A dipsy-chanty, if you please; of sailormen in jerseys and tarry caps, of rolling gaits, strong tobacco and diverse profanity; of cutters, and blunt-nosed schooners, and tramps, canvas and steam, some of them honest, some of them shady, and some of them pirates of the first water who did not find it necessary to hoist aloft the skull and bones. The seas are dotted with them. They remind you of the once prosperous merchant, run down at the heel, who slinks along the side streets, ashamed to meet those he knew in the past. You never hear them mentioned in the maritime news, which is the society column of the ships; you know of their existence only by the bleached bones of them, strewn along the coast.
You who crave adventures on high seas, you purchase a ticket, a steamer chair, and a couple of popular novels, go on board to the blare of a very indifferent brass band, and believe you are adventuring; when, as a matter of fact, you are about to spend a dull week or a fortnight on a water hotel, where the most exciting thing is the bugle's call to meals or the discovery of a card sharp in the smoking-room. Take a real ship, go as supercargo, to the South Seas; take the side streets of the ocean, and learn what it can do with hurricanes, typhoons, blistering calms, and men's souls. There will be adventure enough then. If you are a weakling, either you are made strong, or you die.
An honest ship, but run down at the heel, rode at anchor in the sound, a fourth-rater of the hooker breed; that is, her principal line of business was hauling barges up and down the coast. When she could not pick up enough barges to make it pay, why she'd go gallivanting down to Cuba for bales of tobacco or even to the Bermudas for the heaven-smelling onion. To-day she was an onion ship; which precludes any idea of adventure. She was about four thousand tons, and her engines were sternward and not amidship. She carried two masts and a half-dozen hoist booms, and the only visible sign of anything new on her was her bowsprit. This was new doubtless because she had poked her nose too far into her last slip.
Her crew was orderly and tractable. There were shore drunks, to be sure, because they were sailors; but they were at work. They moved about briskly, for they were on the point of sailing for the Bahamas—perhaps for more onions. Presently the windlass creaked and shrilled, and the blobby links, much in need of tar paint, red as fish gills, clattered down into the bow. Sometimes they painted the chain as it came over; but paint was costly, and this was done only when the anchor threatened to stay on the bottom.
There was a sailor among this crew, and he went by the name of Steve Blossom; and he was one of his kind. A grimy dime novel protruded rakishly from his hip pocket, and his right cheek was swollen as with the toothache, due, probably, to a generous "chaw" of Seaman's Delight. He was a real tobacco chewer, for he rarely spat. He was as peaceful as a backwater bay in summer; non-argumentative and passive, he stood his watch in fair weather and foul.
No one gave the anchor any more attention after it came to rest. The great city over the way was fairy-like in its haziness and softened lines. It was the poetry of angles, of shafts and spars of stone; and Steve Blossom, having a moment to himself, leaned against the rail and stared regretfully. He had been generously drunk the night before, and it was a pleasant recollection. Chance led his glance to trail down the cutwater. His neck stretched from his collar like a turtle's from its shell.
"Well, I'll be hornswoggled!" he murmured, shifting his cud from starboard to port.
Caught on the fluke of the anchor was the strangest looking box he had ever laid eyes on. There were leather and steel bands and diamond-shaped ivory and mother of pearl, and it hung jauntily on the point of the rusty fluke. Anybody would be hornswoggled to glimpse such a droll jest of fate. On the fluke of the old mudhook, by a hair, you might say. In all the wild sea yarns he had ever read or heard there was nothing to match this.
Treasure!
And Steve was destined never to be passive again. His first impulse was to call his companions; his second impulse was to say nothing at all, and wait for an opportunity to get the box to his bunk without being detected. Treasure! Diamonds and rubies and pearls and old Spanish gold; and all hanging to the fluke of the anchor.
"Hornswoggled!" in a kind of awesome whisper this time. "An' we a-headin' for th' Bahamas!" For under his feet he could hear the rhythm of engines. "What'll I do? If I leave it, some one else'll see it." He scratched his chin perplexedly; and the cud went back to starboard. "I got it!"
He took off his coat and carefully dropped it down over the mysterious box. It was growing darker and darker all the time, and shortly neither coat nor anchor would be visible without close scrutiny. Treasure: greed, cupidity, crime. Steve saw only the treasure and not its camp followers. What did they call them?—doubloons and pieces-of-eight?
He ate his supper with his messmates, and he ate heartily as usual. It would have taken something more vital than mere treasure to disturb Steve Blossom's appetite. He was one of those enviable individuals whose imagination and gastric juices work at the same time. And while he ate he planned. In the first place, he would buy that home at Bedford; then he would take over the Gilson House and live like a lord. If he wanted a drink, all he would have to do would be to turn the spigot or tip a bottle; and more than that, he'd have a bartender to do it. Onions! He swore he would not have an onion within a mile of the Gilson House. "Onions!" Quite unconsciously he spoke the words aloud.
"Huh? Well, if ye don't like onions, find a hooker that packs violets in her hold," was the cheerful advice of the man at Steve's elbow.
"Who's talkin' t' you?" grunted Steve. "Wha' did I say?"
"Onions, ye lubber! Don't we know whut onions is? Ain't we smelt 'em so long that ye could stick yer nose in th' starboard light an' never smell no kerosene? Onions! Pass th' cawffy."
Steve helped himself first. The man who spoke bunked over him, and they were not on the best of terms. There was no real reason for this frank antagonism; simply, they did not splice any more effectually than cotton rope and hemp splice. Sailors are moody and superstitious; at least they generally are on hookers of theCaptain Mannersbreed. Steve was superstitious and Jim Dunkers was moody and had no thumb on his left hand. Steve hated the sight of that red nubbin. He was quite certain that it had been a whole thumb once, on the way to gouge out somebody's eye, and had inadvertently connected with somebody's teeth.
Spanish doubloons and pearls and diamonds and rubies! It was mighty hard not to say these words out loud, too; blare them into the sullen faces grouped around the table. He was off watch till midnight; and he was wondering if he could get the box without attracting the attention of the lookout, who had a devilish keen eye for everything that stirred on deck or on water. Well, he would have to risk it; but he would wait till full darkness had fallen over the sea and the lookout would be compelled to keep his eyes off the deck. The boys wanted him to play cards.
"Not for me. Busted. How long d' y' think forty dollars 'll last in New York, anyhow?" And he stalked out of the forecastle and went down into the waist to enjoy his evening pipe, all the while keeping a weather eye forward, at the ratty old pilot house.
