"What's orders for the afternoon?" asked Hickey. "Shall I try to pick up a little trade until 4.45?"
Greg was standing with a hand on the cab, lost to his surroundings. His plan was beginning to take shape. He shook his head. "No time for that. Hickey," he said suddenly, "can you drive Pa Simmons' car, the Pack-Arrow?"
"Sure!"
"Good! Then I'll want you to change with him. You can tell the ladies when you come back that your own car broke down, see? I'll take the flivver because I know its ways."
First Greg had Hickey take him to a firm of stationers, where after a somewhat lengthy search through the stock he found a loose-leaf note-book bound in black seal that at least in a general way resembled the famous little black book. This Greg carried to the Stickney Arms where he delivered it to his friend the hall-boy with a dollar and instructions to slip it to he knew who. As the boy was beginning to look on this affair as a regular source of income, there was little danger that he would fail him.
Greg, Hickey and the flivver then hastened down to the yard.
Pa Simmons called Greg up soon after and reported that de Socotra was now at the office of the Managuayan consulate on Thirty-sixth Street.
"Has he his bag with him?" asked Greg.
"No."
"Good! Then he'll have to go back to the hotel for it. We have a line on him now. You needn't wait. Come on down to the yard. I want to borrow your cab for awhile."
In his room Greg wrote to Amy:
"Important developments. Dare not trust them to paper. We have found a friend. It is to Washington that F. goes this afternoon. He hopes to see the President to-morrow. I have learned that he is now carrying the l.b.b. on his person, and I'm going to put it up to you to get it. Here is my plan. I will send him this telegram timed to reach him just before he leaves his hotel for the train: 'Must see you for a few minutes before you leave town. Come to the apartment. Amy.' I am depending on you to find an excuse for telegraphing him, and to secure what we are after if you are able. You will need a similar book as a substitute, and I have sent you one through the hall boy, Frank. Perhaps I am asking the impossible, but it was the best plan I could think of. I was handicapped by not being able to talk things over with you. Anyhow, I know you'll do your best. If you fail, don't lose heart, for I'll be there to have a try, and after me there is a third in reserve. Frank has told me that your apartment is on the eighth or next to the top floor, and that the window of your own room is the third from the corner on the river side. I shall be watching that window while F. is with you. If you get the l.b.b. from him hang something white out of that window, and I'll know everything is all right. If I have luck F. will be riding in my cab, but in any case I'll be hard on his trail.
"Greg."
When Pa Simmons came in with his cab this note was slipped in the usual place behind the back seat, and Hickey was dispatched up-town in the Pack-Arrow to take the ladies home from the theater. Pa Simmons enjoyed a well-earned rest.
Meanwhile in the little hall-room, Mario Estuban was practicing the art of disguise on Greg. To begin with they borrowed the outer wear of Pa Simmons entire. Under ordinary circumstances this would have been disguise enough, but as Greg had been somewhat similarly attired on the night he first drove de Socotra around town, they had to go further. Estuban knew better than to attempt the impossible; he could not have made an old man out of the smooth-faced Greg; at least not one that would have stood scrutiny under the light of day. But with a touch of paint he made his eyes red-rimmed and bleary, and put on a pair of cheap spectacles. A clay-colored pigment rubbed into his cheeks made them look hollow and unwholesome; a ragged mustache, and a lank lock of hair sticking down from under the peak of his cap completed the picture. As a last touch of realism, in the yard below Greg grimed his hands and blackened his nails. His own mother would not have recognized him.
"Holy Smoke!" cried Pa Simmons; "looks like he was born in an owl taxi and never seen the light of the sun since!"
Meanwhile Pa Simmons had been looking over the flivver, giving her a little grease here and there, and tightening up a nut or two. With Blossom's help he succeeded in modifying the list to starboard that was her most characteristic peculiarity. In case de Socotra might have remarked her license number on a previous occasion they changed plates for to-night with Blossom's car.
Greg took the wheel, and Blossom cranked her. Bessie waved good-by from the kitchen doorway. All knew that a crisis in the affairs of Greg and Amy was due this night. After the customary fusillade of backfires while she was warming up the flivver moved out of the yard.
It was now shortly after four. Greg hastened up-town and from the telegraph office nearest the Stickney Arms sent his decoy telegram to de Socotra. Returning then to Irving Place he took up his stand just above theHotel dos Estados Unidoswhere he could watch the entrance. To all those who offered to engage him he shook his head and pointed to the flag on his taxi-meter which was down.
His principal fear was that the telegram might be delivered too soon, and de Socotra get to the apartment before the ladies returned from the theater. This would be a calamity since Amy would be unprepared for him; she could not be expected to get a chance to read Greg's letter until she got home.
But as five o'clock approached and there was no sign of de Socotra, Greg's anxieties took another direction. Suppose the telegram were not delivered until after de Socotra had left for the station; suppose he had already been to the hotel for his bag, and would not get the telegram at all.
Choosing a moment when the little lobby was well-filled Greg inconspicuously made his way in and helped himself to a drink from the water-cooler. As he passed the desk he glanced in box 318. The key was not there; de Socotra then was presumably in his room. So far so good. Greg returned to his cab with an easier mind.
At five minutes past five a messenger boy entered the hotel with several telegrams, among which Greg devoutly hoped might be the one he had sent. At ten minutes past five de Socotra issued out of the hotel. In one hand he carried his valise, in the other an opened telegram. His face bore an expression of strong annoyance not unmixed with alarm.
Greg eagerly called his cab to his attention. "Taxi, sir?"
De Socotra came quickly towards him, and Greg stooping cranked his car. Thus de Socotra got in without obtaining a good look at his chauffeur. In a few minutes it would be dark. Greg slid into his seat, and turned an ear towards the back of his car.
"Where to, sir?"
"Stickney Arms apartment house, Riverside and Ninety-fourth. And hurry. Double fare if you get me there and back to the Southern Terminal before six."
Touching his cap, Greg opened her up. Deep within him he chuckled with satisfaction; de Socotra obviously had no suspicion that he had ever engaged that cab before.
As de Socotra got out at the Stickney Arms he said with scarcely a glance at Greg: "Let your engine run. I shan't be in here more than five minutes."
Greg waited in what anxiety can be imagined. The five minutes seemed like as many hours. From where he stood beside his cab he could not see the windows of the eighth floor, so he backed across the road and looked up. On this part of Riverside the houses are not built directly on the Drive, but on a narrow roadway terraced above it. There were ornamental bushes and shrubs on this slope. It was almost dark now and many of the windows showed lights, but not the third window from the corner on the eighth floor.
Greg tried to picture to himself what was going on within the apartment. All of a sudden his plan seemed preposterous to him. How could he expect the carefully-reared Amy suddenly to play the part of a pick-pocket successfully!—and in five minutes. If she tried it at all he feared it would only be to betray herself to de Socotra with perhaps tragic results.
But just as he had made up his mind to the worst his heart gave a great leap of gladness, for from the window he watched fluttered something white. She had actually done it! Bravo, Amy!
