For a moment Kennedy paused again, as if allowing all to collect themselves before he took them by assault.
"I have lately been studying," he remarked casually, "the experiments of Dr. Von Pfungen of Vienna showing the protective resistance of the human skin against an electric current. Normally, this resistance averages from seventy to eighty thousand ohms. In the morning, owing to the accumulation of waste products, the resistance may mount to almost double. In persons suffering from nervous anxiety, it decreases to five thousand and even down to a thousand ohms in cases of hysteria. Von Pfungen has also measured a human being's emotional feelings by the electric current. I have a copy of his instrument here. There is one person who sits gripping the carbon electric handle connected with this galvanometer who, to begin with, had a resistance of over sixty thousand. But when I began to tell of how Rawaruska met her death, of the hypothetical case I have built up by my observations and experiments here in this very laboratory, the needle of the galvanometer started to oscillate downward. It went down until it reached thirty-eight thousand at the mention of murder. When I said the case was perfect, it had got as low as under twenty thousand, swinging lower and lower as the person saw hope depart!"
Kennedy was no longer paying any attention to the little instrument. As I followed him, I became more and more impatient. What was it he had discovered? Who was it?
"Preston," cried Kennedy, suddenly wheeling on the young doctor, "through your regard—honorable, I am sure—for Rawaruska you have let yourself be drawn into doing a little amateur detective work. Let me warn you. Instead of clearing up the case, you merely laid yourself open to suspicion. Fortunately the galvanometer absolves you. You should have known that Cecilie was only a tool. De Guerre, your black wallet, that all diamond dealers carry—thank you, Wade—that's it."
Kennedy had turned from Preston to Cecilie, then to De Guerre so suddenly that no one was prepared for the signal he gave to the customs officer.
Wade had covered the surprised dealer and was now emptying out the contents of the wallet.
There, on the table, gleaming in the light of the laboratory, lay a wonderful brilliant, some three hundred carats—perfect in its blazing crystalline orange beauty. There it lay, a jewel which might charm and arouse the cupidity of two hemispheres. It shone like a thing of life. Yet back of its orange fire lay a black tragedy.
Margot was on his feet instantly.
"That is not the—"
"Just a moment, Mr. Margot," interrupted Kennedy. "I think Mr. Wade will be able to show that it is the Invincible when he matches up the parts that have been hurriedly cut from—from the wonderful Arkansas diamond," Craig added sarcastically. "Miss Hoffman, Dr. Preston tells us that before you were a diamond saleswoman you had been a trained nurse!"
The look Elsa Hoffman flashed, as her calm exterior refused to conceal her emotions longer, was venomous.
Kennedy was the calmest one of us all as he tapped the little galvanometer significantly with his index finger.
"De Guerre," he exclaimed, leaning forward slightly, "you and your lover, Elsa Hoffman, planned cunningly to rob your own brothers. But, instead of robbers merely," he ground out, "you are murderers!"
"I suppose you have read in the papers of the mysterious burning of our country house at Oceanhurst, on the south shore of Long Island?"
It had been about the middle of the afternoon that a huge automobile of the latest design drew up at Kennedy's laboratory and a stylishly dressed woman, accompanied by a very attentive young man, alighted.
They had entered and the man, with a deep bow, presented two cards bearing the names of the Count and Countess Alessandro Rovigno.
Julia Rovigno, I knew, was the daughter of Roger Gaskell, the retired banker. She had recently married Count Rovigno, a young foreigner whose family had large shipping interests in America and at Trieste in the Adriatic.
"Yes, indeed, I have read about it," nodded Craig.
"You see," she hurried on a little nervously, "it was a wedding present to us from my father."
"Giulia," put in the young man quickly, giving her name an accent that was not, however, quite Italian, "thinks the fire was started by an incendiary."
Rovigno was a tall, rather boyish-looking man of thirty-two or thirty-three, with light brown hair, light brown beard and mustache. His eyes and forehead spoke of intelligence, but I had never heard that he cared much about practical business affairs. In fact, to American society Rovigno was known chiefly as one of the most daring of motor-boat enthusiasts.
"It may have been the work of an incendiary," he continued thoughtfully, "or it may not. I don't know. But there has been an epidemic of fires among the large houses out on Long Island lately."
I nodded to Kennedy, for I had myself compiled a list for theStar, which showed that considerably over a million dollars' worth of show places had been destroyed.
"At any rate," added the Countess, "we are burned out, and are staying in town now—at my father's house. I wish you would come around there. Perhaps father can help you. He knows all about the country out that way, for his own place isn't a quarter of a mile away."
"I shall be glad to drop around, if I can be of any assistance," agreed Kennedy as the young couple left us.
The Rovignos had scarcely gone when a woman appeared at the laboratory door. She was well dressed, pretty, but looked pale and haggard.
"My name is Mrs. Bettina Petzka," she began, singling out Kennedy. "You do not know me, but my husband, Nikola, was one of the first students you taught, Professor."
"Yes, yes, I recall him very well," replied Craig. "He was a brilliant student, too—very promising. What can I do for you?"
"Why, Professor Kennedy," she cried, no longer able to control her feelings, "he has suddenly disappeared."