It was ten o'clock, land time, when he rammed his cutty into a pocket and resolutely walked forward. If any one watched him they would think he was only looking down the cutwater. The thought of money and the pleasures it will buy makes cunning the stupidest of dolts; and Steve was ordinarily a dolt. But to-night his brain was keen enough for all purposes. It was a hazardous job to get the box off the fluke without letting it slip back into the sea. Steve, however, accomplished the feat, climbed back on the rail and sat down, waiting. A quarter of an hour passed. No one had seen him. With his coat securely wrapped about his precious find he made for the forecastle. His mates, save those who were doing their watch, were all in their bunks. An oil lamp dimly illuminated the forward partition. Steve's bunk was almost in darkness. Very deftly he rolled back the bedding and secreted the box under his pillows, and then stretched himself out with the pretense of snoozing till the bell called him to duty.
He was rich; and the moment a man has money he has troubles; there is always some one who wants to take it away from you. His bunk was on the port side, and there was plenty of hiding space between the iron plates and the wooden partition. He intended to loosen three or four planks, and then when the time came, slip the box behind them. Some time during the morning the forecastle would be empty, and then would be his time.
But he suffered the agonies of damnation during the four-hours' watch. Supposing some fool should go rummaging about his bunk and discover the box? Suppose ... But he dared not suppose. There was nothing to do but wait. If he created any curiosity on the part of his mates he was lost. He would have to divide with them all, from the captain down to the cook's boy. It was a heart-rending thought. From being the most open and frank man aboard, he became the most cunning. From being a man without enemies, he saw an enemy even in his shadow.
At four o'clock he turned in and slept like a log.
In the morning he found his opportunity. For half an hour the forecastle was empty of all save himself. Feverishly he pried back the boards, found the brace beam, and gently laid the box there. It was a mighty curious-looking box. Once he had stoked up the Chinese coast from the Philippines, and he judged it to be Chinese in origin. He tried to pry open the cover and feast his eyes upon the treasure; but under the leather and ivory and mother of pearl was impervious steel. It would take an ax or a crowbar to stir that lid. He sighed. He replaced the boards, and became to all appearances his stolid self again.
But all the way down to the Bahamas he was moody, and when he answered any questions it was with words spoken testily and jerkily.
"I know whut's th' matter," said Dunkers. "He's in love."
"Shut your mouth!"
"Didn't I tell yuh?" laughed the tantalizer, dancing toward the companion way. "Steve's in love, 'r he didn't git drunk enough on shore t' satisfy his whale's belly!"
A boot thudded spitefully against the door jamb.
"You fellahs let me alone, 'r I'll bash in a couple o' heads!"
"Oh, yuh will, will yuh?" cried Dunkers from the deck. "If yuh want a little exercise, yuh can begin on me, yuh moonsick swab! Whut's th' matter with yuh, anyhow? Where'd yuh git this grouch? Whut've we done t' yuh? Huh?"
"You keep out o' my way, that's all. I'm mindin' my watches, an' don't ask no odds of you duffers. What if I have a grouch? Is it any o' your business? All right. When we step ashore at th' Bahamas, Mister Jim Dunkers, I'll tear the ropes out o' your pulley blocks. But till we git there, you t' th' upper bunk an' me t' mine."
"Leave th' ol' grouch alone, Jim. Th' mate won't stand for no scrappin' aboard. We'll have th' thing done right in th' custom sheds. We'll have a finish fight, Queensberry rules, an' may th' best man win."
"I'm willin'," said Jim.
"So'm I," agreed Steve. But his intentions were not honorable. He proposed to desert before any fight took place. Not that he was physically afraid; no; he wanted to dig his hands deep into those doubloons and pieces-of-eight.
So the four days down passed otherwise uneventfully, amid paint pots and iron rust and three meals a day of pork, onion soup, potatoes, and strong, bitter coffee. The winds became light and balmy and the sea blue and gentle. The men went about in their undershirts and dungarees, barefooted. Of course the coming fight was the main topic of conversation. It promised to be a rattling good scrap, for both men were evenly matched, and both had a "kick" in either hand. Even the captain took a mild interest in the affair. He was an old sailor. He knew that there was no such word as arbitration in a sailor's vocabulary; his disputes could be settled only in one manner, by his calloused fists.
When the old mudhook (and some day Steve was going to buy it and hang it over the entrance to the Gilson House) slithered down into the smiling waters of the bay, Steve concluded that discretion was the better part of valor. He would steal ashore on the quarantine tug which lay alongside. He was willing to fight under ordinary circumstances, but he must get his treasure in safety first. They could call him a welcher if they wanted to; devil a bit did he care. So he pried back the boards of his bunk wall, took out the box, eyed it fondly, and noted for the first time the lettering on it:
STANLEY HARGREAVE.
He wrinkled his brow in the effort to recall a pirate by this name, but was unsuccessful. No matter. He hugged the box under his coat and made for the gangway, and inadvertently ran into his enemy.
Dunkers caught a bit of the box peeping from under the coat.
"What 'a' yuh got there?" he demanded truculently.
"None o' your dam business! You lemme by; hear me?"
"Ain't none o' my business, huh? Where'd yuh git a box like that? Steal it? By cripes, I'm goin' t' have a look at that box, my hearty. It don't smell like honest onions."
"You lemme by!" breathed Steve, with murder in his heart.
Suddenly the two men closed, surged back and forth, one determined to take and the other to hold this mysterious box. Dunkers struggled to uphold his word: not that he really wanted the box but to prove that he was strong enough to take it if he wanted to. The name on the box flashed and disappeared. It was a kind of shock to him. He and Blossom went battering against the rail. Dunker's grip slipped and so did Blossom's. The result was that the box was catapulted into the sea. With an agonizing cry, Blossom leaned far over. He saw the box oscillate for a moment, then sink gracefully in a zigzag course, down through the blue waters. Fainter and fainter it grew, and at last vanished.
"I'm sorry, Steve; but yuh wouldn't let me look at it," said Dunkers, contritely.
"Damn you; I'm goin' t' kill y' for that!"
It became a real fight this time, fist and foot, tooth and nail; one mad with the lust to kill and the other desperately intent on living. It was one of those contests in which honor and fair play have no part. But for the timely arrival of the captain and some of the crew Dunkers would have been badly injured, perhaps fatally. They hauled back Blossom, roaring out his oaths at the top of his lungs. It took half an hour's arguing to calm him down. Then the captain demanded to know what it was all about. And blubbering, Steve told him.
"Six hundred feet of water, if I've got my reckoning right. The anchor lies in sixty feet, but the starboard side drops sheer six hundred. You swab! Why didn't you bring the box to me? A man has a right to what he finds. I'd have taken care of it for you till we got back to port. I know; you were greedy; you thought I might want to stick my fist into your treasure. And you'll never find it in six hundred feet of water and tangled, porous coral. That's what, you get for being a blamed hog. As for you," and the captain turned to Dunkers, "get your dunnage and your pay and hunt for another boat back. I won't have no murder on boardCaptain Manners. And the sooner you go, the better."
"I'll go, sir," said Dunkers, readily enough. Had the misfortune happened to him and had Blossom been the aggressor, he would want his life. He understood. Like the valet inOlivette, it was the time for disappearing.
"An' keep out o' my way. I'll git y' yet," growled Blossom.