He returned to his cab. Presently de Socotra reappeared, and at the same moment Henry Saunders came around the corner on foot. The two men met at the foot of the steps. They addressed each other in Spanish, but from expression and gesture it was not difficult to guess what was said. Saunders told de Socotra that he had something important to tell him. De Socotra replied that he was in a hurry to catch his train and invited Saunders to ride down-town with him. The two men entered the cab.
Greg's face turned grim. What was the nature of Saunders' communication? Was it possible that Amy's fiancé intended to betray them?
De Socotra said: "Back to the Southern Terminal. You can make it if you hurry. You have twenty-five minutes."
Turning into the Drive proper, Greg speeded downtown. On that broad thoroughfare, unimpeded by cross traffic, the speed limit is a little bit eased. At the end of the Drive he bore through Seventy-second Street, but instead of continuing down-town by Broadway, the main motor highway, he turned into Amsterdam, and running in the car-tracks of that unfrequented street opened her up wide.
He would have given much to hear what was being said behind. Whatever it was he fervently hoped that it would not prevent de Socotra from taking his train. Once he saw him safe aboard that train Greg determined that he would go openly to Amy and get the little black book from her. Once they had that precious evidence in their hands, little matter if de Socotra did discover their relations. But Amy could scarcely go on living under his roof.
Greg had reached the boundary of the Western Central freight yards and had turned east to find a better street down-town when he was startled by a violent rapping on the glass behind him. At the same moment de Socotra opened the cab door.
"Go back! Go back!" he cried in a strained, harsh voice. "Back to the apartment!"
As he turned around in the street, Greg stole a glance into the back of the cab. He could not see the face of either man, but revealed by the light of a street lamp he saw the little black book open in de Socotra's hands. So the worst had happened. Saunders had betrayed them, and de Socotra had discovered the substitution. Greg's heart contracted sharply. How could he warn Amy in time?
He turned back into Amsterdam Avenue, and headed north again. In his efforts to collect his thoughts he instinctively slowed down. De Socotra hammered on the glass and yelled:
"Faster! Faster! What's the matter with you?"
Presently he changed his mind. Opening the door again he said: "Stop at that drug-store yonder, I want to telephone."
The two men tumbled out of the cab. They were disputing excitedly in Spanish. Saunders seemed to be making some kind of appeal, which de Socotra furiously denied. The latter's face was livid and distorted with rage. Gone was the smiling courteous veneer. Greg was appalled at the revelation of the man's true character. On the other hand Saunders seemed almost ready to weep.
"He is scared now at what he started," thought Greg grimly.
De Socotra, waving Saunders away, went into the drug-store. Saunders, holding his hands above his head and talking to himself, walked blindly away down the side street.
"He hasn't even got wit enough to warn her what is coming," thought Greg. "I must do it."
Through the lighted windows of the drug-store Greg saw that the telephone booth that de Socotra entered adjoined the soda-water counter. Obeying a sudden impulse he followed him into the store.
The soda-clerk grinned at Greg and cocked a humorous eyebrow in the direction of the telephone booth. "Bug-house, I guess?"
Greg shrugged and grinned in kind, and ordered a lemon phosphate. While it was being drawn he edged along the counter towards the booth. Through the glass he saw that de Socotra had his back towards the door—for that matter Greg didn't much care now if he did begin to suspect him.
Many of these supposedly sound-proof booths are flimsy affairs, and Greg, straining his ears, was able to hear a good deal of what de Socotra was saying. The soda-clerk, taking in the situation, continued to grin appreciatively.
De Socotra got the number he asked for and started talking. The first thing Greg heard distinctly was: "Yes, treachery in my own household! But I'll take care of that."
Later Greg heard him say: "I called you up because you know this town. I want the address of a private madhouse—well, sanitarium if you like it better. At once. To-night. A high-class place, expensive and all that. Well, please find out for me and let me know quickly at my apartment. And get Abanez on the wire if you can, and tell him to come to me."
Greg gasped inwardly. The man's boldness staggered him. No need to ask who the madhouse was for! Before he could collect his wits de Socotra was out of the booth. Greg hastily put his glass to his lips.
"Damn you, have you nothing better to do than drink slops!" cried de Socotra furiously. "Come on!"
This was nuts to the soda-clerk. He came to the door to see the last of this diverting pair.
By the time they started, Greg had made up his mind what to do. A few blocks farther up the street—they were in the Forties now—he saw a garage and pulled up at the door.
De Socotra with a violent oath demanded to know what he was stopping for.
"Out of gas," said Greg laconically.
De Socotra swore and stamped on the pavement like a man beside himself. Greg stared at him, affecting a stupid wonder. A trolley car came up the avenue. De Socotra tossed Greg a bill without looking at it and running out in the street swung himself aboard the car.
For an agonized instant of indecision Greg debated whether he would do better to jump back in his cab, and endeavor to beat de Socotra to the Stickney Arms, or stop and telephone. But the car was traveling fast, and de Socotra could surely get another cab at the Broadway intersection. Greg ran into the garage to telephone.
Ages seemed to pass while he was getting the apartment house. He ground his teeth and prayed for patience. As a matter of fact there was no undue delay. He asked for Señorita de Socotra, and there was another fifteen seconds of agony before a feminine voice answered on the wire—not the crisp tones of Amy, alas! but the languorous Bianca. Greg cursed himself for his folly in supposing that they would allow Amy to answer the 'phone.
"I want to speak to Señorita de Socotra," he said.
"Who are you?" asked Bianca.
In an evil moment Greg answered "Abanez." In his excitement he forgot that Bianca and Abanez were cronies. A flood of Spanish answered him. He could only say lamely:
"Yes, I know, but I wanted to speak to Amèlie."
"I don't know of whom you are speaking," the voice said in cold hard English. "You have the wrong number," and click! the connection was cut.
By violently agitating the receiver Greg succeeded in getting the operator at the Stickney Arms. He asked for Frank, the hall-boy. This was what he ought to have done in the beginning. He had only wasted a precious two minutes, and put Bianca on her guard.
"This you, Frank? This is the fellow who passes you notes for the little Spanish lady, do you get me? I gave you a little package this afternoon."
"Sure, I know you, boss."
"Listen; go quick to her apartment—don't telephone. Tell her her father is coming back and to beat it, see? Tell her the old cab will be at the door in five minutes. I'll make it all right with you."
"I get you, boss."
"Be quick! He's almost there!"
Greg then drove the flivver for all there was in her to Sherman Square, to Riverside, to Ninety-fourth Street. As he ran up the narrow roadway to the Stickney Arms a cab stopped there ahead of them. De Socotra sprang out and ran up the steps. The cab went on.
Greg stopped just beyond the steps, and waited for a moment or two. If Amy had got out safely, she would be on the lookout for him. But she did not appear. His anxiety became insupportable. He could not rest. He went into the apartment house to learn what had happened. The gorgeous blue-clad ones looked askance at the shabby driver. The boy he knew was not in sight.
