized this fact earlier had it not been that revenge had temporarily blinded him. The spirit of revenge never makes for mental clarity.
There was a meeting that night of the Black Hundred. Four men were told off, and they drew their chairs up to Vroon's table for instructions. Braine sat at Vroon's elbow. These four men composed the most dangerous quartet in New York City. They were as daring as they were desperate. They were the men who held up bank messengers and got away with thousands. They had learned to swoop down upon their victims as the hawk swoops down upon the heron. The newspapers referred to them as the "auto bandits," and the men took a deal of pride in the furore they had created.
FOUR MEN WERE TOLD OFFFOUR MEN WERE TOLD OFF
Vroon went over the Hargreave case minutely; he left no detail unexplained. Bluntly and frankly, the daughter of Stanley Hargreave must be caught and turned over to the care of the Black Hundred. It must be quick action. Four valuable members were in the Tombs. They might or might not weaken under pressure. For the first time in its American career the organization stood facing actual peril; and its one possible chance of salvation lay in the fact that no one's face was known to his neighbor. He, Vroon, and the boss alone knew who and what each man was. But the plans, the ramifications of the organization might become public property; and that would mean an end to an exceedingly profitable business.
The daughter of Hargreave rode horseback early every morning. She sought the country road. She was invariably attended by the riding master of a school near by.
"You four will make your own plans."
"If she should be injured?"
"Avoid it if possible."
"We have a free hand?"
"Absolutely."
"We risk a bad fall from her horse if it's a spirited one."
"Pretend a breakdown in the road," interpolated Braine. "As they approach, draw and order them to dismount. That method will prevent any accident."
"We'll plan it somehow. It looks easy."
"Nothing is easy where that girl is concerned. A thousand eyes seem to be watching her slightest move."
"We shan't leave anything to chance. How many days will you give us?"
"Seven. A failure, mind you, will prove unhealthy to all concerned," with a menace which made the four stir uneasily.
The telephone rang. Braine reached for the receiver.
"A man just entered the Hargreave house at the rear. Come at once," was the message.
"Is your car outside?" Braine asked.
"We are never without it."
"Then let us be off. No one will stop us for speeding on a side street."
Fourteen minutes by the clock brought the car to a stand at the curb a few houses below the Hargreave home. The men got out. The watcher ran up.
"He is still inside," he whispered.
"Good! Spread out. If any one leaves that house, catch him. If he runs too fast, shoot. We can beat the police."
The man obeyed, and the watcher ran back to his post. He was desperately hoping the affair would terminate to-night. He was growing weary of this eternal vigilance; and it was only his fear of the man known as the boss that kept him at his post. He wanted a night to carouse in, to be with the boys.
The man for whom they were lying in wait was seen presently to creep cautiously round the side of the house. He hugged a corner and paused. They could see the dim outline of his body. The light in the street back of the grounds almost made a silhouette of him. By and by, as if assured that the coast was clear, he stole down to the street.
"Halt!"
Instantly the prowler took to his heels. Two shots rang out. The man was seen to stop, stagger, and then go on desperately.
"He's hit!"
By the time the men reached the corner they heard the rumble of a motor. One dashed back to the car they had left standing at the curb. He made quick work of the job, but he was not quick enough. Still, they gave chase. They saw the car turn toward the city. But, unfortunately for the success of the chase, several automobiles passed, going into town and leaving it. Checkmate.
Braine was keen enough to-night.
"He is hit; whether badly or not remains to be seen. We can find that out. Drive to the nearest drug store and get a list of hospitals. It's a ten to one shot that we land him somewhere among the hospitals."
But they searched the hospitals in vain. None of them had that night received a shooting case, nor had they heard one reported. The man had been unmistakably hit. He would not have dared risk the loss of time for a bit of play-acting. Evidently he had kept his head and sought his lodgings. To call up doctors would be utter folly; for it would take a week for a thorough combing. This was the second time the man had got away.
"Perhaps I'm to blame," admitted Braine. "I should have advised Miles to stalk him and pot him if he got the chance. There's a master mind working somewhere back of all this, and it's time I woke up to the fact. But you," turning to the auto bandits, "you men have your instructions. More than that, you have been given a free rein. See that you make good, or by the Lord Harry! I'll break the four of you like pipestems."
"We haven't had a failure yet," spoke up one of the men, more courageous than his companions.