"Keep your mouth shut," said the mate, "or I'll have you put in irons, you pig!"
"All right, sir. I've said all I'm goin't' say t'day;" and Blossom strode off.
"What was the box like?" asked the captain of Dunkers.
"Chinese contraption, sir; leastwise it looked that way to me. Didn't look as if it'd been in th' water long, sir. Somethin' lost overboard by some private yacht, t' my thinkin'. I'll keep out o' Steve's way. I'll lay low on shore, sir."
And though Steve made a perfect range of the spot, he never came back to find the mysterious box, never saw the Gilson House back home, nor did he ever see Dunkers again. On the voyage home he brooded continually, and was frequently found blubbering; and one night he skipped his watch and went to Davy Jones' locker.
Dunkers had not told about the name he had seen on the box; and Blossom had not thought to. The name Hargreave had instantly brought back to Dunkers' mind the newspaper stories he had recently read. There was no doubt in the world that this box belonged to the missing millionaire, who had drawn a million from his banks and vanished; and, moreover, there was no doubt in Dunkers' mind that this million lay in the Bahaman waters. It had been drawn up from the bottom of the sound, under the path of the balloon. He proceeded, then, to take a most minute range. It would require money and partners; but half a loaf would be far better than no loaf at all; and he was determined to return to New York to find backing. Finding is keeping, on land or sea.
Now it happened that his favorite grog shop was a cheap saloon across the way from the headquarters of the Black Hundred; and Vroon occasionally dropped in, for he often picked up a valuable bit of maritime news. Bunkers was an old friend of the barkeeper, and he proceeded to pour and guzzle down his throat a very poor substitute for whisky. He became communicative. He bragged. He knew where there was a million, and all he needed was a first-class diving bell. A year from now he would not be drinking cheap whisky; he'd be steering a course up and down Broadway and buying wine when he was thirsty. He was no miser. But he had to have a diving bell; and where the blue devil could he get one with twelve dollars and an Ingersoll watch in his pocket?
From his table Vroon made a sign which the bartender understood. Then he rose and approached Bunkers.
"I own a pretty good diving apparatus," he said. "If you've got the goods, I'll take a chance on a fifty-fifty basis." Vroon did not believe there was anything back of his talk; but it always paid to dig deep enough to find out. "Have a drink; and, Bill, give us a real whisky and none of your soap-lye. Now, let's hear your yarn."
"I don't know yuh," said Bunkers, with drunken caution. "How is it, Bill?" turning to the bartender.
"He's the goods, Jim. You've heard of Wyant & Co.?"
"Sure I've heard o' them. Best divin' app'ratus they is."
"Well, this gent here is Mr. Brooks, general manager for Wyant & Co. I can O.K. him."
Vroon threw an appreciative glance at the bartender. He was not affiliated with the Black Hundred, but he had often aided Vroon in minor affairs.
"All right, if yuh say so, Bill. Well, here's th' yarn."
And when he had done, Vroon smoked quietly without speaking.
"Don't yuh believe it?" demanded Bunkers, truculently.
"But six hundred feet of water, in a coral bottom, and no way of telling just where it fell overboard. That's a tough proposition."
"Oh, it is, is it? I'm a sailor. I can lay my hand right over th' spot. Do yuh think I'd be fool enough t' hunt for it without a perfect range?" Bunkers tapped his coat pocket suggestively.
And Vroon knew that the one thing he wanted was there, a plan or a drawing of the range. So there was another man shanghaied that night, and his destination was Cape Town, twenty-two days' voyage by the calendar.
Vroon carried his information to the organization that same night. They would start the expedition at once, and till this was accomplished, Hargreave's daughter was to be immune from attacks. Besides, it would give Hargreave (wherever he was) and the others the idea that the Black Hundred had concluded to give up the chase.
Above, with his ear to a small hole, skilfully bored through the ceiling without permitting the plaster to fall, knelt a man with a bandaged arm. He could never see any faces; no one ever took off a mask in this sinister chamber. But there were voices, and he was going to forget some of them. After the meeting came to an end, he waited an hour, and then stole down into the street by the aid of the fire-escape. Later, he entered a telephone booth and called up Jones.
Then, one leathern and steel box, dotted with bits of ivory and mother-of-pearl, became two; and the second one was soaked in mud and salt water for two weeks till you could not have told it from the original. And that is why Jones was able, some weeks later, to hide once more the original box. As for the substitute, just as Braine was about to use a mallet and chisel upon it, the lights went out. There was a wild scramble, a chair or two was overturned.
"The door, the door!" shouted Braine, furious.
It slammed the moment the words left his lips. And as suddenly as they had gone out the lights sprang up. The box was gone. There were evidently traitors among the Black Hundred.
The Black Hundred, not as individuals but as an organization, began to worry. Powerful, and often reckless and daring because it was powerful, it began to look about for some basic cause for all these failures against Hargreave's daughter and Hargreave's ghost. They had tried to put the inquisitive reporter out of the way; they had laid every trap they could think of to catch the mysterious visitor at the Hargreave home; they had thrown out a hundred lures to bring Hargreave out of his lair, and failed; and they had lost a dozen valuable men and several thousand dollars. This must end somewhere, and quickly.
The one ray of hope for the conspirators lay in the fact that Florence had never seen her father and knew not in the least what he looked like. They determined to try again in this direction.
"Give it all up," said the countess to Braine. "I tell you, whatever is back of all this is stronger than we are. He knows the organization, and for all we know he may be a ghost."
"I never go back," smiled Braine. "There's something more than the million. There's the sport of the thing. We've been bested in a dozen bouts, and nearly always by a fluke. They have the breaks, as they say out at the Polo Grounds."
"But the time and expense when we might be getting results elsewhere! I tell you, Leo, I'm afraid. It's like always hearing some one behind you and never finding anybody when you turn. I have told you my doubts. I have also asked you to trap that butler, but you've always laughed."
"You are seeing ghosts, Olga. A new man from holy Russia," shrugging, "is coming to-night. Evidently the head over there thinks our contributions of late have not been up to the mark, and they are going to stir us up. I am willing to wager my soul, however, that that box is simply a hoax to befuddle us. Either that or it holds the key. But the rest of them insist that the box must be recovered. When I leave this room to-night I am going over to Riverdale and stalk all by myself. I'm going to get a glimpse of that mysterious stranger. He carries a scar of mine somewhere, for I hit him that night."
The door opened and the executive chamber became silent.
"Count Paroff," boomed the voice of Vroon. "He will present his credentials."
This formality was executed as prescribed by the rules; and Count Paroff was given his chair. He spoke for a while, rather pompously.
"The head organization is not satisfied with its offspring in this Hargreave affair," he said in conclusion. "You are slow."
"Then perhaps you have come with some suggestions for the betterment of our business?" asked Braine ironically.
"Sir, this is not the hour for flippancy," said the agent coldly.
