"Yes, yes!"
Florence snapped the receiver on the hook. She wanted to fly, fly. He was hurt. How, when, where?
"Susan! Susan!" she called.
"What is it?" asked Susan, running into the room.
"Jim is badly hurt. He wants me to come at once. Oh, Susan! I've been dreading something all day long." Florence struck the maid's bell. "My wraps. You will go with me, Susan."
"Where, Miss Florence," asked the maid, alive to her duty.
"Where? What is that to you?" demanded Florence, who did not know that this maid was a detective.
"Why not wait till Mr. Jones returns?" she suggested patiently.
"And let the man I love die?" vehemently.
"At least you will leave word where you are going, Miss Florence."
"The Queen Hotel. And if you say another word I'll discharge you. Come, Susan."
There happened to be a taxicab conveniently near (as Vroon took care there should be), and Florence at once engaged it. She did not see the man hiding in the bushes. The two young women stepped into the taxicab and were driven off. They had been gone less than five minutes when Jones returned with his purchase, to find the house empty of its most valuable asset. He was furious, not only at the maid, who, he realized, was virtually helpless, but at his own negligence.
In the midst of his violent harangue the bell sounded. In his bones he knew what was going to be found there. It was a letter on the back of which was drawn the fatal black mask. With shaking fingers he tore open the envelope and read the contents:
"Florence is now in our power. Only the surrender of the million will save her. Our agent will call in an hour for an answer. THE BLACK HUNDRED."
As a matter of fact, they had wanted Jones almost as badly as Florence, but her desire for a book—some popular story of the day—had saved him from the net. The letter had been written against this possibility.
Jones became cool, now that he knew just what to face. The Queen Hotel meant nothing. Florence would not be taken there. He called up Norton. It took all the butler's patience, however, as it required seven different calls to locate the reporter.
Meantime the taxicab containing Florence and Susan spun madly toward the water front. Here the two were separated by an effective threat. Florence recognized the man Vroon and knew that to plead for mercy would be a waste of time. She permitted herself to be led to a waiting launch. Always when she disobeyed Jones something like this happened. But this time they had cunningly struck at her heart, and all thought of her personal safety became as nothing. For the present she knew that she was in no actual physical danger. She was merely to be held as a hostage. Would Susan have mentality enough to tell Jones where the taxicab had stopped? She doubted. In an emergency Susan had proved herself a nonentity, a bundle of hysterical thrills.
As a matter of fact, for once Florence's deductions were happily wrong. When the chauffeur peremptorily deposited Susan on the lonely country road, several miles from home, she ran hot-foot to the nearest telephone and sent a very concise message home. Susan was becoming acclimated to this strange, exciting existence.
Norton arrived in due time, and he and Jones were mapping out a plan when Susan's message came.
THEY WERE MAPPING OUT A PLAN WHEN SUSAN'S MESSAGE CAMETHEY WERE MAPPING OUT A PLAN WHEN SUSAN'S MESSAGE CAME
"Good girl!" said Jones. "She's learning. Can you handle this alone, Norton? They want me out of the house again, for I believe they were after me as well as Florence. Half an hour gone!"
"Trust me!" cried Norton.
And he ran out to his auto. It was a wild ride. Several policemen shouted after him, but he went on unmindful. They could take his license number a hundred times for all he cared. So they had got her? They could wait till their enemy's vigilance slacked and then would strike? But Susan! The next time he saw Susan he was going to take her in his arms and kiss her. It might be a new sensation to kiss Susan, always so prim and offish. Corey Street—that had been her direction. They had put Florence in a motor boat at the foot of Corey Street. He was perhaps half an hour behind.
Florence never opened her lips. She stared ahead proudly. She would show these scoundrels that she was her father's daughter. They plied her with questions, but she pretended not to hear.
"Well, pretty bird, we'll make you speak when the time comes. We've got you this trip where we want you. There won't be any jumping overboard this session, believe me. We've wasted enough time. We've got you and we're going to keep you."
"Let her be," said Vroon morosely. "We'll put all the questions we wish when we're at our destination." And he nodded significantly toward the ships riding at anchor.
Florence felt her heart sink in spite of her abundant courage. Were they going to take her to sea again? She had acquired a horror of the sea, so big, so terrible, so strong. She had had an experience with its sullen power. They had gone about four miles down when she looked back longingly toward shore. Something white seemed to be spinning over the water far behind. At first she could not discern what it was. As she watched it it grew and grew. It finally emerged from the illusion of a gigantic bird into the actuality of an every-day hydroplane. Her heart gave a great bound. This flying machine was coming directly toward the launch; it did not deviate a hair's breadth from the line. Fortunately the men were looking toward the huge freighter a quarter of a mile farther on, and from their talk it was evident that the freighter was to be her prison—bound for where? Nearer and nearer came the hydroplane. Was it for her?
It was impossible for the men not to take notice of the barking of the engines at last.
"The thing's headed for us!"
Vroon stared under his palm. It was not credible that pursuit had taken place so quickly. To test yonder man-bird he abruptly changed the course of the launch. The hydroplane veered its course to suit.
Florence heard her name called faintly. One of the men drew his revolver, but Vroon knocked it out of his hand.
"There's the police boat, you fool!"
"Jump!" a voice called to Florence.
She flung herself into the water without the slightest hesitation.
All this came about something after this fashion. When Norton arrived at the foot of Corey Street a boatman informed him that a young woman of his description had got into a fast motor boat and had gone down the river.
"Was there any struggle?"
"Struggle? None that I could see. She didn't make no fuss about going."
"Have you a launch?"
"Yes, but the other boat has half an hour's start, and I'd never catch her in a thousand years. But there's a hydroplane a little above here. You might interest the feller that runs it."
"Thanks!"
But the aviator would not listen.
"A life may hang in the balance, man!" expostulated Norton, longing to pommel the stubborn man.
"What proof have I of that?"
Norton showed his card and badge.
"Oh, I see!" jeered the aviator. "A little newspaper stunt in which I am to be the goat. It can't be done, Mr. Norton; it can't be done."
"A hundred dollars!"
"Not for five hundred," and the aviator callously turned away toward the young woman with whom he had been conversing prior to Norton's approach. The two walked a dozen yards away.
Norton had not served twelve years as a metropolitan newspaper man for nothing. He approached the mechanics who were puttering about the machine.
"How about twenty apiece?" he began.
"For what?" the men asked.
"For sending that paddle around a few times."