"You are not holding up a bank messenger this trip. Remember that. Drive me as far as Columbus Circle. Leave me on the side street, between the lights, so I can take off this mask."
Later Braine sauntered into Pabst's and ordered a light supper. This night's work, more than anything else, brought home to him the fact that his luck was changing. For years he had proceeded with his shady occupations without encountering any memorable failure. He moved in the high world, quite unsuspected. He had written books, given lectures, been made a lion of, all the while laughing in his sleeve at the gullibility of human nature. But within the last two weeks he had received serious checks. From now on he must move with the utmost caution. Some one was playing his own game, waging warfare unseen. A battle of wits? So be it; but Braine intended to play with rough wits, and he wasn't going to care which way the sword cut.
He hated Stanley Hargreave with all the hatred of his soul; the hatred of a man balked in love. And the man was alive, defying him; alive somewhere in this city this very night, with a bullet under his skin.
"Is everything satisfactory, sir?" he heard the head waiter say.
"Satisfactory?" Braine repeated blankly.
"Yes, sir. You struck the table as though displeased."
"Oh!" Then Braine laughed relievedly. "If I struck the table, it was done unconsciously. I was thinking."
"Beg pardon, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"No. Bring me the check."
"Your master gives riding lessons?"
The groom who had led the horse back from Hargreave's eyed his questioner rather superciliously.
"Yes." The groom fondled the animal's legs.
"How much is it?"
"Twenty dollars for a ticket of five rides. The master is the fashion up here. He doesn't cater to any but the best families."
"Pretty steep. Who was that young lady riding this morning with your master?"
"That's the girl all the newspapers have been talking about," answered the groom importantly.
"Actress?"
"Actress! I should say not. That young woman is the daughter of Stanley Hargreave, the millionaire who was lost at sea. And it won't be long before she puts her finger in a pie of four or five millions. If you want any rides, you'll have to talk it over with the boss. He may or may not take any more rides. You'd probably have to ride in the afternoon, anyhow, as every nag is out in the morning."
"Where's the most popular road?"
"Toward the park; but Miss Hargreave always goes along the riverside road. She doesn't like strangers about."
"Oh, I see. Well, I'll drop in this afternoon and see your master. They say that riding is good for a torpid liver. Have a cigar?"
"Thanks."
The groom proceeded into the stables and the affable stranger took himself off.
A free rein; they could work it to suit themselves. There wasn't the least obstacle in the way. On the face of it, it appeared to be the simplest job they had yet undertaken. To get rid of the riding master in some natural way after he and the girl had started. It was like falling off a log.
"Susan," said Florence, as she came into breakfast after her exhilarating ride, "did you hear pistol shots last night?"
"I heard some noise, but I was so sleepy I didn't try to figure out what it was."
"Did you, Jones?"
"Yes, Miss Florence. The shots came from the street. A policeman came running up later and said he saw two automobiles on the run. But evidently there wasn't anybody hurt. One has to be careful at night nowadays. There are pretty bad men abroad. Did you enjoy the ride?"
"Very much. But there were some spots of blood on the walk near the corner."
"Blood?" Jones caught the back of a chair to steady himself.
"Yes. So some one was hurt. Oh, let's leave this place!" impulsively. "Let us go back to Miss Farlow's. You could find a place in the village, Jones. But if I stay here much longer in this state of unrest I shall lose faith in everything and everybody. Whoever my father's enemies are, they do not lack persistence. They have made two attempts against my liberty, and sooner or later they will succeed. I keep looking over my shoulder all the time. If I hear a noise I jump."
"Miss Florence, if I thought it wise, you should be packed off to Miss Farlow's this minute. But not an hour of the day or night passes without this house being watched. I seldom see anybody about. I can only sense the presence of a watcher. At Miss Farlow's you would be far more like a prisoner than here. I could not accompany you. I am forbidden to desert this house."
"My father's orders?"
Jones signified neither one way nor the other. He merely gazed stolidly at the rug.
"That blood!" She sprang from her chair, horrified. "It was his! He was here last night and they shot him! Oh!"