Braine made a sign with his hand, a sign not observed by every one. Instantly Paroff bent lowly. He recognized that the speaker was the actual, not the nominal, head of the American branch.
"What are your suggestions?" inquired the nominal head from his chair, anxious to avoid a clash between the newcomer and the truculent master of them all.
"I have been informed that Hargreave's daughter has never seen her father, not even a photograph of him," said Paroff, more amiably.
"We are absolutely certain that this is the case," said the nominal head, who was known as the president. "But we tried one play in that direction, and it failed miserably."
"I have the story," replied Paroff. "It was clumsily done. The ruse was an old one."
Braine was frank enough to admit the truth of this statement, however much he disliked the admission. He nodded.
"I have authority to take a hand in this affair. We can not waste all summer. Those government plans of the fortifications of the Panama are waiting. There's your millions. But the fact remains that it is the law of the Black Hundred never to step down till absolutely defeated. The hidden million is but half; we must find and break this renegade Hargreave."
"If he lives," said Braine.
"Who can say one way or the other?" bruskly asked Paroff. "The fact that all your plans and schemes have come to naught should prove to you that you are not fighting a ghost. There is but one way to bring out the truth."
"And that is to make a captive of his daughter," supplemented Braine. "And we have worked toward that end ceaselessly. We are quite ready to listen to your suggestions, count."
"And so am I," thought the man with his ear to the little hole in the ceiling above. "And some day, my energetic friend, I'm going to pay you back for that bullet."
Count Paroff cleared his voice and laid his plans before his audience.
"To act frankly and in the open, to go boldly to the Hargreave home and proclaim myself Hargreave. I can disguise myself in a manner that will at least temporarily fool the butler."
"Who has been with his master for fourteen years, knows every move, habit, gesture, inflection," interposed Braine. "But proceed, count, proceed. You will remember the old adage; too many cooks."
"Ah," flashed back the count, "but a new cook?"
Olga touched Braine's arm warningly.
"You mean, then, that there has been talk in St. Petersburg of disposing of some one?"
"A good deal of talk, sir," haughtily, forgetting that he had bent humbly enough but a few moments gone.
"Very well; go on."
Thought the man at the peephole above: "There's another adage. When thieves fall out, then honest men get their dues. Yes, yes; proceed, proceed!"
Paroff went on. "I shall, then, go frankly to the Hargreave house and claim my own. Meantime I leave to you the business of luring the butler away. Half an hour is all I need to bring that child here, to break the wall that stands between us and what we seek."
"Is that so?" murmured Braine. "Olga, I want you to play a trick on this handsome delegate-at-large. I'm not very enthusiastic over his talk. I want him humiliated. All you have to do, he says, is to walk into the Hargreave house and walk out again. Well, let's you and I see that he does that and nothing else. I'll have no one meddling with my own game."
Some one sneezed, and everybody looked at his neighbor. The sneeze was repeated, but muffled, as if some one was desperately anxious to avoid sneezing.
"It came from above!" whispered Olga. "Don't look up!"
Braine was cool. He walked idly across the room to where Vroon sat. "Very well, Paroff; we give you free rein." To Vroon he said: "Some one is watching us from the room overhead. I thought that room belonged to us."
"It does," said Vroon stolidly.
"Then how is it that some one is watching from up there? No excitement. I'm going to bid every one good night, then I'm going to investigate. When I leave you will quietly send men to all exits to the building. I want the man who sneezed, and I want him badly."
Olga departed with Braine, only she immediately sought the taxi that brought her and was driven home. It was always understood that when any serious exploit was under way hereabouts she was to make her departure at once.
Vroon stationed his men at the several exits and Braine went up-stairs. The man who had sneezed, however, had vanished as completely as if he had worn that invisible cloak one reads about in the Persian tales. As a matter of fact, after the second sneeze he had gone up to the roof, got out by the trap, and jumped—rather risky business, too—to the next roof and had clambered down the fire-escape of the second building. He was swearing inaudibly. After all these days of care and planning, after all his cleverness in locating the rendezvous of the Black Hundred, and now to lose his advantage because of an uncontrollable sneeze! He would never dare go back, and just when he was beginning to pick up fine bits of information! So Florence Hargreave was going to have a new father in a day or so? There were some clever rogues among this band of theirs; but their cleverness was well offset by an equal number of fools.
Yes, there were some clever rogues, and to prove this assertion Braine secured a taxicab and drove furiously away, his destination the home of his ancient enemy. He dropped the cab a block or two away and presently stowed himself away in the summer house at the left of the lawn. It would have been a capital idea—that is, if the other man had not thought of and anticipated this very thing. So he used a public pay station telephone; and Braine waited in vain, waited till the lights in the Hargreave house went out one by one and it became wrapped in darkness within and moonshine without.
Braine was a philosopher. He returned to his waiting taxicab, drove home, paid the bill, smiling grimly, and went to bed. It was going to be a wonderful game of blind man's buff, and it was going to be sport to watch this fool Paroff blunder into a pit.
The next afternoon Florence and Norton sat in the summer house talking of the future. Lovers are prone to talk of that. As if anything else in the world ever equals the present! They talked of nice little apartments and vacations in the summer and how much they would save out of his salary, and a thousand and one other things which would not interest you at all if I recounted them in detail. But they did love each other, and they were going to be married; you may be certain of that. They did not care a snap of the finger what Jones thought. They were going to be married, and that was all there was to it. Of course, Florence couldn't touch a penny of her father's money. If he, Norton, couldn't take care of her without help, why, he wouldn't be worth the powder to blow him up with.
THEY DID NOT CARE A SNAP OF THEIR FINGERS WHAT JONES THOUGHTTHEY DID NOT CARE A SNAP OF THEIR FINGERS WHAT JONES THOUGHT
"But, my dear, you must be very careful," he said. "Jones and I will always be about somewhere. If they really get hold of you once, God alone knows what will happen. It is not you, it is your poor father they want to bring out into the open. If they knew where he was they would not bother you in the least."
"Have I really a father? Sometimes I doubt. Why couldn't he steal into the house and see me, just once?"
"Perhaps he dares not. This house is always watched, night and day, though you'll look in vain to discover any one. Your father knows best what he is doing, my dear girl. You see, I met him years ago in China; and when he started out to do a certain thing he generally did it. He never botched any of his plans. So we all must wait. Only I'm going to marry you all the same, whether he likes it or not. The rogues will try to impose upon you again; but do not pay any attention to notes or personals in the papers. And it was a lucky thing that I was on the freighter that picked you up at sea. I shall always wonder how that yacht took fire."
"So shall I," replied Florence, her brows drawing together in puzzlement. "Sometimes I think I must have done it. You know, people out of their heads do strange things. I seem to see myself as in a dream. And this man Braine is a scoundrel!"