"What line of work had he taken up?" asked Craig, interested.
"He was a wireless operator—had been employed on a liner that runs to the Adriatic from New York. But he was out of work. Someone has told me that he thought he saw Nikola in Hoboken around the docks where a number of the liners that go to blockaded ports are laid up waiting the end of the war."
She paused.
"I see," remarked Kennedy, pursing up his lips thoughtfully. "Your husband was not a reservist of any of the countries at war, was he?"
"No—he was first of all a scientist. I don't think he had any interest in the war—at least he never talked much about it."
"I know," persisted Craig, "but had he taken out his naturalization papers here?"
"He had applied for them."
"When did he disappear?"
"I haven't seen him for two nights," she sobbed.
It flashed over me that it was now two nights since the fire that had burned Rovigno's house, although there was no reason for connecting the events, at least yet.
The young woman was plainly wild with anxiety. "Oh, can't you help me find Nikola?" she pleaded.
"I'll try my best," reassured Kennedy, taking down on a card her address and bowing her out.
It was late in the afternoon before we had an opportunity to call at the Gaskell town house where the Rovignos were staying. The Count was not at home, but the Countess welcomed us and led us directly into a large library.
"I'd like to have you meet my father," she introduced. "Father, this is Professor Kennedy, whom Alex and I have engaged to look into the burning of our house."
Old Roger Gaskell received us, I thought, with a curious mixture of restraint and eagerness.
"I hope you'll excuse me?" asked the Countess a moment later. "I really must dress for dinner. But I think I've told you all I can. I wanted you to talk to my father."
"I've heard of the epidemic of fires from my friend Mr. Jameson here, on theStar," remarked Kennedy when we were alone. "Some, I understand, have attributed the fires to incendiaries, others have said they were the work of disgruntled servants, others of an architect or contractor who hasn't shared in the work and thinks he may later. I've even heard it said that an insurance man may be responsible—hoping to get new business, you know."
Gaskell looked at us keenly. Then he rose and approached us, raising his finger as though cautioning silence.
"Do you know," he whispered so faintly that it was almost lost, "sometimes I think there is a plot against me?"
"Againstyou?" whispered back Kennedy. "Why, what do you mean?"
"I can't tell you—here," he replied. "But, I believe there are detectaphones hidden about this house!"
"Have you searched?" asked Kennedy keenly.
"Yes, but I've found nothing. I've gone over all the furniture and such things. Still, they might be inside the walls, mightn't they?"
Kennedy nodded.
"Could you discover them if they were?" asked Gaskell.
"I think I could," replied Craig confidently.
"Then there's another peculiar thing," resumed Gaskell, a little more freely, yet still whispering. "I suppose you know that I have a country estate not far from my daughter?"
He paused. "Of course I know," he went on, watching Kennedy's face, "that sparks are sometimes struck by horses' shoes when they hit stones. But the shoes of my horses, for instance, out there lately have been giving forth sparks even in the stable. My groom called my attention to it, and I saw it myself."
He continued looking searchingly at Kennedy. "You are a scientist," he said at length. "Can you tell me why?"
Kennedy was thinking deeply. "I can't, offhand," he replied frankly. "But I should like to have a chance to investigate."
"There may be some connection with the fire," hinted Gaskell anxiously as he accompanied us to the door.
At our own apartment, when we returned, we found our friend, Burke, of the Secret Service, waiting for us.
"Just had a hurry call to come to New York," he explained, "and thought I'd like to drop in on you first."
"What's the trouble?" asked Kennedy.
"Why, there's been a mysterious yacht lurking about the mouth of the harbor for several days and they want to look into it."
"Whose yacht do they think it is?"
"They don't know, but it is said to resemble one that belongs to a man named Gaskell."
"Gaskell?" repeated Craig, turning suddenly.
"Yes,—theFurious—a fast, floating palace—one of these new power yachts, run by a gas engine—built for speed. Why, do you know anything about it?"
Kennedy said nothing.
"The revenue cutterUncashas been assigned to me," went on Burke. "If you have nothing better to do, I'd like to have you give me a hand in the case. You might find it a little different from the ordinary run."
"I shall be glad to go with you," replied Craig cordially. "Only, just now I've got a particular case of my own. I'll see you tomorrow at the Customs House, though, if I can."
"Good!" exclaimed Burke. "I don't think either of you, particularly Jameson, will regret it. It promises to be a good story."
Burke had scarcely left us when Kennedy decided on his next move. We went directly over to the Long Island Railroad station and caught the next train out to Oceanhurst, not a long run from the city.
Thus, early in the evening, Kennedy was able to begin, under cover, his investigation of the neighborhood of the Rovigno and Gaskell houses.
We entered the Gaskell estate and looked it over as we made our way toward the stable to find the groom. Out on the bay we could see theFuriousat anchor. Nearer in shore were a couple of Count Rovigno's speedy racing motor-boats. Along the shore, we saw a basin for yachts, capable even of holding theFurious.
The groom proved to be a rather dull-witted fellow, and left us pretty much to our own devices.
"Ya-as—sparks—I saw 'em," he drawled in answer to Kennedy's question. "So did Mr. Gaskell. Naw—I don't know nawthin' about 'em."