"There, there, Miss Florence! The man was only slightly wounded. He's where they never will look for him." Then Jones continued, as with an effort: "Trust me, Miss Florence. It would not pay to run away. The whole affair would be repeated elsewhere. We might go to the other end of the world, but it would not serve us in the least. It is not a question of escape, but of who shall vanquish the other. There is nothing to do but remain here and fight, fight, fight. We have put four of them in the Tombs, to say nothing of the gunmen. That is what we must do—put them in a safe place, one by one, till we reach the master. Then only may we breathe in safety. But if they watch, so do we. There is never a moment when help is not within reach, no matter where you go. So long as you do not deceive me, no real harm shall befall you. Don't cry. Be your father's daughter, as I am his servant."
"I am very unhappy!" And Florence threw her arms around Susan and laid her head upon her friend's shoulder.
"Poor child!" Susan, however, recognized the wisdom of Jones' statements. They were safest here.
The morning rides continued. To the girl, who loved the open, it was glorious fun. Those mad gallops along the roads, the smell of earth and sea, the tingle in the blood, were the second best moments of the day. The first? She invariably blushed when she considered what these first best moments were. He was a brave young man, good to look at, witty, and always cheerful. Why shouldn't she like him? Even Jones liked him—Jones, who didn't seem to like anybody. It did not matter whether he was wise or not; a worldly point of view was farthest from her youthful thoughts. It was her own affair; her own heart.
Five days later, as she and the riding master were cantering along the road, enjoying every bit of it, they heard the beat of hoofs behind. They drew up and turned. A rider was approaching them at a run. It was the head groom. The man stopped his horse in a cloud of dust.
"Sir, the stables are on fire."
"Fire?"
All the riding master's savings were invested in the stables. The fact that he had solemnly promised never to leave Florence alone, and that he had accepted a generous bonus slipped from his mind at the thought of fire, a terrible word to any horseman. He wheeled and started off at breakneck speed, his head groom clattering behind him.
Florence naturally wondered which of two courses to pursue: follow them, when she would be perfectly helpless to aid them, or continue the ride and save at least one horse from the terror of seeing flames. She chose the latter. But she did not ride with the earlier zest. She felt depressed. She loved horses, and the thought of them dying in those wooden stables was horrifying.
The fire, however, proved to be incipient. But it was plainly incendiary. Some one had set fire to the stables with a purpose in view. Norton recognized this fact almost as soon as the firemen. He had come this morning with the idea of surprising Florence. He was going out on horseback to join her.
His spine grew suddenly cold. A trap! She had been left alone on the road! He ran over to the garage, secured a car, and went humming out toward the river road. A trap, and only by the sheerest luck had he turned up in time.
Meantime Florence was walking her mount slowly. For once the scenery passed unobserved. She was deeply engrossed with thoughts, some of which were happy and some of which were sad. If only her father could be with her she would be the happiest girl alive.
She was brought out of her revery by the sight of a man staggering along the road ahead of her. Finally he plunged upon his face in the road. Like the tender-hearted girl she was, she stopped, dismounted, and ran to the fallen man to give him aid. She suddenly found her wrists clasped in two hands like iron. The man rose to his feet, smiling evilly. She struggled wildly but futilely.
"Better be sensible," he said. "I am stronger than you are. And I don't wish to hurt you. Walk on ahead of me. It will be utterly useless to scream or cry out. You can see for yourself that we are in a deserted part of the road. If you will promise to act sensibly I shan't lay a hand on you. Do you see that hut yonder, near the fork in the road? We'll stop there. Now, march!"
"BETTER BE SENSIBLE," HE SAID"BETTER BE SENSIBLE," HE SAID
She dropped her handkerchief, later her bracelet, and finally her crop, in hope that these slight clues might bring her help. She knew that Jones would hear of the fire, and, finding that she had not returned with the riding master, would immediately start out in pursuit. She was beginning to grow very fond of Jones, who never spoke unless spoken to, who was always at hand, faithful and loyal.
From afar came the low rumble of a motor. She wondered if her captor heard it. He did, but his ears tricked him into believing that it came from another direction. Eventually they arrived at the hut, and Florence was forced to enter. The man locked the door and waited outside for the automobile which he was expecting. He was rather dumfounded when he saw that it was coming from the city, not going toward it.
It was Norton. The riderless horse told him enough; the handkerchief and bracelet and crop led him straight for the hut.
The man before the hut realized by this time that he had made a mistake. He attempted to re-enter the hut and prepare to defend it till his companions hove in sight. But Florence, recognizing Norton, held the door with all her strength. The man snarled and turned toward Norton, only to receive a smashing blow on the jaw.