"Yes; and more than that, he is the dear friend of the countess. But understand, you must never let her dream or suspect that you know. By lulling her into overconfidence some day she will naturally grow careless, and then we'll have them all. I think I understand what your father's idea is: not to have them arrested for blackmail, but practically to exterminate them, put them in prison for such terms of years that they'll die there. When you see a snake, a poisonous one, don't let it get away. Kill it. Well, I must be off to work."
"And you be careful, too. You are in more danger than I am."
"But I'm a man and can dodge quick," he laughed, picking up his hat.
"What a horrid thing money is! If I hadn't any money, nobody would bother me."
"I would," he smiled. He wanted to kiss her, but the eternal Jones might be watching from the windows; and so he patted her hand instead and walked down the graveled path to the street.
It was difficult work for Florence to play at friendship. She was like her father; she did not bestow it on every one. She had given her friendship to the Russian, the first real big friendship in her life, and she had been roughly disillusioned. But if the countess could act, so could she; and of the two her acting was the more consummate. She could smile and laugh and jest, all the while her heart was burning with wrath.
One day, a week or so after her meeting with Norton in the summer house, Olga arrived, beautifully gowned, handsome as ever. There was not the least touch of the adventuress in her makeup. Florence had just received some mail, and she had dropped the letters on the library table to greet the countess. She had opened them, but had not yet looked at their contents.
They were chatting pleasantly about inconsequent things, when the maid came in and asked Florence to come to Miss Susan's room for a moment. Florence excused herself, wondering what Susan could want. She forgot the mail.
As soon as she was gone the countess, certain that Jones was not lurking about, picked up the letters and calmly examined their contents; and among them she found this remarkable document: "Dear daughter I have never seen: I must turn the treasure over to you. Meet me at eight in the summer house. Tell no one, as my life is in danger. Your loving father."
The countess could have laughed aloud. She saw this man Paroff's hand; and here was the chance to befool and humiliate him and send him off packing to his cold and miserable country. She had made up once as Florence, and she could easily do so again. The only thing that troubled her was the fact that she did not know whether Florence had read the letter or not. Thus, she did not dare destroy it. She first thought of changing the clock; then she concluded to drop the letter exactly where she found it and trust to luck.
SHE FIRST THOUGHT OF CHANGING THE CLOCKSHE FIRST THOUGHT OF CHANGING THE CLOCK
When Florence returned she explained that her absence had been due to some trifling household affair.
Said the Russian: "I come primarily to ask you to tea to-morrow, where they dance. If you like, you may ask Mr. Norton to go along. I begin to observe that you two are rather fond of each other."
"Oh, Mr. Norton is just a valuable friend," returned Florence with a smile that quite deceived the other woman. "I shall be glad to go to the tea. But I shall not promise to dance."
"Not with Mr. Norton?" archly.
"Reporters never dance themselves; they make others dance instead."
"I shall have to tell that," declared the countess; and she laughed quite honestly.
"Then I have said something witty?"
"Indeed you have; and it is not only witty but truthful. I'm afraid you're deeper than the rest of us have any idea of."
"Perhaps I am," thought Florence; "at least deeper than you believe."
When the countess fluttered down to her limousine—Florence hated the sight of it—and drove away, Florence remembered her letters. And when she came to the one purporting to be from her father, she read it carefully, bent her head in thought, and finally destroyed the missive, absolutely confident that it was only a trap, and not very well conceived at that. Norton had given her plenty of reason for believing all such letters to be forgeries. Her father, if he really wished to see her, would enter the house; he would not write. Ah, when would she see that father of hers, so mysterious, always hovering near, always unseen?
It must have been an amusing adventure for the countess. To steal into the summer house and wait there, not knowing if Florence had advised Jones or the reporter. If caught, she had her excuses. Paroff, the confident, however, appeared shortly after.
"My child!" whispered the man.
And Olga stifled a laugh; but to him it sounded like a sob.
"I am worn out," he said. "I am tired of the game of hide and seek."
"You will not have to play the game long," thought Olga.
"The money is hidden in my office down-town. And we must go there at once. When we return we will pack up and leave for Europe. I've longed to see you so!"
"You poor fool! And they sent you to supersede Leo!" she mused.
She played out the farce to the very end. She permitted herself to be pinioned and jogged; and for what unnecessary roughness she suffered at the hands of Paroff he would presently pay. He took her straight to the executive chamber of the Black Hundred and pushed her into the room, exclaiming triumphantly:
"Here is Hargreave's daughter!"
HE TOOK HER STRAIGHT TO THE EXECUTIVE CHAMBER OF THE BLACK HUNDREDHE TOOK HER STRAIGHT TO THE EXECUTIVE CHAMBER OF THE BLACK HUNDRED
"Indeed!" said Olga, throwing back her veil and standing revealed in her mask.
"Olga!" cried Braine, laughing.
And that was the inglorious end of the secret agent from Russia.
Perhaps the most amusing phase of the secret agent's discomfiture was the fact that neither Jones nor Florence had the least idea what had happened. Florence regretted a hundred times during the evening that she had not gone out to the summer house. It might really have been her father. Her regret grew so deep in her that just before going to bed she confessed to Jones.
"You received a letter of that sort and did not show it to me?" said Jones, astonished.
"You warned me never to pay any attention to them."
"No; I warned you never to act upon them without first consulting me. And we might have made a capture! My child, always show me these things. I will advise you whether to tear them up or not."
"Jones, I believe you are going a little too far," said Florence haughtily. "It might have been my father."
"Never in this world, Miss Florence. Still, I beg your pardon for raising my voice. What I do and have done is only for your own sake. There are two things I wish to impress upon your mind before I go. This can be made a comedy or a terrible tragedy. You have already had a taste of the latter; and each time you escaped because God was good to us. But He is rarely kind to thoughtless people. They have to look out for themselves. I am acting under orders; always remember that."
"Forgive me; I acted wrongly. But I'm so weary and tired of this eternal suspicion of everybody and everything. Can't I go somewhere, some place where I can have rest?"
"If I thought for a single moment it was possible to take you thousands of miles from this spot, it would be done this very night. But this is our fortress. So far it has been impregnable. The police are watching it; and that prevents a general assault by the scoundrels. If we tried to leave we would be followed; and they play the game exceedingly well. Now, good night. We'll have you out of all this doubt and suspicion one of these days. There will not be any past; that will be lopped off as you'd lop a limb from a tree."
"Please let it be quick. I want to see my father."
Jones' eyes sparkled. "And you have my word that he wants to see you. But I dare not tell you."
"Do you think he would object to Mr. Norton?" she asked, studying the rug.
"In what capacity?" he countered, forcing her hand.
"As—as a husband?" bravely.
Jones in turn studied the patterns in the rug. "It is only natural for a father to look high for his daughter's husband. But, after all, an honest man is worth as much as anything I know of. And Norton is honest and loyal and brave."
"Thank you, Jones. I intend to marry him when the time comes; so you may as well prepare father for this eventuality."