"Where is Frank?" he asked.
"Up-stairs."
Even as he asked Frank stepped out of an elevator. There were two elevators, and evidently de Socotra had gone up in one as Frank came down in the other. Greg beckoned Frank aside from the others.
"I'm the fellow that telephoned you just now—about Miss de Socotra."
Frank's jaw dropped.
Greg had not time to make explanations. He showed the boy the five dollar bill de Socotra had just tossed him. That did the trick, though the boy still gaped at him.
"You gave her my message?"
"Yes, just now."
"Only just now! It was a good five minutes ago!"
"I know. It wasn't my fault. They kept me waiting at the door. I suppose the girl had to wait for a chance to slip her word."
"You should have told the maid! She's safe."
"How was I to know that?"
"Is she out of the place?"
"No, she went back for something."
Greg groaned. "Then it's too late. He's just gone up."
The boy whistled.
Greg jumped for the elevator. But the boy hung back. Greg was too disreputable looking for the Stickney Arms. During that pause from somewhere far up in the building the sound of a slammed door came down the stair well.
"Take me up!" cried Greg. "How do you run this damned thing!"
A signal showed on the telephone switchboard. "His number!" said one of the boys springing to answer, and Greg paused.
"Yes, sir, all right, sir," stammered the boy at the board.
He jumped up breathless with excitement. "The Spanish gent! He says the girl's run out. He says she's not herself. He says stop her. And one of us go up and bring him down."
The elevator signal was already ringing continuously. Greg stepped out. He cast a significant glance around from boy to boy.
"My cab's just beyond the door. A fiver to each of you fellows if she gets in it safe!"
He ran outside and waited for her in his cab, the door standing open, his foot ready to let in the clutch the moment she jumped in. But the seconds passed and she did not appear. Looking anxiously out and back he saw de Socotra come to the door of the apartment house with the four boys at his heels. He heard him say:
"I tell you, she came down-stairs."
"She didn't pass this way, sir."
From the head of the steps they looked uncertainly up and down the street, and then went back into the building. Greg had drawn back out of sight. A moment later another cab drew up behind Greg, and two men got out. It was the puffy Abanez and another of the gang. At the same instant Amy, bareheaded, came running like a deer around the corner out of Ninety-fourth Street. The two men stared, rooted to the pavement in astonishment. Amy ran on to Greg's cab, but at the sight of the strange face, she drew back.
"It's all right," he whispered swiftly. "It is I, Greg."
She climbed in, he slammed the door, and they were off. De Socotra came running out of the building again. He met the two men on the sidewalk. All three jumped in the waiting cab and came on.
Greg sped down the incline, made a wide turn into the Drive and headed down-town. As they circled they saw the other cab gathering headway. It had a more powerful engine than Greg's, and was in better condition. It ought to have overtaken Greg easily, but as they straightened out in the Drive it did not do so, but contented itself with maintaining a certain distance. Greg slowed down, and the following cab did likewise. "What's their game?" Greg asked himself a little anxiously.
He rapped on the glass behind him to attract Amy's attention. She opened the door.
"All right back there?" he asked cheerily.
"I—I guess so," was the somewhat shaky reply.
"Let down the front glass and we can talk better."
She did so.
"Have you got the little black book?" he asked eagerly.
"No. I was surprised by his return. I dropped it in the back of the piano."
"No one saw you drop it there,—Bianca?"
"No, it's safe enough; if we can only find a way to get it out again. Where can we go now?"
"To the yard."
"He will follow us there."
"Let him. We have plenty of friends there. He'll get a warm reception."
They passed a policeman standing at the curb who glanced at them casually as they passed. They were not exceeding the speed limit now, or at least not by much. The other cab was a short block behind. Amy, who continually glanced back through the little window, gasped suddenly.
"Oh, they're stopping! ... They're picking him up."
"Who, the policeman?" said Greg. "By God! de Socotra has a nerve!" he added grimly.
"They're coming on again! Oh, faster! faster!"
Greg gave her all she would take. The old flivver roared and rocked down the Drive, and the few pedestrians homeward bound stopped and stared at the phenomenon. Most of the motor traffic was bound in the opposite direction, and on his side of the road Greg had a clear passage. The bright round globes flashed past, the cars they passed seemed to be standing still. Greg prayed that his old tires would support the strain. The flivver had long ago seen her best days, and like an old horse she was scarcely making the speed that the violence of her action would indicate. Thirty miles was about her limit.
Through the little window in the back Amy kept watch on their pursuers. "They're gaining on us!" she said despairingly.
And indeed the bigger car drew up on them with ease, once they let her out. De Socotra was leaning far out of the window urging the driver on. The policeman rode in front. Foot-passengers becoming infected with the excitement of the chase started to run after, but were soon out-distanced. Motor cars bound up-town slowed down, turned and joined in the chase.
The pursuing car little by little drew abreast on the outside of the flivver. The driver pinched Greg into the curb as close as he dared, hoping to force him to stop. No more than a foot separated the running-boards of the two flying vehicles. Amy shrank back into the darkest corner. The water was now boiling furiously out of the radiator of the flivver, and Greg knew she must soon begin to miss and slacken speed. But he held her to it.
The second car was now running wheel to wheel with Greg's, and the policeman leaning out was almost able to put a hand on his shoulder. "Stop, you!" he commanded.
At that moment Greg saw an opening, and he obeyed the order quicker than they looked for. Throwing out his clutch and applying brakes, he let the other car shoot ahead. Turning out behind it, he darted up a side street.
Their pursuers carried on a hundred feet or more had to turn around in the Drive and come back. Cars bound up-town got in their way. Greg might have succeeded in giving them the slip altogether had it not been for the other cars which had taken up the chase out of sheer excitement. These cars were far enough in the rear to follow Greg directly into the side street and to point the way to the policeman when he came up.
Greg twisted and turned to the best of his ability; off the Drive the streets were deserted; into West End Avenue, into another side street, into the Drive again. A whole string of cars was stretched out behind him now. Rarely had the sporty chauffeurs such a chance to defy the speed laws. It was like pandemonium sweeping through those astonished quiet streets. The little flivver was like a mangy fox pursued by a pack of sleek hounds.
Greg's tricks were of no avail. Having lost the advantage of his first turn, he could not shake them off. Meanwhile his radiator had almost boiled dry, and the exhausted flivver was missing badly and ever slowing down.
"No go!" said Greg grimly at last. "I'll only melt down her bearings if I don't stop."
He quietly drew up beside the curb on Riverside.
"Mind you are to say nothing!" Amy swiftly whispered. "You are just a cabman that I happened to pick up!"
"I can't let him carry you back!" Greg protested scowling.
"You must!" she cried with desperate earnestness. "If you don't do what I tell you, you will force me to take his part against you!"
"How can I see you in his power!"
"You needn't fear for me," she said proudly. "He dare not injure me. I am not afraid of him!"
Very unwillingly, Greg gave in.
