Cries of delight coming, in the voice of Pauline, from the direction of the garage made Harry lay down his newspaper and go forth to investigate.
As he approached he saw Bemis and Lucille's coachman lifting a crate from a carriage. From within the crate came the whimpering barks of an imprisoned bull terrier.
"Oh, isn't he dear?" cried Pauline turning to Harry.
"I don't know, I haven't yet made his acquaintance. Where did he come from?"
"Lucille sent him to me. Johnson just brought him over. Hurry, Bemis, and let him out. The poor darling!"
"Is that what is called puppy love?" inquired Harry.
"Hush," commanded Pauline. "And Bemis, run and tell Martha to cook something for him—a beefsteak and potatoes."
"And oysters on the half shell," suggested Harry.
"Love me," announced Pauline sternly, "love my dog."
The coachman had ripped of the last top bar of the crate and a splendid terrier sprang out with a suddenness that made Pauline retreat a little. But, as if he had been trained to his part, he bent his head, and, with wagging tail, approached her. In an instant she was kneeling beside him rewarding his homage with enthusiastic pats and fantastic encomiums.
"Why, he likes me already—isn't he charming?" she demanded.
Harry threw up his hands— "And this for a dog—a new dog—possibly a mad dog!"
"You are a brute."
The dog was making rapid acquaintance with his new home, investigating the garage and, more profoundly, the kitchen, door.
"Here, Cyrus, come Cyrus," called Pauline, and started towards the house. Owen, in his motorcycle togs, was lighting a cigar on the veranda when they came up the steps. Without even pretending to enter into Pauline's enthusiasm over the terrier, he excused himself and walked off briskly in the direction of the garage. A few minutes later they saw him on the motorcycle speeding down the drive.
"I wonder what the impressive business is today," remarked Harry sarcastically.
"Let poor Owen alone. He is good and kind even if he doesn't care forCyrus."
"Look here! Why don't you ever say any of these nice things to me— the things, you say to dogs—and secretaries?"
"Because I've promised to marry you—some day—and it is fatal to let a husband—even a futurity husband—know that you admire him."
"Well, as long as you do, it is all right."
A half mile down the main road to Westbury a runabout was drawn up, and a converted gypsy was alternately pretending to repair an imaginary break and relieving his nerve-strain by pacing the road. Balthazar's fantastic garments had given way to a plain sack suit and motor duster, but the profit of his employment by Raymond Owen was worth the discomfort of becoming "civilized."
The muttering of a distant motor made him fall to his knees and, wrench in hand, wiggle hastily under the machine.
To all appearance he was bitterly pre-occupied with the woes of a stalled tourist when a motorcycle chugged to a stop beside the runabout and Owen called him.
"I thought you had failed of our appointment, master," he said eagerly as he crawled out. "I have waited for more than half an hour."
"It is sad that you should be inconvenienced, old friend," answeredOwen.
"I have done what you commanded me, master," Balthazar said with an ingratiating smile. "I have found them."
"Found whom?"
"The friends I spoke about at our last meeting—the little band that earns money by—making it."
"Oh, yes—your counterfeiters. Are they to be trusted?"
"Master, all guilty men are to be trusted. There is always protection in knowing the sins of others."
"Sometimes, Balthazar, I almost suspect you of possessing a brain. But, remember, I have told you that I shall soon be through—unless you accomplish something."
"Master, it is because I dare not risk your freedom—your life. For myself I care nothing. I live to serve you, who have been my benefactor."
"You lie, of course," remarked Owen casually. "But what of the new plan?"
"They are in Bantersville, only twelve miles from Castle Marvin. A house that has been long occupied and with no houses near."
"And they are still manufacturing coins there?"
"Yes; but they are becoming frightened. Two of the distributors have been arrested. They would be glad of a safer, a swifter method of making money."
"Come along, then."
Owen mounted the motorcycle while Balthazar sprang to the seat and started the runabout. They sped briskly over the roads, turning at last into an old weed-grown wagon path fringed copse-like by the branches of ever-hanging trees. The machine swished through the barrier leaves and came out upon a small clearing where there stood a gaunt house, evidently long deserted.
Balthazar drove on along the road for almost a quarter of a mile before he stopped the machine, Owen following without question. They left the runabout and the motorcycle and walked back to the house.
"It is an excellent location," commented Owen, as Balthazar lead the way into a basement entrance. "Who did you say was the man in charge of the—concern?"
"Rupert Wallace. He is a world-traveler like yourself, though no match for you in mind, master."