"There is an old adage—"
But she interrupted him. "If you have a new adage, Jones, I shouldn't mind hearing it. But I'm only just out of school, where old adages are served from soup to pudding. Good night."
And Jones went to the rear of the house, chuckling.
In the passing it might well be observed that the Hargreave house had a remarkable menage. There was a gardener, a cook, and a maid; and the three of them reported to Jones each night before going to bed. They were all three detectives from one of the greatest organizations in America.
Finding themselves unable to lure Florence away from the environs of the Hargreave home, the Black Hundred set some new machinery in motion. They proposed to rid the house of every one in it by a perfectly logical device. But the first step in this new move was going to be extremely delicate and risky. It was no small adventure to enter the Hargreave home; and yet this must be done. So finally "Spider" Beggs was selected for the work. The man could practically walk over crockery without causing a sound; he could climb a house by the window ledges; and he could hold his breath like those professional tank swimmers.
Three or four nights after the Paroff fiasco, Jones started the rounds, putting out the lights. He left the one in the hall till the last, for it was his habit, after having turned off that light, to stand by the door for several minutes, watching. One never could tell.
On the other hand, "Spider" Beggs never approached a house till an hour after the lights went out. Persons were likely to move about for some minutes later; they might want something to eat, a drink of water. So he remained hidden behind the summer house till long after midnight. When at last he felt assured that all in the Hargreave house were asleep, he moved out cautiously. Both his future and his pocketbook depended upon the success of this venture. It took him ten minutes to crawl from the summer house to the veranda, and to have detected this approach Jones, had he been watching, would have needed a searchlight. Beggs hugged the lattice-work for another ten minutes and then drew himself up and wriggled to one of the windows. Here was an operation that needed all his care and skill; to lift this window without sound. But he was an old hand and windows with ordinary locks were playthings under his deft touch. He raised the window, stepped over the sill into the library, and crouched down. He did not close the window; house thieves never do. They leave windows and doors open, because sooner or later they have to make their escape that way.
HERE WAS AN OPERATION THAT NEEDED ALL HIS CARE AND SKILLHERE WAS AN OPERATION THAT NEEDED ALL HIS CARE AND SKILL
Presently he stood up, flashed his torch, found the library shelves, and tiptoed toward them. He then selected three or four volumes, opened them at random and laid neat packages of money between the leaves. It was not real money, but only a bank clerk could have told that. This done, he moved toward the window again.
"Stop!" said Jones quietly.
"Spider" Beggs gasped, it was so unexpected; but at the same time almost instinctively he plunged headlong through the window, and the bullet which followed snipped a lock of his hair. He threw himself off the veranda and scurried across the lawn, zigzag fashion. But no more bullets followed.
Jones turned on the lights and investigated the room, but he could not find anything disturbed, and naturally came to the conclusion that the intruder had been interrupted before he had begun his work. He turned off the lights and sat up the major part of the night. Nothing more happened. Florence came down, but he sent her back to bed, explaining that some one had attempted to enter the house and he had taken a shot at him.
"Spider" Beggs had a letter to write. He was in high feather. He had tackled a difficult job and had come away without a scratch. But he had the misfortune to write his letter to the secret service officials in a hotel often frequented by Norton. And so Jim, on finishing his own letter, blotted it and casually glanced at the blotter. A single word caught his eye. Being an alert newspaper man, always on the hunt for stories, he examined the blotter with care. It was an easy matter for him to read writing backward, having fooled away many an hour in the composing rooms. The word which had awakened the reportorial sense in him was "counterfeit." He held the blotter toward the mirror and read enough to satisfy himself that the Black Hundred had become active once more. And this was one of the best ideas they had yet conceived.
HE EXAMINED THE BLOTTER WITH CAREHE EXAMINED THE BLOTTER WITH CARE
Hargreave had always been something of a mystery to his neighbors. Where he had lived in other days was unknown; neither had any one the remotest idea from what source his riches had been obtained. And nothing was known of Jones or the daughter. It was a very shrewd method of clearing every one out of the house and leaving it to be examined at leisure. And he had fallen upon this thing; he, Norton, all because his tailor had written him a sharp note about his bill and he had been provoked to reply in kind! Counterfeit money. There was quite a flurry these days over certain issues of spurious paper. It was so good that only experts could detect it. There were two plates, one for a ten and another for a twenty. For a while he was pulled between duty and love. Well, it would only add another interesting chapter to the general story when he published it. He started out to Riverdale to acquaint Jones with the discovery.
"Humph!" said Jones; "not a bad idea this. So that's what the sneak was doing here last night. I've been wondering and wondering. Let's have a look."
He went through the books and at length came across the three volumes. These held a thousand in excellent counterfeit.
"Mighty good work that. What are you going to do?" asked the reporter.
Jones rubbed his chin reflectively. "How long may a counterfeiter be sent up?"
"Anywhere from ten to twenty years."
"That will serve. My boy, this time we'll go and take Mr. Black Hundred right in his cubby-hole."
"You know where it is?"
"Every nook and corner of it. Now you go at once to the chief of the local branch of the secret service and put the matter to him frankly. I, Florence, Susan, and the rest of us must be arrested. The wretches must believe that the house is empty. They'll rove about fruitlessly and will return to their den to report the success of the coup. All the while you and some detectives will be in hiding up-stairs, dictagraph and all that. When the time comes you will follow. This will not reach the heads, perhaps, but it will demoralize the organization in such a way as to make it helpless for several months to come. There is a tunnel from the stables to this house."
"What, a tunnel?"
"Yes, Mr. Hargreave had it built several years ago. I don't know what his idea was; possibly he anticipated an event like this. You and your men will find entrance by this method. It can be done without exciting the suspicions of the watchers."
"Looks as if my yarn wasn't going to be delayed so long after all. Jones, you ought to have been in the secret service yourself," admiringly.
Jones smiled and shrugged. "I am perfectly satisfied with my lot—or would be if the Black Hundred could be wiped out of existence."
"I'll see the secret service people at once. I stand in well with them all."
"And good luck to you. We'll need good luck."
Norton was welcomed cordially by the chief. The secret service men trusted him and told him lots of tales that never saw light on the printed page. The reporter went directly to the point of his story, without elaboration, and the chief smiled and handed him the original letter.
"Norton, I've been after this gang of counterfeiters for months and they are clever beyond words. I've never been able to get anywhere near their presses. And for a moment I thought this note was from a squealer. I've a dozen men scouring the country. They find the bogus notes, but never the men who pass them. You see, it's new stuff. I know what all of the old-timers are at; none of them has had a hand in this issue. Some foreigners, I take it, under the leadership of a man I'd very much like to know. Now, what's your scheme?"
Jim outlined it briefly.
"It all depends," said the chief, "upon the fact that they will be impatient. If they have the ability to wait, we lose. But we can afford to risk the chance. The man who wrote this letter is not a counterfeiter. He's an old yeggman. We haven't heard anything of him lately. We tried to corner him on a post-office job, but he slipped by. He may be a stool. Anyhow, I'll draw him in somehow."