Norton flung open the door. "Into the car, Florence! There's another car coming up the road. Hurry!"
It was not a long chase. The car of the auto bandits, looking like an ordinary taxicab, was a high-powered machine, and it gained swiftly on Norton's four-cylinder. The reporter waited grimly.
"Keep your head down!" he warned Florence. "I'm going to take a pot at their tires when they get within range. If I miss I'm afraid we'll have trouble. Under no circumstances attempt to leave this car. Here they come!"
He suddenly leaned back and fired. It was only chance. The manner in which the cars were lurching made a poor target for a marksman even of the first order. Chance directed Norton's first bullet into the right forward tire, which exploded. Going at sixty-odd miles an hour, they could not stop the car in time to avoid fatality. The car careened wildly and plunged down the embankment into the river.
Florence covered her eyes with her hands, and, quite unconscious of what he was doing, Norton put his arms around her.
After the affair of the auto bandits—three of whom were killed—a lull followed. If you're a sailor you know what kind of a lull I mean—blue-black clouds down the southwest horizon, the water crinkly, the booms wabbling. Suddenly a series of "accidents" began to happen to Norton. At first he did not give the matter much thought. The safe which fell almost at his feet and crashed through the sidewalk merely induced him to believe he was lucky. At another time an automobile came furiously around a corner while he was crossing the street, and only amazing agility saved him from bodily hurt. The car was out of sight when he thought to recall the number.
Then came the jolt in the subway. Only a desperate grab by one of the guards saved him from being crushed to death. Even then he thought nothing. But when a new box of cigarettes arrived and he tried one and found it strangely perfumed, and, upon further analysis, found it to contain a Javanese narcotic, a slow but sure death, he became wide awake enough. They were after him. He began to walk carefully, to keep in public places as often as he possibly could.
He was not really afraid of death, but he did abhor the thought of its coming up from behind. Except for the cigarettes they were all "accidents;" he could not have proved anything before a jury of his intimate friends.
He never entered an elevator without scrupulous care. He never passed under coverings over the sidewalks where construction was going on. Still, careful as he was, death confronted him once more. It was his habit to have his coffee and rolls—he rarely ate anything more for his breakfast—set down outside his door every morning. The coffee, being in a silver thermos bottle, kept its heat for hours. When he took the stopper out and poured forth a cup it looked oddly black, discolored. It is quite probable that had there been no series of "accidents" he would have drunk a cup—and died in mortal agony. It contained bichloride of mercury.
Very quietly he set about to make inquiries. This was really becoming serious. In the kitchens clown-stairs nothing could be learned. The maid had set the thermos bottle before the door at ten-thirty. Norton had opened the door at one-thirty—three hours after. The outlook was not the cheerfulest. He knew perfectly well why all these things "happened;" he had interfered with the plans of the scoundrels who were making every possible move to kidnap Florence Hargreave.
One afternoon he paid Florence a visit. Of course he told her nothing. They had become secretly engaged the day after he had rescued her from the auto bandits. They were secretly engaged because Florence wanted it so. For once Jones suspected nothing. Why should he? He had troubles enough. As a matter of fact, Norton was afraid of him in the same sense as a boy is afraid of a policeman.
THEY HAD BECOME SECRETLY ENGAGEDTHEY HAD BECOME SECRETLY ENGAGED
But on this day, when the time came, he accosted the butler and drew him into the pantry.
"Jones, they are after me now."
"You? Explain."
Norton briefly recounted the deliberate attempts against his life.
"You see, I'm not liar enough to say that I'm not worried. I am, devilishly worried. I'm not worth any ransom. I'm in the way, and they seem determined to put me out of it."
"To any other man I would say travel. But to you I say when you leave your rooms don't go where you first thought you would—that is, some usual haunt. They'll be everywhere, near your restaurants, your clubs, your office. You're a methodical young man; become erratic. Keep away from here for at least three days, but always call me up by telephone some time during the day. Never under any circumstance, unless I send for you, come here at night. Only one man now watches the house during the day, but five are prowling around after dark. They might have instructions to shoot you on sight. I can't spare you just at present, Mr. Norton. You've been a godsend; and if it seems that sometimes I did not trust you fully it was because I did not care to drag you in too deep."