Balthazar, as he spoke, was rapping lightly on a wall, which had no sign of a door. It was pitch dark where they stood. But suddenly with hardly a sound, two sliding doors opened to the Gypsy's signal and a faint light from a gas jet on the wall gleamed on an inner passage. Balthazar, closely followed by Owen, walked quickly down the secret hall, and, without signal this time, another set of silent doors opened upon a brightly lighted room.
A crabbed, withered woman admitted them.
The room was overheated because of the presence of a gas forge on which a cauldron of metal was being melted. On one side there was a stamping press, and on the other a set of molds.
Wallace noted Owen's curiosity, and stepping to the table in the middle of the room, picked up a handful of half-dollar pieces.
"You are interested in our work—the work of supplying the poor with sufficient funds to meet the increased cost of living," he said, smiling. "These are some of our product. We are proud of them. The weight is exactly that of the true fifty-cent piece. And only one man in fifty could tell the difference in the ring of the metal."
Owen looked at the coins in sincere admiration.
"It is very remarkable," he said. "But Balthazar tells me—"
"I know. You have a little business of secrecy for myself and my friends. You may speak here in perfect safety, Mr. Owen. Gossip is not a fault—or a possibility—of our profession."
"I do not believe there is anything to say but what Balthazar has already told you, except—"
Owen hesitated.
"Except what, master? Is there a change in the plan?" askedBalthazar.
"I think there might be. Something occurred today that might give us a favorable lead. Miss Pauline received as a gift a terrier dog. I believe it could be made use of."
"In what way?" asked the counterfeiter.
"By stealing it and bringing it here."
"I don't understand—ah, yes; indeed I do."
"Excellent, master," exclaimed Balthazar. "It could be done today.Can I have two of your men, Rupert?"
"Yes; take Gaston and Firenzi. They are always to be trusted."
At his words two men, stepped forward. One of them had been working at the metal pots. But in response to a hurried word from Rupert he quickly threw off his cap and apron, and caught up a hat and coat.
Rupert Wallace stepped to the side of the room where a pair of upright levers stood out of the floor like the levers of an automobile.
He pulled the one nearest him and the sliding doors parted softly. Owen and Balthazar, with their new escort, stepped through. For a moment, Wallace waited. Then he drew back the other lever, and the departing guests found as they reached the end of the secret passage, that their path opened, almost magically before them, in the hushed unfolding of the second door.
"Goodbye, Cyrus," said, Harry as Pauline strolling down the garden with him, tossed to her new pet a dainty from the box of bon-bons she carried.
"What do you mean by that?" she demanded.
"That the oysters on the half shell would be better for his health."
"I didn't give him oysters on the half shell."
"No; but you gave him everything else in the house. He is stuffed like the fatted calf—or like the prodigal son—I don't care which—"
"If he likes candy he shall have candy," declared Pauline, sitting down on an arbor bench and extending another sugar-plum to the dog.
The gratitude of Cyrus was expressed in a leap to the side of his mistress. As Harry sat down, he discovered that Cyrus had occupied the favored place beside Pauline. Next instant there was a yowl of dismay and the adored gift of Lucille fell several feet away from the bench.
"Harry! I think that is dreadful!" exclaimed Pauline, springing to her feet.
"I do, too," he answered. "That was why I threw it off the bench."
"To treat a poor innocent dumb creature like that!"
"Polly! You don't mean it, do you? You think I hurt him?"
"You've-hurt-his-feelings."
"That doesn't matter, but if I've hurt yours—it does. I apologize."
"You are always joking. You don't understand how sweet and dear animals are. You will probably treat me the same way after we are married."
She ran to the spot where the wary Cyrus was munching the last piece of candy. But he accepted her caresses without enthusiasm, keeping a careful eye on Harry.
She called to the dog and walked briskly toward the house.
But Cyrus did not follow. The box of candy was still on the garden bench, and Cyrus was not immune to temptation.
Owen followed on his motorcycle the runabout in which Balthazar and the two chosen members of Rupert Wallace's band made their swift journey toward Castle Marvin.
A quarter of a mile from the grounds Owen drew alongside.
"This would be a good place to stop. The car can be hidden in the lane."
"Yes; master," said Balthazar.
He wheeled the machine upon a narrow roadway into the cover of the woods, and, with his companions, got out. Owen rode on ahead and was waiting for them as they neared the little foot path gate to the Marvin grounds.
"Look through the hedge there," he directed.
Balthazar crawled on his hands and knees to the box wall that surrounded the grounds. He thrust his shoulders through the bush and gazed for a moment at the dog devouring Pauline's bon-bons on the bench.