"There'll be some excitement."
"We're used to that; you too. All we've got to do is to locate this man Beggs. There are signs of spite in this letter. Very well played, if you want my opinion. What's this Black Hundred?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell just yet. It's a strange game; half political, half blackmail. It's a pretty strong organization. But if they're back of this counterfeiting, there's a fine chance of landing them all."
Here the chief's assistant came in. "Got Beggs on the wire. Says he'll conduct you to the home if you'll promise him immunity for some other offenses."
"Tell him he shall have immunity on the word of the chief. But also say that he must come to see me in person."
"All right, sir."
"I don't believe it would be wise for Beggs to see me here. I gave him a good send-off—Sing Sing—five years ago. He may recollect," said Norton.
"Suit yourself about that. Only, keep in communication with me by telephone and I'll tip you off as to when the raid shall take place. Lucky you came in. I should have honestly gone there and arrested innocent people, and they would have had a devil of a time explaining. It would have taken them at least a week to clear themselves. That would leave the house empty all that time."
Norton did not reply, but he put the blotter away carefully. There was no getting away from the fact, but the god of luck was with him.
"Do you know what's back of it all?"
"I can't tell you any more than I have," said Norton.
"Then I pass. I know you well enough. If you've made up your mind not to talk a man couldn't get anything out of you with a can-opener. And that's why we trust you, my boy. Don't forget the telephone."
"I shan't. So long."
That same night Braine paid the Russian woman a brief visit.
"I think that here's where we go forward. The secret service will raid the house to-morrow and then for a few days we'll roam about as we bally please. I'm hanged if I don't have every plank torn up and the walls pulled down. More and more I'm convinced that the money is in that house."
"Don't be too confident," warned Olga. "So many times we have been tripped up when everything seemed in our hands. The house should be guarded but not entered for a day or two; at least not till after the raid is cold. I'm beginning to see traps everywhere."
"Nonsense! Leave it to me. We shan't stick our heads inside the Hargreave house till we are dead certain that it is absolutely empty. Olga, you're a gem. I don't think Russia will bother us for a while. Eh? Paroff will not dare tell how he was flimflammed. The least he can do to save his own skin is to say that we are fully capable of taking care of ourselves."
Olga laughed. "To think of his writing a note like that! Florence would have recognized—and no doubt did—a palpable attempt to play an old game twice."
"How does she act toward you?"
"Cordial as ever; and yet..."
"Yet what?"
"I thought her an ordinary schoolgirl, and yet every once in a while she makes what you billiard players call a professional shot. What matter? So long as they do not shut the door in my face, I ask nothing more. But do you want my opinion? I feel it in my bones that something will go wrong to-morrow."
"Good lord, are you losing your nerve?" cried Braine impatiently. "The secret service has the warning; they find the green stuff, and Jones & Co. will mog off to the police station. And there'll be a week of red tape before they are turned loose again. They'll dig into Hargreave's finances and all that. We'll have all the security in the world to find out if the money is in the house or not. Why worry?"
"It's only the way I feel. There is something uncanny in the regularity of that girl's good luck."
"Ah, but we're not after her this time; it's the whole family."
"The servants too?"
"Everybody in the house will be under suspicion."
"And can you trust Beggs?"
"His life is in the hollow of my hand. You can always trust a man when you hold the rope that's around his neck."
Still the frown did not leave Olga's brow. With all her soul she longed to be out of this tangle. It had all looked so easy at the start; yet here they were, weeks later, no further forward than at the beginning, and added to this they had paid much in lives and money. Well, if she would be fool enough to love this man she must abide with the consequences. She wanted him all by herself, out of danger, in a far country. He might tire, but she knew in her heart that she never would. This was her one great passion, and while her mode of living was not as honest as might be, her love was honest enough and unswerving, though it was not gilded by the pleasant fancies of youth.
"Of what are you thinking?" he asked when he concluded that the pause had been long enough.
"You."
"H'm. Complimentary?"
"No; just ordinary every-day love."
"Ah, Olga, why the deuce must you go and fall in love with a bundle of ashes like myself? Ashes, and bitter ashes, too. Sometimes I regret. But the regretting only seems to make me all the more savage. What opium and dope are to other men, danger and excitement are to me. It is not written that I shall die in bed. I have told you that already. There is no other woman—now. And I do love you after a fashion, as a man loves a comrade. Wait till this dancing bout is over and I may talk otherwise. And now I am going to shake hands and hobnob with the elite—beautiful word! And while I bow and smirk and crack witticisms, I and the devil will be chuckling in our sleeves. But this I'll tell you, while there's a drop of blood in my veins, a breath in my body, I'll stick to this fight if only to prove that I'm not a quitter."
He caught her suddenly in his arms, kissed her, ran lightly to the door, and was gone before she could recover from her astonishment.
The affair went smoothly, without a hitch. Norton and his men gained the house through the tunnel without attracting the least attention. The Black Hundred, watching the front and rear of the house, never dreamed that there existed another mode of entrance or that there was a secret cabinet room.
Half an hour later the head of the secret service, accompanied by his men, together with "Spider" Beggs, who was in high feather over his success, arrived, demanded admittance, and went at the front of the business at once.
"Your name is Jones?" began the chief.
The butler nodded, though his face evinced no little bewilderment at the appearance of these men.
"What is it you wish, sir?"
"I am from the secret service and I have it from a pretty good source that there is counterfeit money hidden in this house. More than that, I can put my hand on the very place it is hidden."
"That is impossible, sir," declared Jones indignantly.
"I am an old hand, Mr. Jones. It will not do you a bit of good to put on that bold front."
Beggs smiled. How was he to know that this was a comedy set especially for his benefit?
"I should like to see that money," said Jones, not quite so bravely.
"Come with me," said the secret service man. "Where's the library?"
"Beyond that door, sir."
The chief beckoning to his men, entered the library, went directly to a certain shelf, extracted three volumes, and there lay the money in three neat packages.
"Good heavens!" gasped Jones.
"I shall have to request you and the family to accompany me to the station."
"But it is all utterly impossible, sir! I know nothing of that money nor how it got there. It's a plot. I declare on my oath, sir, that I am innocent, that Miss Florence and her companion know nothing about it."
"You will have to tell that to the federal judge, sir. My duty is to take you all to the station. It would be just as well not to say anything more, sir."
"Very well; but some one shall smart for this outrage."
"That remains to be seen," was the terse comment of the secret service man.
He led his prisoners away directly.
Norton and his men had to wait far into the night. The Black Hundred did not intend to make any mistake this time by a hasty move. At quarter after ten they descended. Braine was not with them. This was due to the urgent request of Olga, who still had her doubts. The men rioted about the house, searching nooks and corners, examining floors and walls, opening books, pulling out drawers, but they found nothing. They talked freely, and the dictagraph registered every word. The printing plant, which had so long defied discovery, was in the cellar of the house occupied by the Black Hundred. Norton and his men determined to follow and raid the building. And the reporter promised himself a good front-page story without in any way conflicting with his promises to Jones.