Deep? Norton thought of Florence and smiled inwardly. Could anybody be in deeper than he was? Once it was on the tip of his tongue to confess his love for Florence, but the gravity of Jones' countenance was an obstacle to such move; it did not invite it.
To be sure, Jones had no real authority to say what Florence should or should not do with her heart. Still, from all points of view, it was better to keep the affair under the rose till there came a more propitious hour in which to make the disclosure.
Love, in the midst of all these alarms! Sharp, desperate rogues on one side, millions on the other, and yet love could enter the scene serenely, like an actor who had missed his cue and come on too soon.
Oddly enough, there was no real love-making such as you often read about. A pressure of the hand, a glance from the eye, there was seldom anything more. Only once—that memorable day on the river road—had he kissed her. No word of love had been spoken on either side. In that wild moment all conventionalities had disappeared like smoke in the wind. There had been neither past nor future, only the present in which they knew that they loved. With her he was happy, for he had no time to plan over the future. Away from her he saw the inevitable barriers providing against the marriage between a poor young man and a very rich young woman. A man who has any respect for himself wants always to be on equal terms with his wife. It's the way this peculiar organization called society has written down its rules. Doubtless a relic of the stone age, when Ab went out with his club to seek a wife and drag her by the hair to his den, there to care for her and to guard her with his life's blood. It is one of the few primitive sensations that remain to us, this wanting the female dependent upon the male. Perhaps this accounts for man's lack of interest on the suffragette question.
WITH HER HE WAS HAPPY, FOR HE HAD NO TIME TO PLAN OVER THE FUTUREWITH HER HE WAS HAPPY, FOR HE HAD NO TIME TO PLAN OVER THE FUTURE
Only Susan suspected the true state of affairs, being a woman. Having had no real romance herself, she delighted in having a second-hand one, as you might say. She intercepted many a glance and pretended not to see the stolen hand pressures. The wedding was already full drawn in her mind's eye. These two young people should be married at Susan Farlow's when the roses were climbing up the sides of the house and the young robins were boldly trying their fuzzy wings. It struck her as rather strange, but she could not conjure up (at this wedding) more than two men besides the minister, the bridegroom and the butler.
By forsaking his accustomed haunts, under the advice of Jones, the hidden warfare ceased temporarily. You can't very well kill a man when you don't know where to find him. He ate his breakfasts haphazardly, now here, now there. He received most of his assignments by telephone and wrote his stories and articles in his club, in the writing rooms of hotels, and invariably despatched them to the office by messenger. The managing editor wanted to know what all this meant; but Norton declined to tell him.
It irked him to be forced to rearrange his daily life—his habits. It was a revolution against his ease, for he loved ease when he was not at work. He had the sensation of having been suddenly robbed of his home, of having been cast out into the streets. And on top of all this he had to go and fall in love!
There was no longer a shadow opposite the apartments of the Countess Perigoff. Braine came and went nightly without discovering any one. This rather worried him. It gave him the impression that the shadow had found out what he had been seeking and no longer needed to watch the coming and going of either himself or the Countess Perigoff.
"Olga, it looks as if we were at the end of our rope," he said discouragedly. "We have failed in our attempts so far. The devil watches over that girl."
"Or God," replied the countess gloomily. In nearly every instance their success has been due to chance. "Somehow I'm convinced that we began wrong. We should have let Hargreave escape quietly, followed him, and made him fast when the right opportunity came. After a month or so his vigilance would have relaxed; he would have arrived at the belief that he had eluded us."
"Indeed!" ironically. "He wasn't vigilant all these years in which he did elude us. How about the child he never sought but guarded? Vigilance! He never was anything else all these seventeen years. The truth is, success has developed a coarseness in our methods. And now it is too late for finesse. We have tried every device we can think of; and there they are—the girl free, Norton unharmed, and the father as secure in his retreat as though he wore an invisible cloak. My head aches. I have ceased to be inventive."
THEY WERE TO BE MARRIEDTHEY WERE TO BE MARRIED
"The two are in love with each other."
"Are you sure of that?"
"I have my eyes. But I begin to wonder."
"About what?"
"Whether or not Jones suspects me and is giving me rope to hang myself with. Not once have the police been called in and told what has really happened. They are totally at sea. And what has become of the man over the way?"
"By the Lord Harry!" exclaimed Braine, clapping his hands. "I believe I've solved that. We shot a man coming out of Hargreave's. Since then there's been no one across the way. One and the same man!"