He had lumbered out into another part of the stable when I heard a low exclamation from Craig, of "Look, Walter!"
I did look in amazement. There were indeed little sparks, in fact a small burst of them in all directions, where there were metal surfaces in close proximity to one another.
Kennedy had brought along with him a strange instrument and he was now looking attentively at it.
"What is that?" I asked.
"The bolometer," he replied, "invented by Professor Langley."
"And what does it do?"
"Detects waves," he replied, "rays that are invisible to the eye. For instance, just now it tells me that shooting through the darkness are invisible waves, perhaps infra-red rays."
He paused, and I looked at him inquiringly.
"You know," he explained, "the infra-red rays are closer to the heat rays than those of the upper end of the spectrum and beyond, the ultra-violet rays, with which we have already had some experience."
Kennedy continued to look at his bolometer. "Yes," he remarked thoughtfully, half to himself, "somewhere around here there is a generator of infra-red rays and a projector of those rays. It reminds me of those so-called F-rays of Ulivi—or at least of a very powerful wireless."
I was startled at the speculations that his words conjured up in my mind. Was the "evil eye" of superstition a scientific fact? Was there a baneful beam that could be directed at will—one that could not be seen or felt until it worked its havoc? Was there a power that steel walls could not hold, which, in fact, was the more surely transmitted by them?
Somehow, the fact of the strange disappearance of Petzka, the wireless operator, kept bobbing up in my mind. I could not help wondering whether, perhaps, he had found this strange power and was using it for some nefarious purpose. Could it have been Petzka who was responsible for the fires? But, why? I could not figure it out.
Early the next morning we called at the Gaskell town house again. Kennedy had brought with him a small piece of apparatus which seemed to consist of two sets of coils placed on ends of a magnet bar. To them was attached a long flexible wire which he screwed into an electric light bulb socket. Then he placed a peculiar telephone-like apparatus, attached to the other end, to his ears. He adjusted the magnets and carried the thing carefully about the room.
At one point he stopped and moved the thing vertically up along the wall, from floor to ceiling.
"That's a gas pipe," he said simply.
"What's the instrument?" I asked.
"A new apparatus for finding pipes electrically, which I think can be just as well applied to finding other things concealed in walls under plaster and paper."
He paused to adjust the thing. "The electrical method," he went on, "is a special application of well-known induction balance principles. You see one set of coils receives an alternating or vibrating current. The other is connected with this telephone. First I established a balance so that there was no sound in the telephone."
He moved the thing about. "Now, when the device comes near metal-piping, for example, or a wire, the balance is disturbed and I hear a sound. That was the gas pipe. It is easy to find its exact location. Hulloa—"
He paused again in a corner, back of Gaskell's desk and appeared to be listening intently.
A moment later he was ruthlessly breaking through the plaster of the beautifully decorated wall.
Sure enough, in there was a detectaphone, concealed only a fraction of an inch beneath the paper, with wires leading down inside the partition in the direction of the cellar.
He ripped the little mechanical eavesdropper out, wires and all, but he did not disconnect the wires, yet.
We traced it out, and down into the cellar the wires led, directly, and then across, through a small opening in the foundations into the next cellar of an apartment house, ending in a bin or storeroom.
In itself the thing, so far, gave no clew as to who was using it or the purpose for which it had been installed. But it was strange.
"Someonewasevidently trying to get something from you, Mr. Gaskell," remarked Craig pointedly, after we returned to the Gaskell library. "Why do you suppose he went to all that trouble?"
Gaskell shrugged his shoulders and averted his eyes.
"I've heard of a yacht outside New York harbor," added Craig casually.
"A yacht?"
"Yes," he said nonchalantly, "theFurious."
Gaskell met Kennedy's eye and looked at him as though Craig had some occult power of divination. Then he moved over closer to us.
"Is that detectaphone thing out of business now?" he asked, hoarsely.
"Yes."
"Absolutely?"
"Absolutely."
Gaskell leaned over.
"Then I don't mind telling you, Professor Kennedy," he said in a low tone, "that I am letting a friend of mine from London use that yacht to supply some allied warships on the Atlantic with news, supplies and ammunition, such as can be carried."
Kennedy looked at him keenly, but for some moments did not answer. I knew he was debating on how he might properly dove-tail this with Burke's case, ethically.
"Someone is trying to find out from eavesdropping just what your plans are, then," remarked Craig thoughtfully, with a significant tap on the detectaphone.
A moment later he turned his back to us and knelt down. He seemed to be wrapping the detectaphone up in a small package which he put in his pocket and closing the hole in the wall as best he could where he had ripped the paper.
"All I ask of you," concluded Gaskell, as we left a few minutes later, "is to keep your hands off that phase of things. Find the incendiary—yes; but this other matter that you have forced out of me—well—hands off!"
On our way downtown to keep the appointment Kennedy had made with Burke the night before, he stopped at the laboratory to get a heavy parcel which he carried along.
We found Burke waiting for us, impatiently, at the Customs House.
"We've just discovered that the liners over at Hoboken have had steam up for a couple of days," he said excitedly. "Evidently they are waiting to make a break for the ocean—perhaps in concert with a sortie of the fleets over in Europe."