THE MEN RIOTED ABOUT THE HOUSE SEARCHING NOOKS AND CORNERSTHE MEN RIOTED ABOUT THE HOUSE SEARCHING NOOKS AND CORNERS
Events came to pass as they expected. The trailing was not the easiest thing. Norton knew about where the building was, but he could not go to it directly. He was quite confident that its entrance was identical with that which had the trap door through which he had been flung that memorable day when he had been shanghaied.
When they reached the building he warned the men to hug the wall to the stairs. The trap yawned, but no one was hurt. They scampered up the stairs like a lot of eager boys; broke the door in—to find the weird executive chamber dark and empty and an acrid smoke in their nostrils. This latter grew stifling as they blundered about in the dark. By luck Norton found the exit and called to the men to follow. They saw Beggs at the top of the stairway and called out to him to surrender. He held up his hands and the stairs collapsed. Real fire burst out and Norton and his companions had a desperate battle with flame and smoke to gain the street.
The fire was put out finally, but there was nothing in the ruins to prove that there had been a counterfeiting den there. There was, however, at least one consoling feature: in the future the Black Hundred would have to hold their star-chamber elsewhere.
It was checkmate; or, rather, it was a draw.
If the truth is to be told, Jones was as deeply chagrined over the outcome of the counterfeit deal as was Braine. They had both failed signally to reach the goal sought. But this time the organization had broken even with Jones, and this fact disturbed the butler. It might signify that the turning point had been reached, and that in the future the good luck might swing over to the side of the Black Hundred. Jones redoubled his cautions, reiterated his warnings, and slept less than ever. Indeed, as he went over the ground he conceded a point to the Black Hundred. He would no longer be able to keep tab on the organization. They had deserted their former quarters absolutely. The agent of whom they had leased the building knew nothing except that he would have to repair the place. The rent had been paid a year in advance, as it had been these last eight years. He had dealt through an attorney who knew no more of his clients than the agent. So it will be seen that Jones had in reality received a check.
More than all this, it would give his enemies renewed confidence; and this was a deeper menace than he cared to face. But he went about his affairs as usual, giving no hint to any one of the mental turmoil which had possession of him.
It is needless to state Norton did not scoop his rivals on the counterfeit story. But he set to work exploring the cellar of the gutted building, and in one corner he found a battered die. He turned this over to the secret service men. There was one man he wanted to find—Vroon. This man, could he find him, should be made to lead him, Norton, to the new stronghold. He saw the futility of trying to trap Braine by shadowing him. He desired Braine to believe that his escape from the freighter had been a bit of wild luck and not a preconceived plan. Braine was out of reach for the present, so he began to search for the man Vroon. He haunted the water front saloons for a week without success.
He did not know that it was the policy of the Black Hundred to lay low for a month after a raid of such a serious character. So the Hargreave menage had thirty days of peace; always watched, however. For Braine never relaxed his vigilance in that part of the game. He did not care to lose sight of Jones, who he was positive was ready for flight if the slightest opportunity offered itself.
Norton went back to the primrose paths of love; and sometimes he would forget all about such a thing as the Black Hundred. So the summer days went by, with the lilacs and the roses embowering the Hargreave home. But Norton took note of the fact that Florence was no longer the light-hearted schoolgirl he had first met. Her trials had made a serious woman of her, and perhaps this phase was all the more enchanting to him, who had his serious side also. Her young mind was like an Italian garden, always opening new vistas for his admiring gaze.
He went about his work the same as of old, interviewing, playing detective, fattening his pay envelope by specials to the Sunday edition and some of the lighter magazines. Sometimes he had vague dreams of writing a play, a novel, and making a tremendous fortune like that chap Manders, who only a few years ago had been his desk mate. He really began the first chapter of a novel; but that has nothing to do with this history.
All ready, then. The chess are once more on the board, and it is the move of the Black Hundred.
The day was rather cloudy. Jones viewed the sky wearily. He could hear Florence playing rather a cheerless nocturne by Chopin. Fourteen weeks ago this warfare had begun, and all he had accomplished, he and those with him, was the death or incarceration of a few inconsequent members of the Black Hundred. Always they struck and always he had to ward off. He had always been on the defensive; and a defensive fighter may last a long while, but he seldom wins; and the butler knew that they must win or go down in bitter defeat. There was no half-way route to the end; there could be no draw. It all reminded him of thunderbolts; one man knew where they were going to strike.
The telephone rang; at the same moment Florence left the piano. She stopped at the threshold.
"Hello! You? Where have you been? What has happened?"
"Who is it?" asked Florence, stepping forward.
Jones held up a warning hand, and Florence paused.
"Yes, yes; I hear perfectly. Oh! You've been working out their new quarters? Good, good! But be very careful, sir. One never knows what may happen. They have been quiet for some time now.... Ah! You can't work the ceiling this time? ... Window over the way. Very good, sir. But be careful."
The word "sir" caught Florence's attention. She ran to Jones and seized him by the arm.
"Who was that?" she cried, as he turned away from the telephone.
"Why?"
"You said 'sir.'"
Jones' eyes widened. "I did?"
"Yes, and it's the first time I ever heard you use it over the telephone. Jones, you were talking to my father!"
"Please, Miss Florence, do not ask me any questions. I can not answer any. I dare not."
"But if I should command, upon the pain of dismissal?" coldly.
"Ah, Miss Florence," and Jones tapped his pocket, "you forget that you can not dismiss me by word. I am legally in control here. I am sorry that you have made me recall this fact to you."
Florence began to cry softly.
"I am sorry, very sorry," said the butler, torn between the desire to comfort her and the law that he had laid down for himself. "It is very gloomy to-day, and perhaps we are a little depressed by it. I am sorry."
"Oh, I realize, Jones, that all this unending mystery and secrecy have a set purpose at back. Only, it does just seem as if I should go mad sometimes with waiting and wondering."
"And if the truth must be told, it is the same with me. We have to wait for them to strike. Shall I get you something to read? I am going down to the drug store and they have a circulating library."
"Get me anything you please. But I'd feel better with a little sunshine."
"That's universal," replied Jones, going into the hall for his hat.
Had the telephone rung again at that moment it is quite probable that the day would have come to a close as the day before had, monotonously. But the ring came five minutes after Jones had left the house.
"Is this the Hargreave place?"
"Yes," said Florence. "Who is it?"
"This is Miss Hargreave talking?"
"Yes."
"This is Doctor Morse. I am at the Queen Hotel. Mr. Norton has been badly hurt, and he wants you and Mr. Jones to come at once. We can not tell just how serious the injury is. He is just conscious. Shall I tell him you will come immediately?"