Their pursuers were upon them. The policeman, de Socotra, Abanez and the fourth man leaped from the second cab and ran up. The policeman laid a heavy hand on Greg's shoulder and drew him to the pavement. De Socotra flung open the door of the flivver. Within twenty seconds it seemed as if a crowd of hundreds had gathered.
"My poor, poor child!" cried de Socotra in a heart-breaking voice. "How could you act so!"
Amy made no reply.
"Don't you know me?"
"I know you," she said quietly.
He drew her gently out of the cab. "Come home with me, dear," he murmured, but not so softly but that the crowd could hear and be impressed. "You'll be all right in the morning. Mamma is waiting for you."
Amy quietly submitted. Greg was boiling inwardly, but he loyally obeyed her command to say nothing.
De Socotra drew Amy's arm tenderly under his own and faced the policeman and the crowd. "She is not herself," he said in a deprecating, appealing voice. "It is a nervous break-down. See how she ran out without hat or coat in such weather. She didn't know what she was doing."
The crowd murmured in respectful sympathy.
De Socotra looked for the cab that had brought him. "Come, dear, let us go home."
"What will I do with this fellow, sir?" asked the policeman. "Don't you want to lay a complaint against him?"
"Oh, I don't think so," said de Socotra, determined to play the kindly gentleman to the end. "I don't suppose he knew what he was doing." Then for the first time he appeared to recognize Greg. "Hello!" he said, "aren't you the man who drove me earlier this evening?"
There was nothing to be gained by denying it. Greg nodded.
"How did you get in on this?" asked De Socotra.
Since he was forced to play the unwelcome part, Greg played it as well as he could. "Well, after I filled up my tank," he said slyly, "I went on to the address you gave me. Something seemed to be the matter, and I thought maybe you'd want me again. You treated me liberal. Then the young lady came running out. I didn't know she had anything to do with you. She said she'd pay me anything I asked if I'd get her away from there. I thought she was in distress-like."
Greg was comforted by the sight of a gleam of approval in Amy's eyes. Whether or not de Socotra really believed this yarn he could not tell from his face.
He feigned to believe it. "Too much melodrama!" he said indulgently. "Let him go, officer."
But the policeman hated to relinquish his capture. "Why didn't you stop when I first told you?" he demanded.
Greg put on a hang-dog air. "Ah, she said he was after her, that he wanted to do her some hurt."
"Her own father!" put in de Socotra with a shocked air.
"You saw me!" said the indignant officer. "You ought to know I wouldn't stand for no rough stuff!"
"Well, I was excited-like," muttered Greg.
"I had ought to take you in for speeding if for nothing else! You ought to lose your license for that!"
"Please let him go, officer," said de Socotra magnanimously. "The poor fellow's livelihood depends on his license. I wouldn't want him to suffer through the misfortune of my poor girl."
Greg did not believe that de Socotra's suspicions were not aroused as to his real part in the affair; but de Socotra was not any more anxious for a police-court examination than Greg was: hence the seeming magnanimity. Greg saw a glance of intelligence pass between de Socotra and Abanez, and as the policeman very reluctantly removed his hand from Greg's shoulder, Abanez said:
"You may take me and my friend down-town. We are already late for our appointment."
Amy flashed him a warning. Greg scarcely needed it. For a moment he hesitated; but since he had taken his line, it seemed better to stick to it. He determined to watch himself though.
He touched his cap. "Where to, sir?"
"92 Stuyvesant Square."
Greg was reminded of Pa Simmons' first report that day.
Meanwhile de Socotra and his two henchmen bade each other courteous farewells. Abanez and the other expressed a fervent hope that the young lady would be better in the morning—Greg smiled to himself at the grim comedy. The two Spanish-Americans got into the flivver, and de Socotra handed Amy into the other taxi. The policeman seated himself by the chauffeur to ride back to his beat. They started simultaneously, Greg turning down-town, the other keeping on up the Drive. The bystanders remembered their suppers and melted away.
Greg made the best time he could, for he was wildly eager to get back to the Stickney Arms, but he had to humor the old flivver now. She was like a broken-winded horse. Stuyvesant Square, as everybody knows, is one of the last haunts of old-fashioned respectability away down town. It was a good four mile drive, and Greg chafed bitterly at the time he was losing.
A broad and well-lighted street with a trolley line bisects the Square, but around the sides it is dim, respectable and lonely. Greg privately determined that nothing should induce him to leave his cab. Greg looked in vain for Number 92. Having made a complete circuit of the Square he was satisfied there was no such number.
He stopped and notified his fares. "Do you know the house you want to go to?" he asked them.
Abanez replied: "Yes, it's on the east side. Drive slowly up that side and I'll point it out to you."
Near the top of this side of the Square he called Greg's attention to a tall narrow house with a brownstone front, and Greg drew up before it. No lights showed in any of the windows; to Greg it looked like an unoccupied house. His fares did not immediately get out, and Greg looked around to see what they were waiting for. The window behind him was still open.
"Wait a minute," said Abanez, "we have not quite finished our talk."
At the moment the significance of this maneuver did not occur to Greg. Afterwards he remembered that a man was passing on the sidewalk. They waited until he turned the corner.
Without warning two hands from behind closed around Greg's throat, cutting off the slightest outcry. As his mouth, gasping for breath, instinctively opened, two other hands forced a cotton gag between his teeth and knotted it behind his head. Greg, struggling desperately but in vain, was dragged bodily back through the window to the floor of the cab. There pinning his body in an excruciating attitude between the two doors, both knelt on him, effectually stilling his struggles. Their flying light fingers patted him all over and slipped in and out of his pockets, less like human fingers than evil little animals sniffing for prey. Greg's money they did not disturb; they were after a bigger prize. Besides what little money he carried, there was nothing upon him but his license cards. They desisted.
Abanez spoke to the other man who, careless of what part of Greg's anatomy his feet rested on, stood up and leaning through the front window thoroughly searched around and under the front seat. Unrewarded here, he dropped back on Greg. The two men then held a short colloquy in Spanish, but there was one English word terribly significant: "black-jack."
Greg sensed the up-lifted arm and held his breath. The blow descended, but did not fall true. It struck Greg merely a glancing blow on the side of the head. He retained the wit to grunt hollowly and let his body go slack. The man who had struck Greg said something to Abanez, and Abanez laughed in a comfortable fat way that roused a blind fury in Greg. But he lay still. Opening the door they climbed over Greg and slammed the door after them.
Greg gave them a second or two, then sitting up he peered cautiously over the sill of the window. The two men were sauntering deliberately towards the corner.
"Cool hands!" thought Greg with a kind of wonder.
As they turned they glanced carelessly back. Greg took care not to be seen. He waited a quarter of a minute, then slipping out of the cab and running on his toes to the corner he flattened himself against the building there and peeped around. His men were still proceeding down this street with the air of gentlemen with time to kill. A third of the way down the block they paused, looked around to make sure they were not being followed, and mounted the steps of a house.