"I should say it would be well to act now—instantly, master," he cried, returning.
"Go on. I will be at the house, and will try to hold them back if there is any noise."
As Owen began to wheel his cycle up the drive to Castle Marvin, Balthazar and his two aides wriggled through the hedge-row, crossed a strip of sward and reached the bench. Balthazar caught the dog's head in his powerful hands. There was not a sound. The animal's muzzle was shut fast and in a minute it had been tied, leg and body. They ran to the gate, to the runabout, and were away.
"Why Harry, I can't find him anywhere. What could have happened to him?" cried Pauline, rushing into the library.
"Owen lost? Thank Heaven!" he exclaimed fervently.
"No; Cyrus. Harry it's your fault. He was angry because you pushed him off the bench and he ran away."
"Polly," he said, wheeling in his chair, "I am not worried. I decline to be worried. And I am going away from here."
"Not before you help me find Cyrus."
"Yes—long before."
She turned and whisked crossly out of the room.
Harry picked up his hat and coat, and in a few minutes was being driven away by Farrell on an urgent call to town.
Pauline stood on the veranda and watched his departure with silent wrath.
"I wonder if he is really cruel—or—if he is just a man and doesn't know any better," she pondered audibly.
Then, as she saw Owen approaching from the side path, "Oh, Owen, won't you help me? I've lost Cyrus!"
"Cyrus? Am I sure whom you mean? Ah, yes; the new member of our family circle."
"Yes; he's gone."
"The only thing to do, I should say, is to advertise. I will call up the newspapers immediately, Miss Pauline."
"You are dear! I must have him back. Think what Lucille would say ifI lost him on the first day!"
"I'll offer a generous reward and he'll soon be back."
"Thank you, Owen."
The proceedings behind the hidden doors in the cellar of the ruined house between Bathwater and Castle Marvin were not interrupted by so small a matter as the kidnapping of an heiress—a kidnapping that had progressed no further as yet than the capture of a dog.
As Owen stepped into the den the next forenoon he saw the bull terrier tied to the wall.
"I see we have the main ingredient of the repast in hand."
"The main ingredient and the most dangerous," said Wallace. "He has done nothing but howl and bark. May we kill him?"
"Not yet," answered Owen. "It is possible that she might demand sight of him before entering the house, or some nonsense of that sort. I would let him howl a little longer."
"Very well," laughed Wallace. "What orders have you for us today, sir?"
The other counterfeiters kept steadily on at their work over the melting pots, the molds and stamping machines. The old woman was stacking half-dollar pieces at the table.
"Why do you have the woman here?" demanded Owen suddenly.
"To prevent starvation," answered Wallace. "Carrie is not only our purchasing agent, but our excellent cook."
The hag looked up for a moment with a cackle of appreciation; then bent again to her work.
"Can she write?" asked Owen.
"Yes."
"Well, then, she can help us. Here is an advertisement which appears in the morning papers."
He presented a newspaper clipping to Wallace, which read:
LOST—A fine white bull terrier. Finder will receive liberal reward if dog is returned to Pauline Marvin. Castle Marvin, N. Y.
"What do you want Carrie to do?"
"Answer the advertisement. Just call her over here."
The hag laid down the coins and moved laboriously to the, table. Wallace produced from a drawer a pen, paper and ink, and told the woman to take his chair. Owen dictated:
"Miss Pauline Marvin:
"A dog came to my house yesterday which I think is the one you advertise for. I am an old, crippled woman and it's hard for me to get out. Can't you come and see if it is your dog?
"Mary Sheila, 233 Myrtle Avenue."
The old woman wrote slowly in a shaking hand, and Owen waited patiently while she addressed an envelope. Then he placed the letter in the envelope, sealed it, and took his leave.
"And no sign of Cyrus?" inquired Harry cheerily as he entered the library, where Pauline sat disconsolate.
She did not even answer and she was still gazing dejectedly out of the window when Bemis brought in the mail. Two of the letters she laid aside, unread; the third, she opened: "A dog came to my house yesterday —" Her face lighted with hope and happiness; she read no further.
"Oh, isn't Owen—splendid," she breathed. "He knew just what to do." And with the letter in her hand she ran out to the veranda.
"Harry! Harry!" she called across the garden. There was no answer.
"Run up to Mr. Marvin's room and see if he is there, Margaret. Bemis, go out and see if he is at the garage."
"No, Miss Marvin," said Bemis. "He has gone into Westbury."
Pauline stood silent for a moment.
"Well, then I must go myself," she said with quick decision.