"H-m," mused Kennedy, looking fixedly at Burke, "that complicates matters, doesn't it? We must preserve American neutrality."
He thought a moment. "I should like to go aboard the revenue cutter. May I?"
"Surely," agreed Burke.
A few moments later we were on theUncas, Kennedy and Burke in earnest conversation in low tones which I did not overhear. Evidently Craig was telling him just enough of what he had himself discovered so as to enlist Burke's services.
The captain in charge of theUncasjoined the conversation a few moments later, and then Kennedy took the heavy package down below. For some time he was at work in one of the forward tanks that was full of water, attaching the thing, whatever it was, in such a way that it seemed to form part of the skin of the ship.
Another brief talk with Burke and the captain followed, and then the three returned to the deck.
"Oh, by the way," remarked Burke, as he and Kennedy came back to me, "I forgot to tell you that I have had some of my men working on the case and one of them has just learned that a fellow named Petzka, one of the best wireless operators,—a Hungarian or something—has been engaged to go on that yacht."
"Petzka?" I repeated involuntarily.
"Yes," said Burke, in surprise, "do you know anything about him?"
I turned to Kennedy.
"Not much," replied Craig. "But you can find out about him, I think, through his wife. He used to be one of my students. Here's her address. She's very anxious to hear from him. I'm sure that if you have any news she will be only too glad to receive it."
Burke took the address and a little while later we went ashore.
I was not surprised when Kennedy proposed, as the next move, to revisit the cellar in the apartment next to Gaskell's house. But I was surprised at what he said, after we had reached the place.
All along I had supposed that he was planning to wait there in hope of catching the person who had installed the detectaphone. That, of course, was a possibility, still. But in reality he had another purpose, also.
We had scarcely secreted ourselves in the cellar storeroom, which was in a dark corner where one might remain unobserved even if the janitor entered the cellar, provided he did not search that part, when Kennedy took the receiving headpiece of the detectaphone and placed it over his head, quite as if nothing had happened.
"What's the use of that?" I queried. "You ripped the transmitter out up above."
He smiled quietly. "While my back was turned toward you, so that you couldn't see," he said, "I slipped the thing back again, only down further where Gaskell wouldn't be likely to find it, even if he looked. I don't know whether he was frank with us, so I thought I'd try the eavesdropping game myself, in place of the man who put this thing in in the first place, whoever he was."
We took turns listening, but could hear not a sound. Nor did anyone come into the cellar.
So a good part of the afternoon passed, apparently fruitless.
My patience was thoroughly exhausted when, suddenly, a motion from Craig revived my flagging interest. I waited impatiently for him to tell me what it was that he heard.
"What was it?" I asked finally as he pulled the receivers off his head and stood for a moment, considering.
"At first I heard the sound of voices," he answered quickly. "One was the voice of a woman, which I recognized. It was the Countess. The other was the Count.
"'Giulia,' I heard him say, as they entered the room, 'I don't see why you should want to go. It's dangerous. And besides, it's none of our business if your father lets his yacht be used for such a purpose.'
"'But I want to go, Alex,' she said. 'I will go. I'm a good sailor. It's father's yacht. He won't care.'
"'But what's the use?' he expostulated. 'Besides—think of the danger. If it was our business, it might be different.'
"'I should think you'd want to go.'
"'Not I. I can get all the excitement I want in a motor-boat race without risking my precious neck pulling the chestnuts out of the fire for someone else.'
"'Well, I want the adventure,' she persisted, petulantly.
"'But, Giulia, if you go tonight, think of the risk—'
"That was the last I heard as they left the room, still arguing. Evidently, someone is going to pull off something tonight."
It did not take Kennedy long to make up his mind what to do next. He left the cellar hurriedly and in the laboratory hastily fixed up a second heavy and bulky package similar to that which he had taken down to the revenue cutter earlier in the day, making it into two parcels so as to distribute the burden between us.
That night we journeyed out to Oceanhurst again. Avoiding the regular road, we made our way from the station to the Gaskell place by a roundabout path and it was quite dark by the time we got there.
As we approached the basin we saw that there were several men about. They appeared to be on guard, but since Oceanhurst at that season of the year was pretty deserted and the Gaskell estate was out of the town, they were not especially vigilant.
Dark and grim, with only one light showing weakly, lay the yacht, having been run into the basin, now. A hawser had been stretched across the mouth of the basin. Outside was a little tender, while a searchlight was playing over the water all the time. Evidently whatever interference was feared was expected from the water rather than from the land.
We slunk into the shadow of a row of bath-houses, in order to get our bearings. On the opposite side from the road that led down from the house, it was not so likely that anyone would suspect that interlopers were hiding there.
Still, they were not neglecting that side of the basin, at least in a perfunctory sort of way.
Kennedy drew me back into the shadow, deeper, at the sound of footsteps on the boardwalk leading in front of the bath-houses.
From our hiding place we could now hear two voices, apparently of sailors.
"Do you know the new wireless operator who goes with us tonight?" asked one.
"No. They've been very careful of him. I guess they were afraid that someone might get wise. But there couldn't very well be any leak, there. One of those Englishmen has been with him every minute since he was engaged."
"They say he's pretty good. Who is he?"