Greg marked the house well. The street was Seventeenth and the house from its position must be number 716. This was the house from which earlier in the day de Socotra had issued with the little black book. It must be the new headquarters of the gang.
Greg returned to his cab. Stuyvesant Square is not very far from Gibbon Street, and it occurred to Greg that if he went home and changed his clothes, he would be in a better position to keep tab on de Socotra's later activities that night. Moreover he could get plenty of help at the yard; he would almost surely need help later. To think of it was to act on it. In three minutes he was driving into the yard.
Bessie's warm, bright kitchen looked very good to him coming in from the cold, and the smell of hot food made his head swim. There is nothing more exhausting than violent excitement. But he had no intention of stopping to eat. Hickey, Pa Simmons, Blossom, Ginger McAfee, and Bull Tandy were all seated around the oil-cloth-covered board.
All exclaimed at the sight of him. Even under the grotesque make-up they could perceive the strained grimness of Greg's face. Moreover there was a trickle of blood running down in front on one ear.
"What's happened?" cried Hickey.
"Plenty," said Greg laconically. "Can't stop to tell you now. Hurry up and finish eating, you fellows, if you want to get in on it. I'll need you to-night before I'm through. Blossom, you've got to play the part of a piano tuner. Come up and try on one of my suits."
"Sit down and eat yourself," said Bessie. "You've got to eat, or you can't keep up the pace."
"Make me up a couple of sandwiches like a good girl, and I'll eat them as I go."
"I'm through," said Hickey jumping up. "What's for me to do?"
"Go out and flood the flivver with oil. The old girl's had a stiff race, and she may have a worse one before her."
In a quarter of an hour Greg was once more the elegantly dressed young man of the town, while Blossom was giving a fair imitation of an artisan. He was provided with a bag of simple tools. Back in the kitchen Greg made his dispositions for the night.
"Hickey, you'll drive me. We may need a second car. Pa, you come along. Blossom can ride with you. We're going to the Stickney Arms first. You just follow Hickey, Pa, and stop when he stops."
"How about me?" asked Bull Tandy discontentedly. "Where do I come in? Say, if you want any strong-arm work I can put them guys" (referring to Messrs. Hickey, Blossom and Simmons) "over me head with one arm."
"Me, too," said little Ginger McAfee. "You ain't goin' to leave me out of the fun, are you, Greg? Bull's all right with his strong arm, but strong-arms are common; you want a man with a sharp head on him like me."
"Don't you want to come too, Bessie?" Greg grimly asked.
"I'll stop in me kitchen, thankee," said she dryly. "Very like you'll be wantin' hot cawfee when you come home, and maybe bandages."
Greg laughed. "Sorry, you fellows," he said to Bull and Ginger, "I can't use you right now. We'd only get in each other's light. But God knows what this night may turn up. You stay home—I'll make it good to you——"
"Ah, we don't want no pay," growled Bull.
"—And if I can use you later I'll send a 'phone message through the drug-store."
Hickey was out in the yard getting the flivver ready. They heard a cry from him, and he appeared at the door with an angry and grief-stricken face.
"Who cut my car?" he demanded.
Greg ran out and flashed his pocket-light inside the body of the car. A woeful sight was revealed; seat and back of the seat, pockets, even the carpet had been wantonly slashed right and left by the disappointed men in their vain search for the little black book. There was something indecent in the sight, as of an old person mutilated. The men crowding to look swore under their breaths.
"All right," said Greg grimly. "They shall pay for this with the rest. Come on now. We're wasting precious time."
Once more the old flivver traveled the familiar way up-town. In thin extended Manhattan Island places are bound to be far from other places, and the inhabitants learn to take their long rides for granted. Greg and Hickey always took the same route, and in the course of their ride the whole panorama of town was spread before them in its variety.
First there was Houston Street, the heart of the ghetto with its tall old tenements, its narrow stores and vociferous push-cart venders. Then there was Second Avenue, the Great White Way of the East Side. Second Avenue was lined with great Jewish theaters and smoky Hungarian restaurants, bursting at this hour; the pavements thronged with the East Side crowd bound nowhere in particular; the young girls painted and bedizened, yet fresh young girls for all that; the loutish youths, the coiffed dames and the bearded elders. There followed a long, quiet interval where Hickey was able to open his throttle, through east Fourteenth Street, and up Fourth Avenue with its gigantic loft buildings now dark and empty. At Thirty-fourth Street they climbed a little hill and with another of the abrupt transitions for which the town is famous found themselves in the ultra-fashionable neighborhood of Murray Hill, where it was not yet dinner time, where discreet and perfectly-appointed town cars were waiting at the doors to take the Olympians out to dine.
Then circling the great new railway terminal they sped on up the newer Park Avenue with its empty spaces between the brand-new mighty apartment houses reaching Heavenwards, and with rents in accordance. They turned through Fifty-ninth Street, a narrow hybrid street of book-shops, studio-warrens, lunch counters and red trolley cars, and emerging at the Plaza, seat of fashion again, cut diagonally across the Park, where the night breathed quietly, and emerging at the West Seventy-second Street entrance, made their way to Riverside Drive, the Heaven of the unfashionable well-to-do and Manhattan's finest night-piece, where the street lights, the naked trees, the stars, the gleaming river and the twinkling lights on the further shore made an unforgettable harmony.
As they traveled Greg leaned forward on the sill of the front window, and while gratefully biting into Bessie's thick sandwiches told Hickey all that had happened during the afternoon. Hickey kept up a sort of terrified, delighted comment on the tale. Hickey made no pretensions to be a man of courage, but Greg had learned by this that he was quite as dependable as many a braggart.
"You opened her up on Riverside—and him after you and a lot of other cars and all! Oh Lordy! ... He picked up a cop, and still you didn't stop! It's a wonder he didn't pull his gun on you! ... All around through the streets! It's lucky it wasn't me at the wheel! I'd have fainted clean away!"
Presently Hickey asked nervously: "What's the program for to-night? Any more hold-ups or runaways? I tell you the flivver ain't runnin' so good."
"I can't tell," said Greg. "We have to be ready for anything."
"Lordy! I see my finish!" said Hickey.
Greg made him stop in the block below the Stickney Arms. Pa Simmons drew up behind. The four men gathered together, and Greg issued his instructions.
"You all wait here with the cabs. Shut off your engines. I'll go ahead and look over the ground. If I have to stay on watch I'll take cover in that clump of bushes opposite the entrance. Keep your eye on me. If I want you in a hurry I'll signal with my pocket flash. One flash, start your engines; two flashes move your cars up; three flashes shut your engines off; four flashes come on foot on the run."
After making them repeat this code after him, Greg went on to the apartment house. First from across the road he took a survey of the windows of the de Socotra apartment. All the windows including Amy's were lighted. This was reassuring since it suggested they were still within. Greg then boldly entered the building. To his disappointment he saw that another shift of servants was now on duty in the hall. This meant that new relations must be established. But proceeding further back, to his joy he discovered Frank, now shorn of his gorgeous livery, sitting in an inconspicuous corner under the stairs.