"Get into that seat, but don't touch any of those levers," one of them warned. "Twenty is twenty, Jack, and the boss is a sorehead to-day anyhow. Give her a shove for the fun of it."
It was a dumfounded aviator who saw his hydroplane skim the water and a moment later sail into the air. These swift moving days a reporter of the first caliber is supposed to be able to run railroad engines, submarines, flying machines, conduct a war, able to shoot, walk, run, swim, fight, think, go without food like a python, and live without water like a camel. Norton had flown many times in the last four years. At the moment he called out to Florence to jump he dropped to the water with all the skill of an old-timer and took her aboard. And he could not use a line of this exploit for his paper!
Jones heard the bell. It was the agent from the Black Hundred. He smiled jauntily.
"Well, old fox, we've cornered you at last, haven't we? I want that money, or Hargreave's daughter takes another sea voyage, and this time she will not jump overboard. A million; and no more nonsense."
"Give me fifteen minutes to decide," begged Jones, hoping against hope.
"Fifteen seconds!"
"Then we can't do business. What! Give you a million, knowing you all to be a pack of liars? Bring Miss Florence back and the money is yours. We are tired of fighting." As indeed Jones really was. The strain had been terrific for weeks.
"The money first. We don't lie any better than you do. Fork over. You'll have to trust us. We have no use for the girl once we get the cash."
"And you'll never touch a penny of it, you blackguard!" cried Norton from the doorway.
The agent turned to behold the reporter and the girl. He did not stop to ask questions, but bolted. He never got beyond the door, however.
"Always the small fry," sighed Jones. "And if I could have put my hands on the money I'd have given it to him! Ah, girl, it doesn't do any good to talk to you, does it?"
"But they told me he was dying!"
Jones shrugged.
The maid stole into the house, wondering if she had been seen. She wanted to be loyal to this girl, but she was tired of the life; she wanted to be her own mistress, and the small fortune offered her would put her on the way to realize her ambition. What had she not seen and been of life since she joined the great detective force! Lady's maid, cook, ship stewardess, flash woman, actress, clerk, and a dozen other employments. Her pay, until she secured some fat reward, was but twelve hundred a year; and here was five thousand in advance, with the promise of five thousand more the minute her work was done. And it was simple work, without any real harm toward Florence as far as she was concerned. The whole thing rested upon one difficulty; would Jones permit the girls to leave the house?
One day Florence found Susan sitting in a chair, her head in her hands.
"Why, Susan, what's the matter?" cried Florence.
"I don't know what is the matter, dear, but I haven't felt well for two or three days. I'm dizzy all the time; I can't read or sew or eat or sleep."
"Why didn't you tell me?" said Florence, reproachfully. She rang for the detective-maid. "Ella, I don't know anything about doctors hereabouts."
"I know a good one, Miss Florence. Shall I send for him?"
"Do; Susan is ill."
Jones was not prepared for treachery in his own household; so when he heard that a doctor had been called to attend Susan he was without the least suspicion that he had been betrayed. More than this, there had been no occasion to summon a doctor in the seven years Mr. Hargreave had lived there. So Jones went about his petty household affairs without more thought upon the matter. The maid had been recommended to him as one of the shrewdest young women in the detective business.
The doctor arrived. He was a real doctor; no doubt of that. He investigated Susan's condition—brought about by a subtle though not dangerous poison—and instantly recommended the seashore. Susan was not used to being confined to the house; she was essentially an out-of-doors little body. The seashore would bring her about in no time. The doctor suggested Atlantic City because of its mildness throughout the year and its nearness to New York.
"I'm afraid she'll have to go alone," said Jones gravely.
"I shan't stir!" declared Susan. "I shan't leave my girl even if I am sick." Susan caught Florence's hand and pressed it.
"Would you like to go with her, Florence?" asked Jones, with a shy glance at the strange doctor. The shy glance was wasted. The doctor evinced no sign that it mattered one way or the other to him.
"It is nothing very serious now," he volunteered. "But it may turn out serious if it is not taken care of at once."
"What is the trouble?" inquired Jones, who was growing fond of Susan.
"Weak heart. Sunshine and good sea air will strengthen her up again. No, no!" as Jones drew forth his wallet. "I'll send in my bill the first of the month. Sunshine and sea air; that's all that's necessary. And now, good day."
All very businesslike; not the least cause in the world for any one to suspect that a new trap was being set by the snarers. The maid returned to the sewing-room, while Florence coddled her companion and made much of her.
Jones was suspicious, but dig in his mind as he would he could find no earthly reason for this suspicion save that this attribute was now instinctive, that it was always near the top. If Susan was ill she must be given good care; there was no getting around this fact. Later, he telephoned several prominent physicians. The strange doctor was recommended as a good ordinary practitioner and in good standing; and so Jones dismissed his suspicions as having no hook to hang them on.
His hair would have tingled at the roots, however, had he known that this same physician was one of the two who had signed the document which had accredited Florence with insanity and had all but succeeded in making a supposition a fact. Nor was Jones aware of the fact that the telephone wire had been tapped recently. So when he finally concluded to permit Florence to accompany Susan to Atlantic City he telephoned to the detective agency to send up a trusty man, who was shadowed from the moment he entered the Hargreave home till he started for the railway station. He became lost in the shuffle and was not heard from till weeks later, in Havana. The Black Hundred found a good profit in the shanghaing business.
Susan began to pick up, as they say, the day after the arrival at Atlantic City, due, doubtless, to the cessation of the poison she had been taking unawares. The two young women began to enjoy life for the first time since they had left Miss Farlow's. They were up with the sun every day and went to bed tired but happy. No one bothered them. If some stray reporter encountered their signatures on the hotel register, he saw nothing to excite his reportorial senses. All this, of course, was due to Norton's policy of keeping the affair out of the papers.
Following Jones' orders, they made friends with none. Those about the hotel—especially the young men—when they made any advances were politely snubbed. Every night Florence would write to her good butler to report what had taken place during the day, and he was left to judge for himself if there was anything to arouse his suspicions. He, of course, believed the two were covertly guarded by the detective he had sent after them.
When Braine called on Olga he found his doctor there.
"Well, what's the news?" he asked.
"I had better run down and inquire how the young lady is progressing," said the doctor, who was really a first-rate surgeon and who had performed a number of skilled operations upon various members of the Black Hundred anent their encounters with the police. "I've got Miss Florence where you want her. It's up to you now."
"She ought to be separated from her companion. We have left them alone for a whole week, so Jones will not worry particularly. A mighty curious thing has turned up. Before Hargreave's disappearance not a dozen persons could recollect what Jones looked like. He was rarely ever in sight. What do you suppose that signifies?"