"A Servian, he says, and his name sounds as if it might be so."
The voices trailed off. It was only a scrap of conversation, but Kennedy had not missed a word of it.
"That means Petzka," he nodded to me.
"What is he—a Hungarian or a Servian?" I asked quickly.
Kennedy had craned his neck out beyond the corner of the bath-houses and was looking at theFuriousin the basin.
"Come on, Walter," he whispered, not taking time to answer my question. "Those fellows have gone. There's no one at all on this side of the basin and I just saw the men on deck go up the gangplank to the boat-house. They can't do any more than put us off, anyhow."
He had watched his chance well. As quickly as we could, burdened down by our two heavy packages, we managed to slip across the boardwalk to the piling that formed that side of the basin. TheFurioushad swung over with the tide nearer our side than the other. It was a daring leap, but he made it as lightly as a cat, landing on the deck. I passed over the packages to him and followed.
Kennedy scarcely paused to glance about. He had chosen a moment when no one was looking, and, bending down under the weight of the packages we dodged back of a cabin. A dim light shining into the hold told us that no one was there and we dived down. It was the work of a moment to secrete ourselves in the blank darkness behind a pile of boxes, aft.
A noise startled us. Someone was coming down the steep, ladder-like stairs. A moment later we heard another noise. There were two of them, moving about among the boxes. From our hiding place we could overhear them talking in hoarse whispers, but could not see them.
"Where did you put them?" asked a voice.
"In every package of explosives and in as many of the boxes of canned goods as I had time. There wasn't much opportunity except while the stuff was in the boat-house."
I looked at Kennedy, wild-eyed. Was there treachery in the crew? He was leaning forward as much as our cramped quarters would permit, so as not to miss a word.
"All right," said the other voice. "No one suspects?"
"No. But the Secret Service has been pretty busy. They suspect something—but not this."
"Good. You are sure that you can detonate them when the time comes?"
"Positive. Everything is working fine. I've done my part of it. Changing wireless operators gave me just the chance I wanted."
"All right. I guess I'll go now."
"Remember the signal. As soon as the things are detonated I will get off, some way, by wireless the S O S—as if it came from the fleet, you understand?"
"Yes—that will be the signal for the dash. Good luck—I'm going ashore now."
As they passed up the ladder, I could no longer restrain myself.
"Craig," I cried, "this is devilish!"
I thought I saw it all now. In the cases of goods on theFuriouswere some terrible infernal machines which had been hidden, to be detonated by these deadly rays of wireless.
Kennedy was busy, working quickly putting together the parts he had taken from the two packages we had carried.
As I watched him, I realized that the burning of the Rovigno house was not the action of an incendiary, after all. It had been done by these deadly rays, probably by mere accident.
As nearly as I could make it out, there was a counterplot against theFurious. Somewhere was an infernal workshop, possibly hedged about by doors of steel which ordinary force would find hard to penetrate, but from which, any moment, this super-criminal might send out his deadly power.
The more I considered it, while Kennedy worked, the more uncanny it seemed. This man had rendered the mere possession of explosives more dangerous to the possessor than to the enemy.
Archimedes had been outdone!
The problem before us now was not only the preservation of American neutrality, but the actual safety of life.
Through the open hatch I could now hear voices on the deck. One was that of a woman, which I recognized quickly. It was Julia Rovigno.
"I'll be just as quiet as a mouse," she was saying. "I'll stay in the cabin—I won't be in the way."
I could not hear the man's voice in reply, but it did not sound like Rovigno's. It was rather like Gaskell's.
Still, we had heard enough to know that Julia Rovigno was on the yacht, had insisted on going on the expedition for the excitement of the thing, just as we had heard over the detectaphone.
"Hadn't we better warn her?" I asked Craig, who had paused in his work at the sound of voices.
Before he could answer we were plunged in sudden darkness. Someone had switched out the light that had been shining down through the hatchway. Before we knew it the opening to the hatchway had been closed.
Kennedy groped about for a light, stumbling over boxes and bags.
"For heaven's sake, Craig," I entreated. "Be careful. Those packages are full of the devilish things!"
He said nothing.
At least we had a little more freedom to move and I managed to find my way over to a little round porthole and open it.
As I looked out, I almost fainted at the realization. TheFuriouswas under way! We were locked in the hold—virtual prisoners—our only company those dastardly infernal machines, whose very nature we did not know!
Helplessly I gazed around me. There seemed to be only this one porthole, open, looking out over the dark and turbulent water, which slipped ominously past as we gained speed.
Why had Kennedy not foreseen this risk? I glanced at him. He had found an electric light, connected with the yacht's dynamo, and, before turning it on, closed and covered the port so that it threw no reflection out.
Far from being disconcerted, on the contrary, he seemed rather pleased than otherwise at the unexpected turn of events.
As I looked at our scant and cramped quarters I could see absolutely no way of getting word to anyone off theFuriouswho might help us.
What he was working on I did not know, but if it was some sort of wireless, even if we were able to send a message, what hope was there that it would get past the delicate wireless detector which this criminal must have somewhere near for tapping messages that were being flashed through the air? Had we not heard him say that the signal was to be an S O S sent, as it were, from the fleet far out on the ocean?