She sped upstairs and within a few minutes was, out at the garage in her motoring dress. A mechanic was working over her racing car in front of the garage, the racing car that was just recovering from recent calamity in the international race.
"Is it all fixed, Employ? Can I drive it today?" she asked eagerly.
"Why—yes, ma'am—you could," said the mechanic. "But I haven't got it polished up yet."
"That doesn't matter in the least. I want to use it to day—now."
She sprang lightly to the seat of the lithe racer and in a moment was away down the drive.
NO. 233 Myrtle avenue was an address a little difficult to find. Myrtle avenue was well outside the new town and Pauline had made several inquiries before an elderly man, whom she found in the telegraph office, volunteered directions.
She thanked him, and drove back for two miles before she found the turn he had indicated.
The appearance of the place was unprepossessing enough to dampen even the ambitious courage of Pauline. But the sight of woman on the porch training a vine over the front door, allayed her fears.
"You are Mrs. Sheila—you sent me a message that you had found my dog?" she asked, approaching.
For a moment the confusion that the woman had meant to simulate was sincere. She had expected to see no such vision as that of Pauline on the blackened steps of the coiners' den.
"A dog?" she quavered vaguely. Then, "Oh, yes, my—dear little lady —the pretty white dog. He came to us yesterday. My son he brought me the newspaper, and—"
"Oh, you are just a dear," cried Pauline. "May I see him now? I am so fond of him!"
"Yes, my little lady. Will you come in?"
Pauline followed her into the basement. She stepped back with a tremor of suspicion as the woman rapped three times upon the folding doors, and they opened silently on their oiled rails. But she was inside the narrow passage, and the light that gleamed through the second pair of doors allayed her anxiety. With a bow and the wave of a directing hand, the old woman waited for Pauline to enter.
In a breath she was seized from both sides. Strong cruel hands held her, while Wallace smothered her cries with a tight-drawn bandage.
She had hardly had time to see the little terrier tugging at his chain in the corner of the room, but his wild barking was all she knew of possible assistance in the plight in which she found herself.
They laid her on the floor. She heard a voice that seemed strangely familiar giving abrupt orders. Pauline sought in vain to place the memory of the voice of Balthazar, the Gypsy.
Suddenly she heard cries. The barking of the dog had stopped and there was the thud of heavy foot steps on the stone floor of the cellar.
"Catch him! Shoot if you have to," came the command in the mysteriously familiar voice. She felt that her captors were no longer near. There was a beat of rushing foot-steps on the floor.
It was several minutes before she heard voices again.
"The cur hasn't been there long enough to know her. It won't make any difference," said Wallace, coming through the open doors. "But I'm sorry it got away."
"Where is Miss Pauline?" asked Harry, as he entered the house on his return from Westbury.
"She has found her dog, sir," answered Margaret, smiling. "She went to get him—with the racing car."
His brow darkened. "The advertisement was answered, you mean,Margaret?"
"I think so, sir."
An hour later he walked into the garden and sat down on the rustic bench where he and Pauline had quarreled. He had just taken up his newspaper when he was startled by the spring of a small warm body fairly into his face. Lowering the torn paper, he saw Pauline's dog cavorting around the bench in circles of excitement.
The animal rushed towards him again, but did not leap this time. It came very near and, with braced feet, began to bark wildly.
Harry stood up. The dog, with another volley of barks, started towards the gate. Harry followed instinctively. The terrier dashed ahead of him, reached the, gate, returned, renewed the appealing barks, and again led the way.
In another minute Harry was following the urgent little guide. He was thoroughly stirred now. As the dog returned to him the second time, with its appealing yelps, he quickened his speed.
After traversing five miles of dust-laden road they reached a certain house on the thoroughfare, which still carried the dignity of "Myrtle avenue."
The dog rushed up the steps. Harry, following closely, was surprised to find the door was ajar. He entered and found himself in the cellar passageway.
A sound outside made him grasp the broken rope on the collar of the dog. It was an automobile wheezing to a stop and it was followed by the sound of voices. The outer door opened. Harry drew the dog aside into the darkness and held its muzzle tight.
Four men entered. One rapped on the wall and the panels opened softly. The man went in.
Harry's hand had fallen on a slim stick as he stooped in the darkness, and he slipped the stick into the aperture between the folding doors. He carried the dog to the outer door and thrust it through. Then he came back.
"Who is the woman?" asked a gruff voice.
"She does not concern you. Have you distributed all of the coins?"
"All but $5,000. She's a peach, ain't she?"