"Don't ask me," shrugged the man of medicine. "I shouldn't worry over Jones."
"But we can't stir the old fool. We can't get him out of that house. I've tried to get that maid to put a little something in his coffee, but she stands off at that. She says that she did as she agreed in regard to Florence, but her agreement ended there. We have given the jade five thousand already and she is clamoring for the balance."
"Have you threatened her?" asked Olga.
Braine smiled a little. "My dear woman, it is fifty-fifty. While I have a hold on her, it is not quite so good as she has on me. We are not dealing with an ordinary servant we could threaten and scare. No, indeed; a shrewd little woman who desperately wanted money. And she will be paid; no getting out of it. She will not move another step, one way or the other, after she receives the balance. Hargreave will have a pretty steep bill to pay when the time comes."
"She has no idea where the million is?"
"If she had, she's quite capable of lugging it off all by herself," said Braine.
The doctor laughed.
"Olga," went on Braine, "you must look at it as I do; that it is still in the middle of the game, and we have neither lost nor won."
"How do you know that Hargreave may not have at his beck and call an organization quite as capable if not as large as ours?" suggested the physician.
"That is not possible," Braine declared without hesitation.
"Well, it begins to look that way to me. We've never made a move yet that hasn't been blocked."
"Pure luck each time, I tell you; the devil's own luck always at the critical moment, when everything seems to be in our hands. Now, we want Florence, and we've tried a hundred ways to accomplish this fact and failed. The question is, how to get her away from her companion?"
"Simple enough," said the doctor complacently.
"Out with it, if you have an idea."
The doctor leaned forward and whispered a few words.
"Well, I'm hanged!" Braine laughed and slapped the doctor on the shoulder. "The simplest thing in the world. Mad dog wouldn't be in it. I always said that you had gray matter if you cared to exert yourself."
"Thanks," replied the doctor dryly. "I'll drop down there to-morrow, if you say so, ostensibly to see the other patient. It will make a deuce of a disturbance."
"Not if you scare the hotel people."
"That is what I propose to do. They will not want such a thing known. It would scare every one away for the rest of the season. But of course this depends upon whether they are honest or in the hotel business to make money."
Again Braine laughed. "Bring her back to New York alone, Esculapius, and a fat check is yours. Nothing could be simpler than an idea like this. It's a fact; no man can think of everything, and you've just proved it to me. I've tried to do a general's work without aids. Olga, does any one watch me come and go any more?"
"No; I've watched a dozen nights. The man has gone. Either he found out what he wanted or he gave up the job. To my mind he found out what he wanted."
"And what's that?"
"Heaven knows!" discouragedly.
"Come, doctor, suppose you and I go down to Daly's for a little turn at billiards?"
"Nothing would suit me better."
"All aboard, then! Good night, Olga, keep your hair on; I mean your own hair. We're going to win out, don't you worry. In all games the minute you begin to doubt you begin to lose."
That same night Norton sat at his desk, in his shirt sleeves, pounding away at his typewriter. From time to time he paused and teetered his chair and scowled over his pipe at the starlit night outside. Bang! would go his chair again, and clickity-click would sing the keys of the machine. The story he was writing was in the ordinary routine; the arrival of a great ocean liner with some political notables who were not adverse to denouncing the present administration. You will have noticed, no doubt, that some disgruntled politician is always denouncing the present administration, it matters not if it be Republican or Democratic. When you are out of a good job you are always prone to denounce. The yarn bored. Norton because his thoughts were miles southward.
He completed his story, yanked out the final sheet, called for a copy boy, rose and sauntered over to the managing editor's door, before which he paused indecisively. The "old man" had been after him lately regarding the Hargreave story, and he doubted if his errand would prove successful.
However, he boldly opened the door and walked in.
"Humph!" said the "old man," twisting his cigar into the corner of his mouth. "Got that story?"
Norton sat down. "Yes, but I have not got it for print yet. Mr. Blair, when you gave me the Hargreave job you gave me carte blanche."
"I did," grimly. "But, on the other hand, I did not give you ten years to clear it up in."
"Have I ever fallen down on a good story?" quietly.
"H'm, can't remember," grudgingly.
"Well, if you'll have patience I'll not fall down on this one. It's the greatest criminal story I ever handled, but it's so big that it's going to take time."
"Gimme an outline."
"I have promised not to," with a grimness equal to the "old man's." "If a line of this story trickles out it will mean that every other paper will be moving around, and in the end will discover enough to spoil my end of it. I'll tell you this much: The most colossal band of thieves this country ever saw is at one end of the stick. And when I say that counterfeiting and politics and millions are involved, you'll understand how big it is. This gang has city protection. We are running them all into a corner; but we want that corner so deep that none of them can wriggle out of it."
"Umhm. Go on."
"I want two months more."
The "old man" beat a tattoo with his fat pencil. "Sixty days, then. And if the yarn isn't on my desk at midnight, you—"
"Hunt for another job. All right. I came in to ask for three days' leave."
"You're your own boss, Jim, for sixty days more. Whadda y' mean counterfeiting?"
"Those new tens and twenties. If I stumble on that right, why, I can turn it over without conflicting with the other story."
"Well, go to it."
"I'm turning in my regular work, day in and day out, and while doing it I've gone through more hairbreadth escapes than you ever heard of. They have been after me. I've dodged falling safes; I've been shanghaied, poisoned; but I haven't said a word."
"Good lord! Do you mean all that?"
"Every word, sir."
"I'll make it ninety days, Jim; and if this story comes in I'll see that you get a corking bonus."
"I'm not looking for bonuses. I'm proud of my work. To get this story is all I want. That'll be enough. Thanks for the extension of time. Good night."
So Florence received a long night letter in the morning.
And the doctor arrived at about the same time. And called promptly upon his patient.
"Fine!" he said. "The sea air was just the thing. A doctor always likes to find his advice turning out well."
He glanced quizzically at Florence, who was the picture of glowing health. Suddenly he frowned anxiously.
"You need not look at me," she laughed. "I never felt better in all my life."
"Are you sure?"
"Why, what in the world do you mean?"
He did not speak, but stepped forward and took her by the wrist, holding his watch in his other hand. He shook his head. He looked very solemn, indeed.
"What is it?" demanded Susan, with growing terror.
"Go to your own room immediately and remain there for the present," he ordered. "I must see Miss Hargreave alone."