I could well have believed that Kennedy could rig up some means of communication. But, if the possessor of this terrible infra-red ray, or wireless wave, secret should learn that we, too, knew it, the only result that he would accomplish would be to insure our destruction immediately.
It was a foggy night and a drizzle had set in. TheFuriouscould not under such circumstances make such good speed as she was accustomed to make. Fortunately, also, the waves were not running high.
Craig had taken a desperate chance. How would he meet it? I watched him at work, fascinated by our peril.
Finishing as quickly as he could, he put out our sole electric light, unscrewed the bulb and attached to the socket a wire which he had connected with the instrument over which he had spent so many precious moments.
Through the little porthole he cast a peculiar disk, heavy, such as I had seen him place so carefully aboard theUncas.
It sank in the water with a splash and trailed along beside the yacht, held by a wire, submerged, perhaps, ten or twelve feet.
He made a final inspection of the thing as well as he could by the light of a match, then pressed a key which seemed to close a circuit.
I could feel a dull, metallic vibration, as it were.
"What are you doing?" I asked, looking curiously also at an arrangement, like a microphone, which he had placed over his ears.
"It works!" he cried excitedly.
"What works?" I reiterated.
"This Fessenden oscillator," he explained. "It's a system for the employment of sound for submarine signals. I don't know whether you realize it, but great advance has been made recently since it was suggested to use water instead of air as the medium for transmitting signals. I can't stop to explain this apparatus just now, but it is composed of a ring magnet, a copper tube which lies in an air gap of a magnetic field, and a stationary central armature. The magnetic field is much stronger than that in the ordinary dynamo.
"The copper tube, which has an alternating current induced in it, is attached to solid disks of steel which in turn are attached to a steel diaphragm an inch thick. In theUncasI had a chance to make that diaphragm practically a part of the side of the ship. Here I have had to hang it overboard, with a large water-tight diaphragm attached to the oscillator."
I listened eagerly, even if I were not an electrical engineer.
"The same oscillator," he went on, "is used for sending and receiving, for, like the ordinary electric motor it is also capable of acting as a generator, and a very efficient one, too. All I have to do is to throw a switch in one direction when I want to telegraph or telephone under water, and in the other direction when I want to listen in."
I could scarcely credit what I heard. Craig had circumvented even the spectacular wireless. He was actually talking through water. Craig had virtually endowed himself with a sixth sense!
I watched him spellbound. Would he succeed in whatever it was that he was planning? I waited anxiously.
"There's the answer!" he exclaimed in sudden exultation. "Burke is on theUncas. He tells me that he went to see Mrs. Petzka and she is with him—insisted on going, when she heard that her husband had been engaged by theFurious."
He waited a moment.
"You see, Walter," he resumed, "what I am doing is to send out signals by which theUncascan locate and follow us. She is fast, but, thank heaven, this yacht has to go slow tonight. Sound travels in water at a velocity of about four thousand feet a second. For instance, I find that I get an echo in about one-twentieth of a second. That is the reflected sound wave from the bottom, and indicates that we are in water of about one hundred feet depth. Then I get another echo in something over two seconds. That is the waves reflected from theUncas, which has been hovering about, waiting for something to happen. They can't be much more than a mile and a half away, now. I had expected to signal them from the shore, a dock or something of the sort, using this oscillator to get around that fellow's wireless. But we're much better off on the boat."
I looked at him in amazement. "Surrounded by all this junk that may blow us to kingdom come any second?" I demanded.
"Burke says steam is still up on all the ships tied up in the harbor so that they can make a dash for it. They are evidently waiting for that S O S signal."
"That's all right," I said in desperation, "But suppose they blow us up, first?"
"Blow us up first?" he repeated. "Why, don't you understand? It is not theFuriousthat they are after. The whole war fleet that is hanging around in this part of the Atlantic is to be blown up in mid-ocean, as part of the plan to aid the escape of the interned ships in New York."
"Oh," I breathed, with a sigh of relief, "that's it, is it?"
"Yes. We'll get in bad all around if we can't stop it—Burke with the Secret Service and ourselves with Gaskell, who doesn't dream that his yacht is being used for the exact opposite of the purpose for which he thinks he has lent it—to say nothing of the mess that our government will have to face for letting these precious schemers play ducks and drakes with our neutrality."
We waited eagerly, Kennedy sending out and receiving the submarine signals, and I peering out anxiously into the almost impenetrable fog.
Suddenly, apparently from nowhere in the shifting mist, lights seemed to loom up. Instead of stopping, however, theFuriousput on a sudden burst of reckless speed.
TheUncaswas no match for her at that game. Would she escape finally, after all?
A sharp report rang out. TheUncashad sent a shot across our bows, so dangerously close that it snapped one of the cables that held the mast.
The vibration of our engine slowed, and ceased, and we lay, idly wallowing in the waves as the revenue cutter, bearing our friend Burke and help, came up.
A couple of boats put out from the cutter and in almost no time we could hear the tread of feet and the exchange of harsh words as the government officers swarmed up the ladder to our deck.
It was only a moment later that the hatch was broken open and we heard the welcome brogue of Burke, calling, "Kennedy—are you and Jameson all right?"