The door crashed at their heels. Harry was in the room. He had gripped Wallace by the throat before the man could stir. The others backed toward their hidden weapons. Shots blazed in the room but the smoke was protection for Harry, swinging wildly at whomsoever he saw.
"You're there, Polly?"
"Yes," she gasped, tugging at her bonds in desperation. She was almost free.
Harry had Wallace at his feet and Wallace's gun was in his hand. He blazed blindly through room. A shriek told of one man gone.
Pauline felt strong hands grasp her. She was whisked through the door; through the outer door and away, into the fresh air, and into the waiting automobile. She felt Harry's hot breath on her fore head as they sped in flight.
There was clamor behind them for a moment car was starting. Then came only the thrash of footsteps through the grassy road as the coiners rushed to their own machine.
One stern command reached the ears of Pauline and Harry as they sped on:
"It's your lives or theirs. Get them or kill yourselves."
"It's no use, Polly. Come," cried Harry, after a time.
His voice sounded grim, peremptory. The machine with a sudden swerve had gone almost off the road with an exploded tire. It was only Harry's powerful hand that had saved them from wreck.
But as he helped Pauline out and led her on a run into the forest he heard the sound of the pursuing machine coming to a stop and the tumult of voices behind them. He knew that one peril had only been supplanted by another.
"Where—Where are we going, Harry?"
"The Gorman camp—if we can make it; if we can reach the river."
"There's the old quarry," she exclaimed as they came out on the crest of a blast-gnarled cliff overlooking a stream. "I know their camp is near the quarry."
"But on the other side of the river. Don't talk; run," he pleaded, leading her down a footpath that traced a winding way over the face of the cliff into the quarry.
In the shelter of the rocks there stood two small buildings about five hundred yards apart. One was the old tool house of the deserted quarry. The other was a hunter's hut, evidently newly built.
A commanding cry came from the top of the cliff.
"Halt or we fire!"
They ran on. A shot echoed and a bullet flattened itself against the stone base of the quarry not two yards from Pauline.
"In here—quick," said Harry, dragging her to the hunter's lodge and thrusting her through the open door. There was another shot and the thud of another bullet as he slammed the door.
"It looks like a fight now, Polly," he said, as he' moved quickly around the hut. "And thank Heaven—here's something to fight with."
From a rack in the wall he lifted down a Winchester rifle and a belt of cartridges. "Get into the corner and lie down," he ordered.
"No, give me the revolver," cried Pauline.
She did not wait for his protest, but drew from hilt coat pocket the pistol he had wrested from Wallace.
For an instant he looked at her with mingled admiration, love and fear. He opened the little window of the hut, aimed and fired three shots at the group of six men who were running down the cliff path.
"Into the tool house," ordered Balthazar, stopping only for a glance at one of his fellows who had fallen. The five gained the workmen's hut and burst the door open. Immediately from the air hole and the wide chinks in the sagging walls came a blaze of shots.
A small white dog ran down the path into the quarry, but no one saw it.
Balthazar was searching the tool-house. "Ha!" he exclaimed suddenly. "That is what we want!" He lifted from the floor a box of blasting powder. But the next instant he dropped it and sprawled, cursing, beside the half-spilled contents. Another man, shot through the body, had fallen over his leader.
Balthazar quickly recovered himself. He whisked about the hut and found a coil of fuse. The shots were still dinning in his ears while he fashioned, with the powder and the box and the fuse, a bomb powerful enough to have shattered tons of imbedded stone.
"Stop shooting," he commanded. "Here's a better way!"
As he suddenly threw open the door and dashed out, he nearly fell over the dog whining in terror. But Balthazar kept on. In a better business—with a heart in him—he would have been counted among the bravest of men. Running a swaying, zigzag course, in the very face of the fire of Harry and Pauline, he reached the hunter's hut and dropped the bomb beside it.
He did not try to return. With the long fuse in his hand he moved into shelter behind the hut, struck a match, lighted the fuse, and fled toward the river.
After him ran the small white dog.
Balthazar turned and uttered a scream of rage. He dashed at the animal, which dodged and passed him. In its teeth it held the bomb he had just laid at the risk of his life. The fuse was sputtering behind as the dog fled.
Balthazar pursued desperately. The path to the river led through a narrow defile of rock. But the beast was not trapped at the water's edge as the Gypsy had expected. It took to the water with a wide plunge.
Balthazar turned away, cursing. He rushed back to the huts. The guns and pistols were silent. He picked up from the side of the path a huge piece of wood. As he neared his companions, he shouted:
"Come out! Rush them, You cowards! Follow me!"