He opened the door and Susan passed out bewilderedly. He returned to Florence, who was even more bewildered than her companion. The doctor began to ask her questions; how she slept, if she was thirsty, felt pains in her back. She answered all these questions vaguely. Not the slightest suspicion entered her head that she was being hoodwinked. Why should she entertain any suspicion? This doctor, who seemed kindly and benevolent, who had prescribed for Susan and benefited her, why should she doubt him?
"In heaven's name, tell me what is the matter?" she pleaded.
"Stay here for a little while and I'll be back. Under no circumstances leave your room till I return."
He paced out into the hall, to meet the frantic Susan.
"We must see the manager at once," he replied to her queries. "And we must be extremely quiet about it. There must be no excitement. You had better go to your room. You must not go into Miss Hargreave's. Tell me, where have you been? Have you been trying to do any charitable work among the poorer classes?"
"Only once," admitted Susan, now on the verge of tears.
"Only once is sufficient. Come; we'll go and see the manager together."
They arrived at the desk, and the manager was summoned.
"I take it," began the doctor lowly, "that a contagious disease, if it became known among your guests, would create a good deal of disturbance?"
"Disturbance! Good heavens, man, it would ruin my business for the whole season!" exclaimed the astounded manager.
"I am sorry, but this young lady's companion has been stricken with smallpox—"
The manager fell back against his desk, his jaw fallen. Susan turned as white as the marble top.
"The only way to avoid trouble is to have her conveyed immediately to some place where she can be treated properly. Not a word to any one now; absolute secrecy or a panic."
The manager was glad enough to agree.
"She is not dangerous at present, but it is only a matter of a few hours when the disease will become virulent. If you will place a porter before Miss Hargreave's door till I make arrangements to take her away, that will simplify matters."
Smallpox! Susan wandered aimlessly about, half out of her mind with terror. There was no help against such a dreaded disease. Her Florence, her pretty rosy-cheeked Florence, disfigured for life....!
"Miss Susan, where is Florence?"
"Oh, Mr. Norton!" she gasped.
"What's the trouble?" instantly alert.
"Florence has the smallpox!"
"Impossible! Come with me."
But the porter having had the strictest orders from the manager, refused to let them into Florence's room.
"Never mind, Susan. Come along." Out of earshot of the porter, he said: "My room is directly above Florence's. We'll see what can be done. This smells of the Black Hundred a mile off. Smallpox! Only yesterday she wrote me that she never felt better. Have you wired Jones?"
"I never thought to!"
"Then I shall. Our old friends are at work again."
"But it's the same doctor who sent me down here."
Norton frowned.
What followed all appeared in the reporter's story, as written three months later. He and Susan went up to his room, raised the flooring, cut through the ceiling, and with the fire-escape rope dropped below. One glance at Florence's tear-stained face was enough for him. Norton's subsequent battle with the doctor and his accomplices made very interesting reading. Their escape from the hotel, their flight, their encounter with one of the gang in the road, and Florence's blunder into the bed of quicksand, gave a succession of thrills to the readers of theBlade.
And all this while the million accumulated dust, layer by layer. Perhaps an occasional hardy roach scrambled over the packets, no doubt attracted by the peculiar odor of the ink.
The Black Hundred possessed three separate council chambers, always in preparation. Hence, when the one in use was burned down they transferred their conferences to the second council chamber appointed identically the same as the first. As inferred, the organization owned considerable wealth, and they leased the buildings in which they had their council chambers, leased them for a number of years, and refurnished them secretly with trap floors, doors and panels and all that apparatus so necessary to men who are sometimes compelled to make a quick getaway.
When the Atlantic City attempt was turned into a fiasco by Norton's timely arrival Braine determined once more to rid himself of this meddling reporter. He knew too much, in the first place, and in the second place Braine wanted to learn whether the reporter bore a charmed life or was just ordinarily lucky. He would attempt nothing delicate, requiring finesse. He would simply waylay Norton and make a commonplace end of him. He would disappear, this reporter, that would be all; and when they found him he might or might not be recognizable.
So Braine called a conference and he and his fellow rogues went over a number of expedients and finally agreed that the best thing to do would be to send a man to the newspaper, ostensibly as a reporter looking for a situation. With this excuse he would be able to hang around the city room for three or four days. The idea back of this was to waylay Norton on his way to some assignment which took him to the suburbs.
All this was arranged down to the smallest detail; and a man whom they were quite certain Norton had not yet seen was selected to play the part. He had been a reporter once, more's the pity; so there was no doubt of his being able to handle his end of the game.
"I want Norton, I want him badly," declared Braine, "and woe to you if you let booze play in between you and the object of this move."
The man selected to act the reporter hung his head. Whisky had been the origin of his fall from honest living, and he was not so calloused as not to feel the sting of remorse at times.
"More," went on Braine, "I want Norton brought to 49. It's a little off the beat, and we can handle Norton as we please. When we get rid of this newspaper ferret there'll be another to eliminate. But he's a fox, and a fox must be set to trail him."
"And who is that?"
"Jones, Jones, Jones!" thundered Braine. "He's the live wire. But the reporter first. Jones depends a lot on him. Take away this prop and Jones will not be so sure of himself. There's a man outside all this circle, and all these weeks of warfare have not served to bring him into the circle."
"Hargreave is dead," said Vroon stolidly.
"As dead as I am," snarled Braine. "Two men went away in that balloon; and I'll wager my head that one man came back. I am beginning to put a few things together that I have not thought of before. Who knows? That balloon may have been carried out to sea purposely. The captain on that tramp steamer may have lied from beginning to end. I tell you, Hargreave is alive, and wherever he is he has his hand on all the wires. He has agents, too, whom we know nothing about. Hang the million! I want to put my hands on Hargreave just to prove that I am the better man. He communicates with Jones, perhaps through the reporter; he has had me followed; it was he who changed the boxes, bored the hole in the ceiling of the other quarters and learned heaven knows what."
"If that's the case," said Vroon, "why hasn't he had us apprehended?"
Braine laughed heartily. "Haven't you been able to see by this time what his game is? Revenge. He does not want the police to meddle only in the smaller affairs. He wants to put terror into the hearts of all of us. Keep this point in your mind when you act. He'll never summon the police unless we make a broad daylight attempt to get possession of his daughter. And even then he would make it out a plain case of kidnaping. Elimination, that's the word. All right. We'll play at that game ourselves. No. 1 shall be Mr. Norton. And if you fail I'll break you," Braine added to the ex-reporter.
"I'll get him," said the man sullenly.