"Right here," sang out Craig, detaching the oscillator and replacing the electric bulb, which he lighted.
The commotion on deck was too great for anyone to make much of finding us, two stowaways. The Countess was surprised, however, and, I felt, rather glad to see us at a time when we might, possibly exert some influence in her favor if matters came to a more serious pass.
There was scarcely time for a word. Burke's men were working quickly. They had entered the hold, after a word from Kennedy, and far out into the ocean they were casting the boxes and bags overboard, one at a time, as fast as they could. They worked feverishly, as Burke spurred them on, and I must say that it was with the utmost relief that I saw the things thrown over.
The boxes sank, but rose again and floated, bobbing up and down, at least some of them, perhaps a third above water and two-thirds below.
It was not for several minutes that I noticed that with those who had come aboard theFuriousfrom the cutter stood Bettina Petzka. A moment later she caught sight of Kennedy.
"Where is my husband?" she demanded, running to him.
Kennedy had no chance to reply.
Suddenly a series of flashes shattered the darkness. A terrific roar seemed to rise from the very ocean, while a rain of sparks lighted up great spurts of water and then fell back, to perish in the dark waves. TheFurioustrembled from end to end.
We looked, startled, at each other. But we were all safe. The things had been detonated in the water.
"Only the fact that he would have blown himself up prevented him from blowing up the yacht and all the evidence against him, now that we have discovered his plot," cried Burke, excitedly, dashing down the deck.
Recovered scarcely from our surprise at the explosion and the queer actions of the Secret Service man, we rushed after him as best we could, Craig leading.
He led the way to the little wireless room. The door was bolted on the inside, but we managed soon to burst it open.
I shall never forget the surprise which greeted us. In a chair, bound and gagged, as though he had been overcome only after a struggle, sat Petzka.
Mrs. Petzka threw herself frantically on him, tearing at the stout cords that held him.
"Nikola—what is the matter?" she cried. "What has happened?"
Through his gag, which she had loosened a bit, he made a peculiar, gurgling noise. As nearly as I could make out, he was struggling to say, "He came in—surprised me—seized me—locked the door."
Julia Rovigno stood rooted to the spot—utterly speechless.
There, surrounded by electric batteries, condensers, projectors, regulators, resonators, reflectors, voltmeters, and ammeters, queer apparatus which he had smuggled secretly on theFurious, before a strange sort of device, with a wireless headgear still over his ears, stood the owner of at least two of the liners of the belligerents which were to have made the dash for the ocean after he had succeeded by his new wireless ray device in removing the hostile fleet—Count Rovigno himself.
"I've got to make good in this Delaney case, Kennedy," appealed our old friend, Dr. Leslie, the coroner, one evening when he had dropped unexpectedly into the laboratory, looking particularly fagged and discouraged.
"You know," he added, "they've been investigating my office—and now, here comes a case which, I must confess, completely baffles us again."
"Delaney," mused Craig. "Let me see. That's the rich Texas rancher who has been blazing a trail through the white lights of Broadway—with that Baroness Von Dorf and——"
"And other war brokers," interrupted Leslie.
"War brokers?" queried Craig.
"Yes. That's what they call them. They're a new class—people with something to sell to or with commissions to buy for belligerent governments. In Delaney's case it was fifty thousand or so head of cattle and horses, controlled by a syndicate of which he was the promoter. That's why he came to New York, you know,—to sell them at a high price to any European power. The syndicate stands to make a small fortune."
"I understand," nodded Kennedy, interested.
"Just as though there wasn't mystery enough about Delaney's sudden death," Leslie hurried on, "here's a letter that came to him today—too late."
Kennedy took the note Leslie handed him. It was postmarked "Washington," and read:
Dear Daley:I intended writing to you sooner but haven't felt well enough since I came here. The strangest thing about it is that the doctors I have consulted seem to be unable to tell me definitely what is the matter.I can tell you I have been badly frightened. I seemed to have a lot of little boils on my face and new ones kept coming. I felt weak and chilly and had headaches that almost drove me crazy. Perhaps the thing, whatever it is, has made me insane, but I cannot help wondering whether there may not be something back of it all. Do you suppose someone could have poisoned me, hoping to ruin my beauty, on which, to a great measure, depends my success in my mission to America during the war?Since I came here I have been wondering, too, how you are. If there should be anything in my suspicions, perhaps it would be safest for you to leave New York. There is nothing more I can say, but if you feel the least bit unwell, do not disregard this warning.If you will meet me here, we can arrange the deal with those I represent at almost any price you name.Try hard to get here.As ever,Louise.
Dear Daley:
I intended writing to you sooner but haven't felt well enough since I came here. The strangest thing about it is that the doctors I have consulted seem to be unable to tell me definitely what is the matter.
I can tell you I have been badly frightened. I seemed to have a lot of little boils on my face and new ones kept coming. I felt weak and chilly and had headaches that almost drove me crazy. Perhaps the thing, whatever it is, has made me insane, but I cannot help wondering whether there may not be something back of it all. Do you suppose someone could have poisoned me, hoping to ruin my beauty, on which, to a great measure, depends my success in my mission to America during the war?