"But that knowledge doesn't get us anywhere."
"No. You say they are in love?"
"Secretly. I don't believe the butler has an inkling of it. It is possible, however, that Susan has caught the trend of affairs. But, being rather romantic, she will in nowise interfere."
Braine smoked in silence. Presently a smile twisted his lips.
"You have thought of something?" she asked.
"You might try it," he said. "They have accepted your friendship; whether with ulterior purpose remains to be learned. She has been to your apartments two or three times to tea and always got home safely."
"No," she said determinedly. "Nothing shall happen here. I will not take the risk."
"Wait till I'm through. Break up the romance in such a way that the girl will bar Norton from the house. That's what we've been aiming at; to get rid of that meddling reporter. We've tried poisons. Try your kind."
"What do you mean?"
"Lies."
"Ah! I understand. You want me to win him away from her. It can not be done."
"Pshaw! You have a bag full of tricks. You can easily manage to put him into an equivocal position out of which he can not possibly squirm so far as the girl is concerned. A little melodrama, arranged for the benefit of Florence. Fall into Norton's arms at the right moment, or something like that."
"I suppose I could. But if I failed..."
"You're too damnably clever to fail in your own particular work. Something has got to be done to keep those two apart. I've often thought of raiding the house and boldly carrying off the whole family, Susan and all. But a wholesale affair like that would be too noisy. Think it over, Olga; we have gone too far to back down now. There's always Russia; and while I'm the boss over here they never cease to watch me. They'll make me answer for a failure like this."
She eyed him speculatively. "You have money."
"Oh, the money doesn't matter. It's the game. It's the game of playing fast and loose with society, of pilfering it with one hand and making it kow-tow with the other. It's the sport of the thing. What was your thought?"
"We could go away together, to South America."
"And tire of each other within a month," he retorted shrewdly. "No; we are in the same boat. We could not live but for this never-ending excitement. And, more than that, we never could get far enough away from the long arm of the First Ten. We'll have to stick it out here. Can't you see?"
"Yes, I can see."
But in her heart she knew that she would have lived in a hut with this man till the end of her days. She abhorred the life, though she never, by the slightest word, let him become aware of it. There was always that abiding fear that at the first sign of weakness he would desert her. And she was wise in her deductions. Braine was loyal to her because she held his interest. Once that failed, he would be off and away.
The next afternoon the countess, having matured her plans against the happiness of the young girl who trusted her, drew up before the Hargreave place and alighted. Her welcome was the same as ever, and this strengthened her confidence.
The countess was always gesticulating. Her hands fluttered to emphasize her words. And the beautiful diamond solitaire caught the girl's eye. She seized the hand. Having an affair of her own, it was natural that she should be interested in that of her friend.
"I never saw that ring before."
"A gift of yesterday." The countess assumed a shy air which would have deceived St. Anthony. She twisted the ring on her finger.
"Tell me," cried Florence. "You are engaged?"
"Mercy, no!"
"Is he rich?"
"No. Money should not matter when your heart is involved."
As this thought was in accord with her own, Florence nodded her head sagely.
"It's nothing serious. Just a fancy. I shall never marry again. Men are gay deceivers; they always have been and always will be. Perhaps I'm a bit wicked; but I rather like to prove my theory that all men are weak. If I had a daughter I'd rather have her be an old man's darling than a young man's drudge. I distrust every man I know. I came to ask you and Susan to go to the opera with me to-night. You will come to my apartments first. You will come?"
"To be sure we will!"
"Simple little fool!" thought the Russian on the way home. "She shall see."
"I believe the countess is engaged to be married," said Florence to Jones.
"Indeed, miss?"
"Yes. I couldn't get anything definite out of her, but she had a beautiful ring on her finger. She wants Susan and me to go to the opera with her to-night. Will that be all right?"
Jones gazed abstractedly at the rug. Whenever a problem bothered him he seemed to find the solution in the delicate patterns of the Persian rugs. Finally he nodded. "I see no reason why you should not go. Only, watch out."
"Jones, there is one thing that will make me brave and happy. Will you tell me if you are in direct communication with my father?"
"Yes, Miss Florence," he answered promptly. "But do not breathe this to a single soul, neither Susan nor Norton."
"I promise that. But, ah! hasten the day when he can come to me without fear."