Harry fired his last two shots and two men fell. Pauline had long ago emptied the revolver.
Three men came on. There was a crash as the log in Balthazar's mighty hands beat down the door and he staggered through.
But Harry was upon him. He hurled the Gypsy across the room. He charged at the others and one went down.
Through the door came four men.
"It's Harry. Help him!" cried Pauline.
Balthazar charged straight at the newcomers but he did not attempt to fight. He was out through the door and away to the river before they could intercept him. Within a few moments his companions lay bound on the hut floor.
"But how did you find out? How did you know we needed you?" asked Pauline afterward of young Richard Gorman, whose camping party had been the rescuers.
"That's the girl who told us," he said, pointing to a dejected little bull terrier that stood, quaking with excitement, a few feet away.
"Cyrus!" cried Pauline, running and clutching the little terrier in her arms.
"Yes, he brought us the dead bomb and we knew something was up."
"Well, prove it," said Harry. "Show me that you mean it!"
"Why, Harry, what a woman says she, always means."
"Always means not to do."
"But, Harry, really I'm going to be good this time," pleaded Pauline.
They were emerging from the gate of the Marvin mansion to the avenue, and as Harry turned to Pauline with a skeptical reply on his lips, the approach of a young man of military bearing stopped him.
"By Jove, isn't that—who the deuce is it? Why, Benny Summers!"
The young man was hurrying by without recognition, when Harry called sharply: "Hello, Ben!"
"Harry—Harry Marvin! By the coin of Croesus, is it really you?"
"No," said Harry, grasping his hand, "not the 'you' you used to know. I've been driven into premature old age by caring for a militant sister. Polly, this is Ensign Summers of the navy. Please promise me that you won't get him into danger, because he used to be a friend of mine. He has never done anything more dangerous than run a submarine and shoot torpedoes out of it in a field of mines."
"A submarine? Torpedoes?" cried Pauline. "Isn't that beautiful."
"But, Benny, how are you? What have you been doing? I haven't seen you in a thousand years."
"I'm still at it. And I've got it, Harry. I give you my word, I have."
"Got what?"
"The torpedo—I mean THE torpedo, in capital letters and italics with a line under the word. I've invented one that would blow—well— I've got it."
"Congratulations, felicitations, laudatory, remarks, and enthusiasm," cried Harry. "Without having slightest idea what a torpedo is, I rejoice with you. Come on back to the house, and tell us about it."
"I'm sorry, I can't, Harry, now. I'm engaged for a conference with the Naval Board, and I'm late already. But will you and Miss Marvin come to luncheon with me tomorrow?"
"Why not you with us, we saw you first?"
Summers laughed. "Well, for this reason, I want you to meet Mlle. deLongeon, who will preside at this particular luncheon, and who is—"
The flush that came suddenly to the cheeks of the young officer brought involuntary laughter from Harry and Pauline.
"I take that as an acceptance—the Kerrimore, East Fifty-sixth street," he called, sharing in their laughter as he fled.
But at the gate of the Marvin house he came upon Raymond Owen. There was a hasty clasp of hands and "You're to come, too," cried Summers, continuing his flight.
"Where am I to come?" asked Owen, as he approached Harry and Pauline.
"To luncheon with Ensign Summers tomorrow. Isn't he dear? I love men who blush. They seem so innocent."
"The Fates defend us!" implored Harry.
* * * * *
Ensign Summers had gained a position beyond his rank in the navy. A natural bent toward science and a patriotic bent toward the use of science as a means of national defense had inspired him to experiments which had resulted in success amazing even to himself. He had been allowed—during the year preceding the meeting with Harry and Pauline —a leave of absence. In that time he had visited Italy, France, England and Germany, and had studied under naval experts. He had come back home with his own little idea undiminished in its importance to his own mind, and he had proceeded with youthful enthusiasm and effrontery to prove its importance to the highest of his commanders.
The tests now about to be made—tests of a new torpedo gun and new torpedo—had been ordered by the mightiest in the land. Triumphant in his discovery and wealthy in his own right, Summers was the happiest of men. It was in Paris that he had met Mlle. del Longeon. Exquisitely beautiful, of the alluring and languorous type, quick of wit, tactful, and with great charm of manner, she had completely fascinated the young officer. He had vowed his adoration of her almost before he knew her. His avowals had been repulsed with just that margin of insincerity that would double his ardor.
It had required many letters to induce Mlle. de Longeon to leave her beloved Paris and visit friends in America. Summers knew she was not a Frenchwoman, but he was totally in the dark as to what was her nationality. Summers didn't care. He was madly mad in love with her, and there was no other thing to consider.