Frank seemed no less glad to see Greg. Eagerly coming forward he said: "I was looking for you, boss. It's my time off, but I thought there'd be somepin doing to-night, so I just stuck around."
"Good man!" said Greg.
"On the level, was it you here this afternoon, made up like a bum taxi-driver and all?"
"That was me," said Greg.
The boy's eyes sparkled with admiration. "Gee! you're some sport, fellow. You deserve to get her! That was some chase you give them. We watched it from the door as far as we could see down the Drive. But the old man got her back off you. Tough luck!"
"Well, I'll have another try to-night," said Greg.
"Say, count me in on it," begged Frank. "I don't care if I do lose me job!"
Greg's heart warmed towards the boy. "Much obliged," he said. "I shan't forget it. But I've already got my gang outside."
"Gee!" cried Frank. "Somepin doin' all right! I'm glad I didn't go home!"
"Is the family all up-stairs?" asked Greg.
Frank nodded.
"Find out who he's been telephoning to, will you? I suppose the operator's been listening in."
"You bet we ain't losing nothing from that apartment now. I can tell you without asking him. The Spanish bloke's been telephoning to a doctor guy that runs a sanitarium-like on Eighty-third Street; I took down the address for you; it's Doctor Tasker, 411 West Eighty-third. Seems her old man's going to take her there to-night. He's trying to make out she's looney."
"I know," Greg said. "Can I get up-stairs by the service elevator, and have a word with the maid?"
"She's fired," said Frank.
"The deuce you say!"
"Señor Soak-oater turned her out soon as he come home. She's down in the basement now, crying to the engineer's wife, 'cause she ain't got no place to go."
"I'll fix that," said Greg. "Show me the way."
In the tidy sitting-room of an underground apartment Greg found the good-looking Spanish girl that he had seen in attendance on Amy. She was red-eyed and sniffing now. A burly, kindly Irishwoman was attempting to console her.
At the door Frank announced without ceremony: "Fellow to see you."
Nina looked at Greg with a fresh access of terror. Perhaps her first thought was that de Socotra had set the police after her.
Greg announced his name. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.
A wonderful change took place in the girl's face. "Si, si, señor," she cried. Then in English to the Irishwoman. "It's all right now, Mrs. McArdle, I am saved!"
Her Latin enthusiasm was gratifying but a little disconcerting to an Anglo-Saxon male. "Sure, it's all right," he said grinning. "I want to have a little talk with you."
Mrs. McArdle rose. "Take my parlor, sir. Sure, it'll be a honor to me. I want to say that all of us that works in the house is on your side and the pretty little lady's!"
"Thank you, Mrs. McArdle," said Greg smiling and blushing. "It won't take but a few minutes. You don't need to go out."
"Sure I got me work in the kitchen," said she. At the door as she left she gave Frank a great shove before her. "Get along up-stairs with you, nosey! Have you nothin' better to do than pry on the affairs of your betters!"
Nina was sizing Greg up with a shy, delighted interest, very embarrassing to Greg, yet somehow encouraging too. What had the mistress confided to her maid, that made the latter look at him so? Nina spoke good English, which simplified matters.
"Tell me what happened this afternoon," said Greg.
"When the Señorita come home from the theater this afternoon she show me little note hidden in the palm of her glove. She have tell me before about puttin' the notes in the old cab, and gettin' the answers back. She go into her room to read it. While she is in her room, he come home, Señor Francisco; he say he want see her quick. When I go tell her she is scare'! She say: 'Nina! Nina! what I do! I got no time to think!'
"She give me little black book. She say: 'Where is his overcoat?' I say: 'Hangin' in the hall.' She say: 'Quick! Look in all the pockets! If you find a little book like this, put this in its place and hide the other. Then go quick and bring him here to me.'
"So I go look in his overcoat, but there was no book in any pocket. So I hide the book she give me in my dress, and I go to Señor Francisco who was talkin' to the Señora and I say: 'Señorita Amèlie say please come to her room.' He say: 'Is she sick?' I say I don' know. The Señora say: 'Poor child, I'll go with you.' He say: 'Better let me speak to her first, my dear.' He go to her room. I listen outside the door.
"Señorita Amèlie say: 'Francisco, I 'ope I didn't upset your plans by sending you that telegram. Maybe you will think I am foolish, but I cannot stand it another hour!' Señor Francisco say: 'For God's sake, what's the matter? You'll have to be quick, my dear, I only got five minutes.' She say: 'It's Bianca. I cannot stand that woman!'
"Señor Francisco is moch surprise'. He say: 'What's the matter with Bianca?' The Señorita say: 'I don' like her. Neither does mamma. Why do we have to put up with her? In Managuay she wouldn't think of coming to our house, but here she lives with us. She is like a spy. She watch everything I do. She will not let me be alone for a minute!' Here the Señorita change her voice. She say: 'Why, Francisco, there's a spot of grease on your coat! You can't go away like that! Let Nina rub it out.' He say: 'I can't wait now.' She say: 'It won't take a minute.'
"Well, I hear her comin' to the door, and I ran down the hall a little way. She open the door, she see me, but she call as if I long way off: 'Nina! Quick!' I run to her. She say: 'Rub out this spot! Be quick! Two minutes! Señor Francisco has a train!' She look at me hard. I understand.
"I run to the kitchen. I find the little black book in his pocket. I change it with the one in my dress. I rub a little cleaner on the coat to make it smell. I take the coat back. I hold it while Señor Francisco slip his arms through. I see him give his breast a little pat to see if the book is there. He is sayin' to the Señorita: 'My dear Amèlie, I've got to catch the six o'clock train. I can't make any change now. But I'll be back day after to-morrow. We'll see then.'
"So he goes. I give the little black book to my mistress. She is like crazy for joy. She give me her amethyst pin for my own. Before she can read the book, Señorita Bianca knock at the door. She hide it. Well, I go to dress the Señora for dinner. I am with her when the door bell ring. I go to the door. It is that bell-boy, Frank.
"He say he got to see Señorita Amèlie quick. He got an important message for her. I know that Señorita Bianca is with her, so I say: 'Tell it to me.' He say: (Nina's unconscious imitation of Frank was comical to see) 'Nix, girlie, this is for her own private ear.' So I go back to my mistress's room, but the spy-woman is still there. That's what I call her. I hate her! I try to make Señorita Amèlie look at me, but she will not. Señorita Bianca say: 'Who was that at the door, Nina?' She don't miss nothing. I say: 'Just the boy with the evening paper.' She say: 'You needn't wait, Nina. I'm going to help Amèlie dress. I'm talking to her.'
"Well, I don' know what to do then. I wait around. Señorita Bianca tell me to go again. But still I wait. At last Señorita Amèlie look at me. She see by my face that somesing's the matter. Then I go out. In a minute she come. I tell her go to the door quick. There is a boy waiting.