"That is my wish also."
"You need not call me miss. Why should you?"
"It might not be wise to have any one hear me call you thus familiarly," he objected gravely.
"Please yourself about that. Now I must telephone Jim."
"Jim?" the butler murmured.
He caught the word which was not intended for his ears. But for once Jones had been startled out of himself.
"Is it wrong for me to call Mr. Norton Jim?" she asked with a bit of banter.
"It is not considered quite the proper thing, Miss Florence, to call a young man by his first name unless you are engaged to marry him, or grew up with him from childhood."
"Well, supposing I were engaged to him?" haughtily.
"That would be a very grave affair. What have you to prove that he may not wish to marry you for your money?"
"Why, Jones, you know that I haven't a penny in the world I can call my own! There is nothing to prove, except your word, that I am Stanley Hargreave's daughter."
"No, there is nothing to prove that you are his daughter. But hasn't it ever occurred to you that there might be a purpose back of this? Might it not be of inestimable value that your father's enemies should be left in doubt? Might it not be a means of holding them on the leash? There is proof, ample proof, my child; and when the time comes these will be shown you. But meantime put all thought of marrying Mr. Norton out of your mind."
"That I refuse to do," quietly. "I am at least mistress of my heart; and no one shall dictate to me whom I shall or shall not marry. I love Mr. Norton and he loves me, knowing that I may not be an heiress after all. And some day I shall marry him."
Jones bowed. This seemed to appear final to him, and nothing more was to be said.
Norton did not return to his rooms till seven. He found the telephone call and also a note in a handwriting unfamiliar. He tore off the envelope and found! the contents to be from the Countess Perigoff.
"Call at eight to-night," he read. "I have an important news story for you. Tell no one, as I can not be involved in the case. Cordially, Olga, Countess Perigoff."
Humph! Norton twiddled the note in his fingers and at length rolled it into a ball and threw it into the waste-basket. He, too, made a mistake; he should have kept that note. He dressed, dined, and hurried off to the apartments of the countess.
He arrived ten minutes before Florence and Susan.
And Jones did some rapid telephoning.
"How long, how long!" the butler murmured. How long would this strange combat last? The strain was terrible. He slept but little during the nights, for his ears were always waiting for sounds. He had cast the chest into the sea, and it would take a dozen expert divers to locate it. And now, atop of all these worries, the child must fall in love with the first comer! It was heart-breaking. Norton, so far as he had learned, was cool and brave, honest and reliable in a pinch; but as the husband of Stanley Hargreave's daughter, that was altogether a different matter. And he must devise some means of putting a stop to it, but—-
But he was saved that trouble.
Mongoose and cobra, that was the game being played; the cunning of the one against the deadly venom of the other. If he forced matters he would only lay himself open to the strike of the snake. He must have patience. Gradually they were breaking the organization, lopping off a branch here and there, but the peace of the future depended upon getting a grip on the spine of the cobra himself.
The trick was simple. The countess had news; trust her for that. She exhibited a cablegram, dated at Gibraltar, in which the British authorities stated definitely that no such a person as William Orts, aviator, had arrived at Gibraltar. And then, as Norton rose, she rose also and gently precipitated herself into his arms, just at the moment when Florence appeared in the doorway.
Very simple, indeed. When a woman falls toward a man there is nothing for him to do but extend his arms to prevent her from falling. Outwardly, however, to the eye which saw only the picture and comprehended not the cause, it had all the hallmarks of an affectionate embrace.
Florence stood perfectly still for a moment, then turned away.
"I beg your pardon," said the countess, "but a sudden fainting spell seized me. My heart is a bit weak."
"Don't mention it," replied the gallant Norton. He was as innocent as a babe as to what had really taken place.
Florence went back home. She wrote a brief note to Norton and inclosed the ring which she had secretly worn attached to a little chain around her neck.
When Norton came the next day she refused to see him. It was all over. She never wished to see him again.
"He says there has been some cruel mistake," said Jones.
"I saw him with the countess in his arms. I do not see any cruel mistake in that. I saw him. Tell him so. And add that I never wish to see him again."
Then she ran swiftly to her room, where she broke down and cried bitterly and would not be comforted by Susan.
"In heaven's name, what has happened?" demanded the frantic lover, "what has happened?"
The comedy of the whole affair lay in the fact that neither of the two suspected the countess, who consoled them both.