It was for this reason that Mlle. de Longeon was the guest of honor at the little luncheon in his rooms, to which he had invited Harry and Pauline. The affair was quite informal. There were a number of navy men present, a few young married people. The atmosphere of the gathering was "sublimely innocuous," as Mlle. de Longeon remarked to Summers in the hall after the guests had departed.
But Mlle. de Longeon had met one guest who did not impress her as innocuous—or sublime—Raymond Owen. Pauline had presented the secretary on his arrival, and Owen had immediately devoted himself to her. Not long after luncheon was served the voice of Mlle. de Longeon rose suddenly above the general talk.
"But, Mr. Summers, you have not told us yet of your new invention. When shall the plans be ready? When shall you rise to the realization of your true success?"
Summers beamed his happiness in the face of the brazen compliment, like the good and silly boy he was.
"I'm supposed to keep this secret," he answered, "but I can trust every one here, I know. The plans are going to be sent out day after tomorrow."
"You mean you will have them completed—all those intricate plans?" queried Mlle. de Longeon in a tone of breathless admiration.
"I'll work all tonight and most of tomorrow; but, of course, it's only a case of putting into words ideas that have already been put into solid metal. My gun and torpedo are ready for work. It isn't so very difficult, and it's—well, it's a lot of fun."
"And great honor," paid the woman he loved.
For a moment their eyes met, but only for a moment. The next, Catin, the valet, who was taking charge of the luncheon, under pretense of anticipating a waiter moved quickly to fill her wine glass. Even the subtle eye of Owen was not sharp enough to see Mlle. de Longeon pass him a crushed slip of paper, and she had been too long trained to concealment of even the simplest emotions to betray uneasiness now.
Nevertheless, there was the possibility of surprising Mlle. de Longeon, and that possibility was realized as she glanced at Raymond Owen. His set, tense face reflected for the moment all his hatred of Harry and Pauline, who were talking blithely with Ensign Summers, another naval officer and two of the wives of the civilian visitors. She turned to him with a suddenness that would have seemed abrupt in the manner of one less beautiful.
"Mr. Owen, do come to see me," she said. "I am sure—at least I think I am sure—that we have many matters of mutual interest."
In her softly modulated tones, the invitation had no significance beyond the literal meaning of the words.
"It will be an honor," he answered.
"Tomorrow evening, then?"
"Delighted. And, later, the Naval Ball?"
"No, I'm afraid the Ensign will not permit any one else to take me to the ball; but we shall meet there, afterward."
In a New York street, among the lower there was at that time a foreign agency that was not a consulate, but was visited by diplomats of the highest rank in a certain nation, the name of which, or the mystery of whose suspicions, need not be touched upon.
There was no regular staff at the agency. The rooms were maintained under the name of a certain foreign gentleman—or, rather, under the name that he chose to assume. There were two servants, but they saw little of the master of the house. He was seldom at home, but when he was, he had many visitors.
An hour after the luncheon in the rooms of Ensign Summers, the master of the mysterious dwelling was at home. And he had four guests. It would have, greatly surprised Ensign Summers had he known that one of the diplomat's guests was his own man servant, Catin.
"It is the worst duty I have ever had to perform," the diplomat said solemnly. "It means, almost certainly, your death. But it is death for your country. It is the command of your country. The submarine must be destroyed and the plans—we shall get the plans through another agent."
"I am not afraid to die," said Catin.
"Then here is the model of a submarine—not of the one you will enter, of course, but it will give you an idea. I have marked the place where you will secrete the explosive until the proper moment. I have also indicated the position for you to take in order to have some faint chance of reaching the surface and being saved."
One of the other men stepped forward and handed Catin a small square box. "This is the explosive. You know how to handle it."
With a military salute, Catin turned and left the place. Within half an hour he was carefully brushing Ensign Summers' clothes, as Summers came in.
"Would it be too much to ask, sir," inquired the perfect valet, "that I might accompany you in the submarine? I am afraid you will be very uncomfortable without me."
Summers laughed good-naturedly.
"It's impossible, Catin. This boat is a government secret in itself, and my new torpedo makes it a double secret. No one but a picked crew will be allowed on it, except—"
"'Except, sir?"
"Well, I admit I could command it. But it would be very unwise, Catin, and, I assure you, I shall get along all right."