"She speak to the boy. Right away she come running back from the door with a hard face. She say to me: 'Quick, Nina! A warm coat and a plain hat!' Señorita Bianca come out and ask what is the matter, but Señorita Amèlie not answer; she run in her room. Before I can move I hear a key in the front door. It bang open, and Señor Francisco run in.Madre de Dios!what a face! It is a madman! I am turned to wood where I stand! He shake his fist to me and curse. I think I die then. He say: 'Get out! before I hurt you!' But I cannot move for fear.
"Señorita Bianca ask him what's the matter, but he not answer her. He run down the hall to my mistress's room; he slam the door open and run in. My heart runs away like water. I think he kill her. But there is another door from her room to the salon—living-room. She slip into that room quiet. When the Señor run into her room she run out of the living-room and down the hall to me. Señorita Bianca try to stop her. I give Bianca a push, and she sit down hard. I run after my Señorita. I whisper to her: 'Go to the roof.' I know the roof because the clothes are dried there.
"Señor Francisco come out of the living-room as my mistress go out the front door. He telephone downstairs to stop her. He did not think of the roof. I run hide in my room. When I hear him slam the door I run out again. I run to the salon and look out of the window. The Señora and Señorita Bianca lean out of other windows. The Señora say like a person in a dream: 'What is the matter? Oh, what is the matter?' Bianca say: 'I think Amèlie has lost her mind!'
"Well, I guess you know what happen after that. From the window I see Señor Francisco come out and go back again. I see my little mistress run around the corner and get in a cab,—was it your cab? I see another cab, and Señor Francisco get in it with two men. Then both cabs fly away down the Drive. We watch them as far as we can see.
"In half an hour Señor Francisco comes back bringin' Señorita Amèlie with him. I am sick and frightened. My dear little mistress is like a wooden woman. She say nothing. They take her to her room. He won't let me go in to her. He send me to the kitchen. Afterwards he come to me. He say: 'Where is the book you stole?'
"Well, I am glad he has not got it. But I am weak with fear. I cannot speak. I only shake my head. He twist my arm till I think I die with pain. He say: 'The truth! Where is it?' I say: 'I don' know. I give it to her.'
"He take me by the shoulders and shove me out on the service stairs. He say 'Get out of here!' with many bad words. He always swear in English so the Señora not understand. He say: 'If you show your face here again you'll wish you were dead!' He put me out like that without a coat to my back. And part me from my little mistress!"
Nina began to weep afresh.
"Don't you worry about that," said Greg. "You'll soon be with her again. Listen carefully, and I'll tell you what to do."
But the instructions were not delivered just then, for Frank came running down-stairs to say that Señor de Socotra had just ordered a taxi to be at the door in three minutes.
Greg said to Nina: "Wait here till I come back or send for you."
"Boss, let me in on this," begged Frank.
"Very well, come with me," said Greg.
They went outviathe basement door of the building which led to the side street. The Stickney Arms as has already been described fronted on a narrow roadway which was terraced above the Drive proper. There was a sloping sward between roadway and Drive, which was set out with clumps of ornamental shrubbery. One such clump across the road from the main entrance offered Greg an ideal observation post.
First he took Frank to the two cabs and the waiting men. "This boy is one of us," he said. "Let him wait with you until I give you a signal. Get in the cabs out of sight."
By a roundabout course Greg made his way to his place of concealment. Presently the cab ordered by de Socotra drove up. A moment or two later a little procession appeared in the corridor: de Socotra tenderly supporting Amy on one side, and a trained nurse on the other,—"Where did she come from?" thought Greg. Two hall-boys, laden with rugs, valises, etc., brought up the rear.
As they drew closer, in the nurse Greg suddenly recognized the handsome, hard features of Bianca. "Of course!" he thought. "De Socotra would never trust Amy in an institution without his own personal spy to keep watch of her." Greg smiled in satisfaction. This meant that they were leaving the innocent Señora de Socotra alone in the apartment, making his task a hundred times easier. All the luck was not against him to-night.
He let them drive away without making any signal to his men. Since he knew where they were going, there was no especial hurry. The cab turned into the drive and headed down-town. Greg joined his expectant men and issued his instructions.
"Frank, you go back to Nina and tell her they're all gone out except the old lady. She must be pretty near distracted by what's happened. She'll be glad enough to have Nina back for company. Tell Nina to go right up-stairs on the pretext of getting her things. Tell her I'm sending in one of my men who will claim to be the piano man, and that she is to let him in and help him. By the way, what is the name of the people who own that apartment?"
"Merriweather."
"Good. Blossom will say that Mr. Merriweather made an arrangement to have the piano inspected monthly. And he can explain the lateness of his call by saying—let me see—I have it! Blossom will say that his baby is going to be christened to-morrow, and he's doubling up his work to-day, so that he can get a day off. Nothing like a little touch of homeliness to make a story carry!"
"I get you," said Frank.
"Blossom, you heard? The little black book was dropped in the top of the piano, and fell down behind the sounding-board. Your job is to recover it. Work quickly, because de Socotra may not be away long. When you get it you're to hustle home, and tell Bessie to put it in a safe place. Oh yes, and take the girl Nina down there with you, and give her in Bessie's care."
"Will Pa wait for me?" asked Blossom.
"No, take the subway home. I need both cabs. Go on with you. Frank will show you the ropes."
Blossom and Frank made their way towards the basement entrance.
To the remaining two Greg went on: "De Socotra has gone to 411 West Eighty-third Street. Pa, you're job is to trail him as before. You're to come west through Eighty-third, and stop a little way beyond 411. Very likely his cab will be waiting for him. You're to follow him wherever he goes and report by telephone through the drug-store at nine o'clock. I'll arrange with the druggist to keep open late. Hickey, you take me through Eighty-third traveling east."
Eighty-third Street east of Amsterdam proved to be a block of medium-sized private dwellings as much alike as peas in an interminable pod; solemn-faced houses, immaculately cared for, and of the utmost respectability. It was a block, Greg guessed, that would be as silent and undisturbed as a desert after midnight. Number 411 on the north side of the street differed in no respect from its neighbors on either hand. There was not even a doctor's sign in the window. As Greg had expected, de Socotra's cab was waiting below the door.
Greg had Hickey continue to Columbus Avenue and stop in front of a drug-store. Pa Simmons passed them bound in the other direction, and drew up a little beyond de Socotra's cab. Leaving Hickey on watch, Greg went into the drug-store to fish for a little information.
He said to the clerk: "I'm looking for Dr. Tasker's Sanitarium, but I've forgotten the number."
"Four eleven, sir. You can see it from the side door."
"Do you know anything about the place?" Greg pursued, "I mean what sort of a reputation it bears?"
"The very best!" was the impressive reply. The clerk was a young man without humor. "They never have any trouble there. Why, it's run so quiet, so discreet, half the people in the block don't know we have a private asylum—I mean a psychopathic sanitarium in our street. They put the mild cases in the front rooms so they don't have to bar the windows. The back windows is barred all right. The nurses are real ladies and gentlemen; no rough work there. Have you got a case for them?"
"I'm afraid so," said Greg, sighing heavily.