Later, when he applied for a situation on theBlade, it happened that there were two strikes on hand, and two or three extra men were needed on the city staff. The man from the Black Hundred was given a temporary job and went by the name of Gregg.
For three days he worked faithfully, abstaining from his favorite tipple. He had never worked in New York, so his record was unknown. He had told the city editor that he had worked on a Chicago paper, now defunct.
He paid no attention whatsoever to Norton, a sign of no little acumen. On the other hand Norton never went forth on an assignment that Gregg did not know exactly where he was going. But all these stories kept Norton in town; and it would be altogether too risky to attempt to handle him anywhere but outside of town. So Gregg had to abide his time.
It came soon enough.
Norton was idling at his desk when the city editor called him up to the wicket.
NORTON WAS IDLING AT HIS DESK WHEN THE CITY EDITOR CALLED HIM UP TO THE WICKETNORTON WAS IDLING AT HIS DESK WHEN THE CITY EDITOR CALLED HIM UP TO THE WICKET
"General Henderson has just returned to America. Get his opinion on the latest Balkan rumpus. He's out at his suburban home. Here's the address."
"How long will you hold open for me?" asked Norton, meaning how long would the city editor wait for the story.
"Till one-thirty. You ought to be back by midnight. It's only eight now."
"All right; Henderson's approachable. I may get a good story out of him."
"Maybe," thought Gregg, who had lost nothing of this conversation.
It was his opportunity. He immediately left the zone of the city desk for a telephone booth. But as he passed the line of desks and busy reporters he did not note the keen scrutiny of a smooth-faced, gray-haired man who stood at the side of Norton's desk awaiting the reporter's return.
"Why, Jones," cried the surprised Norton. "What are you doing all this way from home?"
"Orders," said Jones, smiling faintly as he delivered a note to the reporter.
"Anything serious?"
"Not that I am aware of. Miss Florence was rather particular. She wanted to be sure that the note reached your hands safely."
"And do you mean to say that you came away and left her alone in that house?"
Again Jones smiled. "I left her well guarded, you may be sure of that. She will never run away again." He waited for Norton to read the note.
It was nothing more than one of those love orders to come and call at once. And she had made Jones venture into town with it! The reporter smiled and put the note away tenderly. And then he caught Jones smiling, too.
"I'm going to marry her, Jones."
"That remains to be seen," replied the butler, not unkindly.
"Well, anyhow, thanks for bringing the note. But I've got to disappoint her to-night. I'm off in a deuce of a hurry to interview General Henderson. I'll be out to tea to-morrow. You can find your way out of this old firetrap. By-by!"
The moment he turned away the smile faded from Jones' face, and with the quickness and noiselessness of a cat he reached the side of the booth in which Gregg believed himself so secure from eavesdropping. The half dozen words Jones heard convinced him that Norton was again the object of the Black Hundred's attention. He had seen the man's face that memorable night when the balloon stopped for its passenger. Before Gregg came out of the booth Jones decided to overtake Norton and forewarn him, but unfortunately the reporter was nowhere in sight.
There was left for Jones nothing else but to return home or follow when Gregg came out. As this night he knew Florence to be exceptionally well guarded, both within and without the house, he decided to wait and follow the spy.
When Braine received the message he was pleased. Norton's assignment fitted his purpose like a glove. Before midnight he would have Mr. Meddling Reporter where he would bother no one for some time—if he proved tractable. If not, he would never bother any one again. Braine gave his orders tersely. Unless Norton met with unforeseen delay, nothing could prevent his capture.
When Norton arrived at the Henderson place, a footman informed him from the veranda that General Henderson was at 49 Elm Street for the evening, and it would be wise to call there. Jim nodded his thanks and set off in haste for 49 Elm Street. The footman did not enter the house, but hurried down the steps and slunk off among the adjacent shrubbery. His mission was over with.
The house in Elm Street was Braine's suburban establishment. He went there occasionally to hibernate, as it were, to grow a new skin when close pressed. The caretaker was a man rightly called Samson. He was a bruiser of the bouncer type.
It was fast work for Braine to get out there. If the man disguised as a footman played his cards badly Braine would have all his trouble for nothing. He disguised himself with that infernal cleverness which had long since made him a terror to the police, who were looking for ten different men instead of one. He knew that Norton would understand instantly that he was not the general; but on the other hand he would not know that he was addressing Braine.
So the arch-conspirator waited; and so Norton arrived and was ushered into the room. A single glance was enough to satisfy the reporter, always keen-eyed and observant.
"I wish to see General Henderson," he said politely.
"General Henderson is doubtless at his own house."
"Ah!"
"Don't be alarmed—yet," said Braine smoothly.
"I am not alarmed," replied Norton. "I am only chagrined. Since General Henderson is not to be found here I must be excused."
"I will excuse you presently."
"Ah! I begin to see."
"Indeed!" mocked Braine.
"I have tumbled or walked into a trap."
"A keen mind like yours must have recognized that fact the moment you discovered that I was not the general."
"I am indebted to the Black Hundred?" coolly.
"Precisely. We do not wish you ill, Mr. Norton."
"To be sure, no!" ironically. "What with falling safes, poisoned cigarettes, and so forth, I can readily see that you have my welfare at heart. What puzzled me was the suddenness with which these affectionate signs ceased."
"You're a man of heart," said Braine with genuine admiration. "These affectionate signs, as you call them, ceased because for the time being you ceased to be a menace. You have become that once more, and here you are!"
"And what are you going to do with me now that you have got me?"
"There will be two courses." Braine reached into a drawer and drew out a thick roll of bills. "There are here something like $5,000."
"Quite a tidy sum; enough for a chap to get married on."
The two eyed each other steadily. And in his heart Braine sighed. For he saw in this young man's eyes incorruptibility.
"It is yours on one condition," said Braine, reaching out his foot stealthily toward the button which would summon Samson.
"And that is," interpolated Norton, "that I join the Black Hundred."
"Or the great beyond, my lad," took up Braine, his voice crisp and cold.
Norton could not repress a shiver. Where had he heard this voice before? ... Braine! He stiffened.
"Murder in cold blood?" he managed to say.
"Indefinite imprisonment. Choose."
"I have chosen."
"H'm!" Braine rose and went over to the sideboard for the brandy. "I'm going to offer you a drink to show you that personally there are no hard feelings. You are in the way. After you, our friend, Jones. This brandy is not poisoned, neither are the glasses. Choose either and I'll drink first. We are all desperate men, Norton; and we stop at nothing. Your life hangs by a hair. Do you know where Hargreave is?"