Mlle. de Longeon's apartment was characteristic of the lady herself. The artist would have found it a little too luxurious for good taste— a little over-toned in the richness of draperies, the heavy scent of flowers, the subtleties of half-screened divans—there was something more than feminine—something feline. To Raymond Owen, however, it was ideal. The dimmed ruby lights, the suggestive shadows of the tapestries, were in tune with the surreptitious mind of the secretary. But there remained for him a picture that he admired more—Mlle. de Longeon coming through the portieres with a cry of pleasure.
"I am so glad you came—and so sorry I must send you away quickly," exclaimed Mlle. de Longeon. "The little ensign has telephoned that he is coming early to take me for a drive before the ball."
"I can come again—if I may have the honor," said Owen, rising quickly.
"Oh, there is time for a word," she said, smiling.
"There was something you wished to say to me, was there not? Something you did not care to say at the luncheon yesterday?"
"Yes. Why do you hate Miss Marvin?"
Owen was silent for a moment. "Why do you hate the little ensign, as you call another?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that we can be of service to one another, in all likelihood, and that, therefore, we should be frank friends. You wish to have Pauline Marvin out of the way, do you not?"
"How did you find that out?"
"People engaged in similar business find out many things. Now I—"
"Wish to be rid of Ensign Summers."
"Precisely."
"You are an international agent?"
"Yes. And I offer you my aid and the aid of the powerful men I control in return for your aid to me and them. Is it a bargain?"
They were seated on one of the curtained divans, a low-turned light above them. She leaned forward. Her long, delicate hand touched his. A splendid jewel at her throat heightened the magic of her beauty.
"Because it is my business to hate him—and make love to him at the same time. Come, Mr. Owen, let us be frank."
For the first time in his life Owen felt himself mastered by the sheer fascination of a woman. "What am I to do?" he said breathlessly.
"I will tell you tonight at the ball. Now you must run away."
He arose instantly, but as she stood beside him, he turned, caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately.
She protested with a little cry and a struggle not too violent to damage her coiffure. He drew back from her. There was something of astonishment in his eyes—astonishment at himself.
"You are the only woman in the world who ever made me do that," he gasped.
"Go, go," she pleaded.
"But you are angry? You break our agreement?"
"No, but I am overcome. I shall meet you tonight."
He caught her hand to his lips, and hurried from the house.
It was more than an hour after he observed her arrival at the Naval Ball before Owen had the privilege of a greeting from Mlle. de Longeon, and then it was only a smile as she passed him on the arm of a distinguished looking foreign diplomat.
Owen saw that she spoke a quiet word to her escort, who turned and looked at Owen. She beamed brightly at Owen, who smiled back at her, and moved slowly toward the door of the conservatory into which she and the diplomat had disappeared. He was surprised, a moment later, to see Pauline rush by him, with a little laugh.
"Is anything the matter?" Owen called.
"Nothing you can help. Stay right where you are," she cried.
Owen laughed his understanding and moved over to where Harry andLucille were talking with Ensign Summers.
Meanwhile, Pauline, in the darkest recess of the conservatory was pinning together a broken garter. As she started back to the ballroom she was surprised to hear voices near her.
There was something about their foreign accent that roused the ever-venturous, ever-curious interest of Pauline. She crept along a row of palms and peered through an aperture. Mlle. de Longeon and the diplomat were talking together as they paced the aisle of palms on the other side. Pauline crept nearer.
Presently the voice of the diplomat became distinguishable.
"It is all arranged. The thing is to be done in Submarine B-2 tomorrow. All you have now to do is—"
Pauline could not catch the final words.
The two moved back to the ballroom. She followed close behind, a little suspicious, but with the thrill of a new plan gripping her.
She saw Ensign Summers step forward early to greet Mile. de Longeon.Another dance was beginning.
"This one is Mr. Owen's," said Mile. de Longeon, as she moved away on the arm of the secretary.
"Have you anything to tell me?" he asked.
"Yes. Induce her to make Summers take her down in his submarine tomorrow, and she will never trouble you again."
As the dance ended, Pauline and Harry, Summers and Lucille, joined them.
"Mr. Summers, I have a great request to make," declared Pauline.
"I grant it before you breathe a word," he answered.
"I want you to take me along on your submarine trip tomorrow."
"Polly, have you gone crazy all over again?" cried Harry.
"I don't believe it would be—" began Summers.
"It must be," she commanded.
"Well, I promised too soon, but I'll keep my word."
Owen and Mile. de Longeon had stepped aside.
"What does it mean?" gasped the secretary. "She is doing the very thing we want her to do."
"Sometimes Fate aids the worthy," said Mile. de Longeon softly.