"Well, it's a great misfortune—but you couldn't do better. You might mention I recommended them if you don't mind. One good turn deserves another. I'm anxious to get more of their business. Heavy users of bromides, you understand."
"Bromides!" the word rang ominously on Greg's hearing. Otherwise dope. Strait-jackets had evidently given way to more efficient methods.
"It's a very exclusive place," the clerk went on. "Steep. They say the board is fifty dollars a week, and up."
Greg shook his head sadly. "That's terrible! However, I'll enquire," he said.
Greg bought some cigars, while the clerk continued his gossip, but Greg learned no more to his purpose. Finally he saw Hickey making unostentatious signals, and went outside. Hickey reported that de Socotra had come out of 411 and had driven west. Pa Simmons had gone after him.
"We must kill time for awhile," Greg said. "It would look too miraculous if we turned up one minute after de Socotra had left."
"Well, we'll need gasoline before the night's out," Hickey suggested.
"All right. Find the nearest garage, and fill her up."
A quarter of an hour later Greg was ringing the bell of 411. His heart was beating fast. He had no idea of what he was going to do when he got inside, but left it to circumstances to dictate.
The door was opened by a neat colored maid who suggested a well run private house rather than an institution. At first sight she gave a tone to the place. She was smiling and respectful, yet there was a guarded look in her eyes which suggested that they were accustomed to sights that she kept to herself. Greg asked for Doctor Tasker.
"Doctor Tasker doesn't live here," she said. "He only has his visiting hours. Doctor Emslie is the resident."
"I would like to see him," said Greg.
As he stepped into the house, he observed that an arch had been cut through the party wall into the house on the left, thus throwing the two houses into one. He was shown into a rather luxurious office at the back in which a blonde, bearded man was working at a desk. However, the eagerness with which he looked up suggested that he was not very closely absorbed in his work.
He was a handsome man, yet Greg instinctively disliked him. He was too fat, too red-lipped, too anxious to please. Greg's involuntary verdict was: "Too soft to go out and work up a practice for himself, so he takes an easy thing like this. This man would close his eyes to anything in order not to risk losing his job." Greg made up his mind that the truth would not serve here, and he essayed the role of the saddened relative again.
"I have just learned that my poor cousin has suffered a nervous break-down and has been brought here," he said.
"Ah!" said Doctor Emslie orotundly. "What name, please?" He opened a book on his desk, a sort of ledger. This was merely a bit of by-play of course, for he must have had by heart the names of all the patients in that little place.
"Señorita de Socotra," said Greg.
"You have been misinformed," said the doctor. "No such person here."
Greg was taken aback for the moment. He had made a bad start. But he looked up as if an idea had occurred to him. "Perhaps an assumed name was given—to spare the family, you know. I'm sure she was brought here, a young Spanish-American lady. She is here, isn't she?"
But the doctor had taken alarm. A wary look appeared in his moist blue eyes. Greg guessed that de Socotra's picturesque personality, not to speak of de Socotra's pocket-book, had won his allegiance. He did not answer Greg directly but said suggestively:
"Spanish-American and your cousin?"
"Half Spanish-American I should have said. Her father was an American."
"Ah," said Doctor Emslie, and Greg saw that he had only damaged his own case further.
"The gentleman who brought her here was not her real but her adopted father," he explained.
The doctor smiled politely. Greg saw that he did not believe a word of it. "Without saying whether or not there is any such person here," he said smoothly, "may I ask what your purpose is in asking?"
"I want to see her."
The doctor shrugged expressively. "My dear sir! Under no circumstances could I allow that without the express authorization of her own physician, or of her nearest relative. We have to be especially careful with the kind of cases that we treat. Visits are apt to be so exciting."
Greg saw that it was hopeless to try to persuade him, but he sparred for time a little. The ledger or case-record was still open on the desk, and Greg was trying to read the latest entry upside down.
"Just for a moment!" he begged. "You could be present. My poor little cousin! I merely want to see if there is anything she needs!"
Dr. Emslie stood up as a gentle hint. "You may rest assured that everything possible is being done for her," he said,—"I mean if she is here," he added, seeing that he had made a slip. "Go to her father, or her step-father, as the case may be, and if it was here that he brought her, he will of course authorize me to let you see her."
By this time Greg had succeeded in reading at least part of the entry. The name was Clelie Mendizabal. This odd name had stuck fast in Greg's memory. It was the name Bianca Guiterrez had given him in the Ninth Street house. "A family pseudonym," Greg thought, "that is made to serve all kinds of purposes." Following the name came various particulars that Greg had not time to decipher. He was chiefly interested in a number written in bold characters: 16. He guessed that to be the number of Amy's room in the house.
Meanwhile Doctor Emslie was blandly ushering him towards the door. They parted politely at the threshold of the room; the doctor went back to his desk. As Greg progressed towards the front door, not much wiser than when he had entered, the good-looking maid opened it to admit another visitor. This was a sad-faced woman carrying a little package upright with care, evidently a delicacy for a patient.
She nodded to the maid with the air of a frequent visitor and continued on up the stairs.
The incident gave Greg an idea. As she held the door open for him to pass out, he gave the maid a dollar. She accepted it as one who had a just sense of her own worth. Still with the air of a saddened relative Greg said:
"I expect you'll see me often after this. Which house is number 16 in?"
"This house, sir. First floor front."
Greg got in the flivver and had Hickey take him down to Columbus Avenue where he searched for a delicatessen store and bought a pot of jelly. Leaving Hickey at the corner he returned to the sanitarium on foot. When the maid opened the door to him, he nodded as to an old acquaintance, and holding his pot of jelly carefully upright said:
"I'll go right up."
At first she made as if to block the way, but his smiling assurance overawed her. She gave way. He mounted deliberately, and passed out of sight around the bend to the first landing. There were four doors on the landing. They were numbered, but even if they had not been, "first-floor front" was an exact description to any one familiar with New York houses. Greg knocked on the door of 16 with a fast beating heart.
The door was opened by Bianca in her nurse's dress. Things happened quickly after that. She instantly recognized him and attempted to slam the door, but Greg had put his foot in the jamb. Through the crack he caught a glimpse of Amy sitting in a disconsolate attitude by the fire. Putting his shoulder against the door he heaved with all his strength and Bianca gave way suddenly. He walked into the room. Bianca ran out into the hall screaming for help.
Amy sprang up. Her set face softened wonderfully. She instinctively put out both her hands and Greg took them in his. His heart yearned over her, so little, so distressed, so plucky withal! Neither of them recollected the Castilian youth.
"My sweet!" he murmured, "you're all right?"
She took the endearment as a matter of course. They knew they had but a fraction of a minute to themselves, and they spoke swiftly. "I'm afraid!" she murmured with trembling lip. "If you had seen his face! Like a wild beast's! I don't know what he intends. He's sending me south to-morrow, in a private car under guard—Bianca—those men!"
"You shan't go, if I live!" said Greg. "Listen! I'll be thrown out of here directly. Do those windows open?"