Norton eyed his liquor thoughtfully.
"Do you know where the money is?"
Norton smelt of the brandy.
"I am sorry," said Braine. "I should have liked to win over a head like yours."
Norton nonchalantly took out his watch, and that bit of bravado perhaps saved his life. In the case of his watch he saw a brutal face behind him. Without a tremor, Norton took up his glass.
"I am sorry to disappoint you," he said, "but I shall neither join you nor go to by-by."
Quick as a bird shadow above grass, he flung his brandy over his shoulder into the face of the man behind. Samson yelled with pain. Almost at the same instant Norton pushed over the table, upsetting Braine with it. Next he dashed through the curtains, slammed the door, and fled to the street, very shaky about the knees, if the truth is to be told.
General Henderson's views upon the latest Balkan muddle were missing from theBladethe following morning. Norton, instead of returning to the general's and fulfilling his assignment like a dutiful reporter, hurried out to Riverside to acquaint Jones with what had happened. Jones was glad to see him safe and sound.
"That new reporter started the game," he said. "I overheard a word or two while he was talking in the booth. All your telephone booths are ramshackle affairs, you use them so constantly. I tried to find you, but you were out of sight. Now, tell me what happened."
"Sh!" warned Norton as he spied Florence coming down the stairs.
"I thought you couldn't come!" she cried. "But ten o'clock!"
"I changed my mind," he replied, laughing.
He caught her arm in his and drew her toward the library. Jones smiled after them with that enigmatical smile of his, which might have signified irony or affection. After half an hour's chat, Florence, quite unaware that the two men wished to talk, retired.
At the door Norton told Jones what had taken place at 49 Elm Street.
"Ah! we must not forget that number," mused Jones. "My advice is, keep an eye on this Gregg chap. We may get somewhere by watching him."
"Do you know where Hargreave is?"
Jones scratched his chin reflectively.
Norton laughed. "I can't get anything out of you."
"Much less any one else. I'm growing fond of you, my boy. You're a man."
"Thanks; and good night."
When Olga Perigoff called the next day Jones divested himself of his livery, donned a plain coat and hat, and left the house stealthily. To-day he was determined to learn something definite in regard to this suave, handsome Russian. When she left the house Jones rose from his hiding place and proceeded to follow her. The result of this espionage on the part of Jones will be seen presently.
Meantime Jim went down to the office and lied cheerfully about his missing the general. Whether the city editor believed him or not is of no matter. Jim went over to his desk. From the corner of his eye he could see Gregg scribbling away. He never raised his head as Jim sat down to read his mail. After a while Gregg rose and left the office; and, of course, Jim left shortly afterward. When the newcomer saw that he was being followed, he smiled and continued on his way. This Norton chap was suspicious. All the better; his suspicions should be made the hook to land him with. By and by the man turned into a drug store and Jim loitered about till he reappeared. Gregg walked with brisker steps now. It was his intention to lead Norton on a wild goose chase for an hour or so, long enough to give Braine time to arrange a welcome at another house.
Norton kept perhaps half a block in the rear of his man all the while. But for this caution he would have witnessed a little pantomime that would have put him wholly upon his guard. Turning a corner, Gregg all but bumped into the countess. He was quick enough to place a finger on his lips and motion his head toward a taxicab. Olga hadn't the least idea who was coming around the corner, but she hailed the cab and was off in it before Jim swung around the corner.
Jones, who had followed the countess for something over an hour and a half, hugged a doorway. What now? he wondered. The countess knew the man. That was evidence enough for the astute butler. But what meant the pantomime and the subsequent hurry? He soon learned. The man Gregg went his way, and then Jim turned the corner. Jones cast a wistful glance at the vanishing cab of the Russian, and decided to shadow the shadower—in other words, to follow the reporter, to see that nothing serious befell him.
The lurer finally paused at a door, opened it with a key and swung it behind him, very careful, however, not to spring the latch. Naturally Jim was mightily pleased when he found the door could be opened. When Jones, not far behind, saw him open the door, he started to call out a warning, but thought the better of it. If Norton was walking into a trap it was far better that he, Jones, should remain outside of it. If Jim did not appear after a certain length of time, he would start an investigation on his own account.
No sooner was Jim in the hallway than he was set upon and overpowered. They had in this house what was known as "the punishment room." Here traitors paid the reckoning and were never more heard of. Into this room Jim was unceremoniously dropped when Braine found that he could get no information from the resolute reporter.
The room did not look sinister, but for all that it possessed the faculty of growing smaller and smaller, slowly or swiftly, as the man above at the lever willed. When Jim was apprised of this fact, he ran madly about in search of some mode of escape, knowing full well in his heart that he should not find one.
Presently the machinery began to work, and Norton's tongue grew dry with terror. They had him this time; there was not the least doubt of it. And they had led him there by the nose into the bargain.
Twenty minutes passed, and Jones concluded it was time for him to act. He went forward to try the door, but this time it was locked. Jones, however, was not without resource. The house next door was vacant, and he found a way into this, finally reaching the roof. From this he jumped to the other roof, found the scuttle open, and crept down the stairs, flight after flight, till the whir of a motor arrested him.
Conspirators are often overeager, too. So intent were the rascals upon the business at hand that they did not notice the door open slowly. It did not take the butler more than a moment to realize that his friend and ally was near certain death. With an oath he sprang into the room, gave Braine a push which sent him down to join the victim, and pitched into the other two. It was a battle royal while it lasted. Jones knocked down one of them, yelled to Norton, and kicked the rope he saw down into the pit. One end of this rope was attached to a ring in the wall. And up this rope Norton swarmed after he had disposed of Braine. The tide of battle then swung about in favor of the butler, and shortly the fake reporter and his companion were made to join their chief.
Jones stopped the machinery. He could not bring himself to let his enemies die so horribly. Later he knew he would regret this sentiment.
When the people came, summoned by some outsider who had heard the racket of the conflict, there was no one to be found in the pit. Nor was there any visible sign of an exit.
There was one, however, built against such an hour and known only to the chiefs of the Black Hundred.
And still the golden-tinted banknotes reposed tranquilly in their hiding place!
About this time—that is to say, about the time the Black Hundred was stretching out its powerful secret arms toward Norton—there arrived in New York city a personage. This personage was the Princess Parlova, a fabulously rich Polish Russian. She leased a fine house near Central Park and set about to conquer social New York. This was not very difficult, for her title was perfectly genuine and she moved in the most exclusive diplomatic circle in Europe, which, as everybody knows, is the most brilliant in the world. When the new home was completely decorated she gave an elaborate dinner, and that attracted the newspapers. They began to talk about her highness, printed portraits of her, and devoted a page occasionally in the Sunday editions. She became something of a rage. One morning it was announced that the Princess Parlova would give a masked ball formally to open her home to society; and it was this notice that first brought the Princess Parlova under Braine's eyes. He was at the Perigoff apartment at the time.
"Well, well," he mused aloud.
"What is it?" asked Olga, turning away from the piano and ending one of Chopin's mazurkas brokenly.
"Here is the Princess Parlova in town."
"And who is she?"
"She is the real thing, Olga; a real princess with vast estates in Poland with which the greedy Slav next door has been very gentle."
"I haven't paid much attention to the social news lately. What about her?"
"She is giving a masked ball formally to open her house on the West Side. And it's going to cost a pretty penny."
"Well, you're not telling me this to make me want to know the princess," said Olga, petulantly.
"No. But I'm going to give you a letter of introduction to her highness."
"Oh!"
"And you are going to ask her to invite two particular friends of yours to this wonderful ball of hers."
"Indeed," ironically. "That sounds all very easy."
"Easier than you think, my child."
"I will not have you call me child."
"Well, then, Olga."
"That's better. Now, how will it be easier than I think?"
"Simply this; the Princess Parlova is an oath-bound member, but has not been active for years."
"Oho!" Olga was all animation now. "Go on!"
"You will go to her with a letter of introduction—no! Better than that, you will make a formal call and show her this ring. You know the ring," he said, passing the talisman to the countess. "Show this to her and she will obey you in everything. She will have no alternative."
"Very good," replied Olga. "And then the program is to insist that she invite Florence and that fool of a reporter to this ball. Then what?"
"You can leave that to me."
"Haven't all these failures been a warning?"
"No, my dear. I was born optimistic; but there's a jinx somewhere in one of my pockets. Time after time I've had everything just where I wanted it, and then—poof! It's pure bald luck on their side, but sooner or later the wheel will turn. And any chance that offers I am bound to accept. Somehow or other we may be able to trap Florence and Norton. I want both of them. If I can get them, Jones will be forced to draw in Hargreave."
"Is there such a man?"
"You saw him that night at the restaurant."
"I have often thought that perhaps I just dreamed it." She turned again to the piano and began humming idly.
"Stop that and listen to me," said Braine, not in quite the best of tempers. "I'm in no mood for whims."
"Music does not soothe your soul, then?" cynically.
"If I had one it might. You will call on the Princess Parlova to-morrow afternoon. It depends upon you what my plans will be. I think you'll have little trouble in getting into the presence of her highness, and once there she will not be able to resist you."
"I'll go."
And go she did. The footman in green livery hesitated for a moment, but the title on the visiting card was quite sufficient. He bowed the countess into the reception room and went in search of his distinguished mistress.
The Princess Parlova was a handsome woman verging upon middle age. She was a patrician; Olga's keen eye discerned that instantly. She came into the reception room with that dignified serenity which would have impressed any one as genuine. She held the card in her fingers and smiled inquiringly toward her guest.
"I confess," she began, "that I recall neither your face nor your name. I am sorry. Where have I had the honor of meeting you before?"
"You have never met me before, your highness," answered Olga sweetly.
"You came on a charity errand, then?"
"That depends, your highness. Will you be so good as to glance at this?" Olga asked, holding out her palm upon which the talisman lay.
The princess shrank back, paling.
"Where did you get that?" she panted.
"From the head," was the answer.
"And you have followed me from Russia?" whispered the princess, her terror growing.
"Oh, no. The Black Hundred is as strongly organized here as in St. Petersburg. But we always keep track of old members, especially when they stand so high in the world as yourself."
"But I was deceived and betrayed!" exclaimed the princess. "They urged me to join on the ground that the organization was to attempt to bring about the freedom of Poland."
Olga shrugged. "You were rich, highness. The Black Hundred needed money!"
"And you need it now?" eagerly, believing that she saw a loophole. "How much? Oh, I will give a hundred thousand rubles on your promise to leave me alone. Tell me!"
"I am sorry, your highness, but I have no authority to accept such an offer. Indeed, my errand is far from being expensive. All the Black Hundred desires is four invitations to this ball which you are soon to give. That should mot cause you any alarm. We shall not interfere with your sojourn in America in any way whatsoever, provided these invitations are issued."
"You would rob my guests?" horrified.
"Positively no! Here is a list of four names. Invite them; that is all you have to do. Not so much as a silver spoon will be found missing. This is on my word of honor, and I never break that word, if you please."
"Give me the list," said the princess wearily. "Who gave you that ring?"
"The head."
"In Russia?"
"No; here in America." Olga dipped into her handbag and produced a slip of paper. This she handed to the princess. "Here is the list, highness."
"Who is Florence Hargreave?"
"A friend of mine," evasively.
"Does she belong to the organization?"
"No."
"Then you have some ulterior purpose in having me invite her?"
"I have," answered Olga sharply; "but that does not concern your highness in the least."
The princess bit her lips. "I see your name here also; a man named Braine, and another, Norton."
"Say at once that you do not care to execute the wishes—the commands—of the order," said Olga coldly.
"I will do as you wish. And I beg you now to excuse me. But if anything happens to any of my personal friends—"
"Well?" haughtily from Olga.
"Well, I will put the matter in the hands of the police."
"But so long as your personal friends are not concerned?"
"I shall then of necessity remain deaf and blind. It is one of the penalties I must pay for my folly. I wish you good day."
"And also good riddance," murmured Olga under her breath, as she arose and started for the hallway.
Thus it was that when Norton went to the office the next afternoon he found a broad white envelope on his desk. Indifferently he opened the same and his eyes bulged. "Princess Parlova requests" and so forth and so on. Then he shrugged. The chief had probably asked for the invitation and he would have to write up the doings, a phase of reportorial work eminently distasteful to him. He went up to the city desk.
"Can't you find some one else to do this stuff?" he growled to the city editor.
The city editor glanced at the card and crested envelope. "Good lord, man! Nobody in this office had anything to do with that. What luck! Our Miss Hayes tried all manner of schemes, but was rebuffed on all sides. How the deuce did you chance to get one?"
"Search me," said the bewildered Norton.
"If I were you I'd sit tight and take it all in," advised the editor. "It's going to be the biggest splurge of its kind we've had in years. We've been working every wire we know to get Miss Hayes inside, but it was no go. This princess is not on to the game yet. In this country you get into society or you don't through the Sundays."
"Hanged if I know who wished this thing on me."
"Take it philosophically," said the editor sarcastically. "The princess won't bite you. She may even have seen your picture—"
"Get out!" grumbled Norton, turning away.
He would go out and see Florence. On the way out to Riverdale he came to the conclusion that the list of the princess fell short and some friend of his who was helping the woman out suggested his name. It was the only way he could account for it.
But when he learned that Florence had an invitation exactly like his own and that she received it that morning he became suspicious.
"Jones, what do you think of it?" he questioned.
"I think it was very kind of the Countess Perigoff suggesting your name and that of Florence," said the butler urbanely.
"Olga?" cried Florence disappointedly.
"It is the only logical deduction I can make," declared Jones. "They are both practically Russians."
"And what would you advise?" asked Norton.
"Why, go and enjoy yourselves. Forewarned is forearmed. The thing is, be very careful not to acquaint any one with the character of your disguise, least of all the Countess Perigoff. Besides," Jones added smiling, "perhaps I may go myself."
"Goody! I've read about masked balls and have always been crazy to go to one," said Florence with eagerness.
"Suppose we go at once and pick out some costumes?" suggested Norton.
"Just as soon as I can get my hat on," replied Florence, happy as a lark.
"But mind," warned Jones; "be sure that you see the costumer alone and that no one else is about."
"I'll take particular care," agreed Norton. "We've got to do some hustling to find something suitable. For a big affair like this the town will be ransacked. All aboard! There's room for two in that car of mine; and we can have a spin besides. Hang work!"
Florence laughed, and even Jones permitted a smile (which was not grim this time) to stir his lips.
A happy person is generally unobservant. Two happy persons together are totally unobservant of what passes around them. In plainer terms this lack is called love. And being frankly in love with each other, neither Norton nor Florence observed that a taxicab followed them into town. Jones, not being in love, was keenly observant; but the taxicab took up the trail two blocks away, so the matter wholly escaped Jones' eye.
The two went into several costumers', but eventually discovered a shop on a side street that had been overlooked by those invited to the masquerade. They had a merry time rummaging among the camphory-smelling boxes. There were dominoes of all colors, and at length they agreed upon two modest ones that were evenly matched in color and design. Florence ordered them to be sent home. Then the two of them sallied up to the Ritz-Carleton and had tea.
The man from the taxicab entered the costumer's, displayed a detective's shield and demanded that the proprietor show him the costumes selected by the two young people who had just left. The man obeyed wonderingly.
"I want a pair exactly like these," said the detective. "How much?"
"Two dollars each, rental; seven apiece if you wish to buy them."
"I'll buy them."
The detective paid the bill, nodded curtly, and returned to his taxicab.
"Now, I wonder," mused the costumer, "what the dickens those innocent-looking young people are up to?" He never found out.
On the night of the ball Norton dined with Florence for the first time; and for once in his life he experienced that petty disturbance of collective thought called embarrassment. To talk over war plans with Jones was one thing, but to have Jones serve soup was altogether another. All through dinner Jones replied to questions with no more and no less than "Yes, sir," and "No, sir." Norton was beginning to learn that this strange man could put on a dozen kinds of armor and always retain his individuality. And to-night there seemed something vaguely familiar about the impassive face of the butler, as if he had seen it somewhere in the past, but could not tell when or where. As he and Florence were leaving for the automobile which was to take them to the princess', the truth came home to him with the shock of a douche of ice-cold water. Under his breath he murmured: "You're a wonderful man, Jones; and I take my hat off to you with the deepest admiration. Hang me!"
"What are you mumbling about?" asked the happy girl.
"Was I mumbling? Perhaps I was going over my catechism. I haven't been out in society in so long that I've forgotten how to act."
"I believe that. We've been in here for five minutes and you haven't told me that you love me."
"Good heavens!" And his arms went around her so tightly that she begged for quarter.
"How strong you are!"
The splendor of the rooms, the dazzling array of jewels, the kaleidoscopic colors, the perfume of the banked flowers and the music all combined to put Florence into a pleasurable kind of trance. And it was only when the first waltz began that she became herself and surrendered to the arms of the man she loved.
And they were waltzing over a volcano. She knew and he knew it. From what direction would the blow come? Well, they were prepared for all manner of tricks.
In an alcove off the ballroom sat Braine and Olga, both dressed exactly like Norton and Florence. Another man and woman entered presently, and Braine spoke to them for a moment, as if giving instructions, which was indeed the case.
The band crashed into another dance, and the masqueraders began swirling hither and thither and yon. A gay cavalier suddenly stopped in front of Florence.
"Enchantress, may I have the pleasure of this dance?"
Jim touched Florence's hand. But she turned laughingly toward the stranger. What difference did it make? The man would never know who she was nor would she know him. It was a lark, that was all; and despite Jim's warning touch she was up and away like the mischievous sprite that she was. Jim remained in his chair, twisting his fingers and wondering whether to laugh or grow angry. After all, he could not blame her. To him an affair like this was an ancient story; to her it was the door of fairyland swung open. Let her enjoy herself.
Florence was having a splendid time. Her partner was asking her all sorts of questions and she was replying in kind, when out of the crowd came Norton (as she supposed), who touched her arm. The cavalier stopped, bowed and made off.
Norton whispered: "I have made an important discovery. We must be off at once. Come with me."
Florence, without the least suspicion in the world, followed him up the broad staircase. What with the many sounds it was not to be wondered at that the difference in the quality of voices did not strike Florence's ear as odd. The result of her confidence was that upon reaching the upper halls, opposite the dressing rooms, she was suddenly thrust into a room and made prisoner. When the light was turned up she recognized with horror the woman who had helped to kidnap her and take her away on theGeorge Washingtonweeks ago. She could not have cried out for help if she had tried.
Meantime Jim got up and began to wander about in search of Florence.
Braine played a clever game that night. He and the Russian, still dominoed like Norton and Florence, ordered the Hargreave auto, by number, entered it and were driven up to the porte-cochère of the Hargreave house. The two alighted, the chauffeur sent the car toward the garage, and Braine and his companion ran lightly down the path to the street where the cab which had followed picked them up.
It grew more and more evident to Jim that something untoward had taken place. He could not find Florence anywhere, in the alcoves, in the side rooms, the supper or card room. Later, to his utter amazement, he was informed that the Hargreave auto had some time since been called and its owner taken home. Some one had taken his place.