Since I came here I have been wondering, too, how you are. If there should be anything in my suspicions, perhaps it would be safest for you to leave New York. There is nothing more I can say, but if you feel the least bit unwell, do not disregard this warning.
If you will meet me here, we can arrange the deal with those I represent at almost any price you name.
Try hard to get here.
As ever,Louise.
Craig looked up quickly. "Have you communicated with the Baroness?" he asked.
Dr. Leslie leaned forward in his chair. "The fact is," he replied slowly, "the woman who calls herself the Baroness Von Dorf has suddenly disappeared, even in Washington. We can find no trace of her whatever. Indeed, the embassy down there does not even admit that she is a war buyer. Oh, the newspapers haven't got the whole Delaney story—yet. But when they do get it"—he paused and glanced significantly at me—"there's going to besomesensation."
I recalled now that there had been an air of mystery surrounding the sudden death of Daley Delaney the day before. At least one of the papers had called it "the purple death"—whatever that might mean. I had thought it due to the wild career of the ranchman, perhaps a plain case of apoplexy, around which the bright young reporters had woven a slender thread of romance. Kennedy, however, thought otherwise.
"The purple death," he ruminated, turning the case over in his mind. "Have you any idea what the papers mean by that?"
"Why, it's one of the most grewsome things you ever heard of," went on Leslie eagerly, encouraged. "In some incomprehensible way the hand of fate seems to have suddenly descended on the whole Delaney entourage. First his Japanese servant fell a victim to this 'purple death,' as they call it.
"He had scarcely been removed to a hospital where, after fighting a brave fight, he succumbed to the unknown peril, when the butler was stricken. Delaney himself packed up, to leave, in panic, when suddenly, apparently without warning, the purple death carried him off. In three days three of them have died suddenly. Then came this letter from the Baroness. It set me thinking. Perhaps itwaspoison—I don't know."
Craig read the letter of the Baroness again. "Most interesting," he exclaimed energetically as Dr. Leslie finished. "I shall be only too glad to help you if I can. Could you take us up to Delaney's rooms? Is the body still there?"
"No, it has been removed to a private undertaking establishment and the apartment is guarded by police. We can stop at the undertaker's on the way over to the apartment."
There could be no doubt that Leslie was considerably relieved to think that Craig would consent to take the case. As for Kennedy, I could see that the affair aroused his interest to the keenest point.
"Was anyone associated with Delaney in the syndicate here?" inquired Craig as we settled ourselves in Dr. Leslie's car.
"Yes," answered the coroner, hurrying us along, "another member of the syndicate was his friend, Dr. Harris Haynes."
"Who is he?" asked Kennedy.
"Haynes has been a veterinary, but found that there was more money in the cattle business than in practicing his profession. The needs of European war seemed to offer just the opportunity they needed to reap a quick fortune."
"I've heard," nodded Craig, "that conditions abroad have led to a great influx of adventurers with other people's money."
"Yes. According to all accounts, Delaney and Haynes have been leading a rather rapid existence since they came to New York. It's quite right. The city is full of queer and mysterious characters, both men and women, who profess to be agents for various foreign governments, often unnamed. Delaney and Haynes have met about all of this curious army, I suppose."
"I see," prompted Craig. "Among them, I take it, was this stunning woman who calls herself the Baroness Louise Von Dorf. How friendly were they?"
"Well, she spent a great deal of time, when she was in the city, up at the apartment Delaney had rented."
Leslie and Kennedy exchanged a significant glance. "Who is she?" asked Craig. "Do you know?"
"No one seems to know. Yet she is always plentifully supplied with money and they tell me she talks glibly of those whose 'influence' she can command in Washington."
"But she has disappeared," mused Kennedy. "Were there any others?"
"Haynes hasn't been proof against their wiles," answered the coroner. "I have found out that he was introduced by one of the 'war brokers' to a Madame Daphne Dupres."
"And she?"
Leslie shook his head. "I don't know anything about her, except that she lives at the Hotel St. Quentin—the same place, by the way, where Haynes makes his headquarters."
Our car pulled up at the private morgue of the burial company to which Delaney's body had been taken.
We entered, and Kennedy wasted no time in making a careful examination of the remains of the unfortunate victim.
"I couldn't make anything out of it, even after an autopsy," confessed Dr. Leslie. "It seemed as though it were something that had been conveyed by the blood all over the body, something that blocked the capillaries and caused innumerable hemorrhages into organs and tissues, and especially nerve centers."
The body seemed to be discolored and variegated in color, with here and there little marks of boils or vesicles.
"It looks like something that has depleted the red corpuscles of oxygen," continued Leslie, noticing that Kennedy had drawn off a little of the body fluids, evidently for future study. "As nearly as I could make out there had been a cyanosis in a marked degree. He had all the appearance of having been asphyxiated."
"Which seems to have been enough to suggest to some imaginative mind the 'purple death,'" remarked Kennedy dryly.
Still, I could not help noticing that it was really no exaggeration to call it the purple death.
One of the morgue attendants had called Dr. Leslie aside and a moment later he rejoined us.
"They tell me Haynes has been here," he reported. "I left word that any visitors were to be carefully watched."
"Strange," muttered Kennedy, absorbing Dr. Leslie's latest information and then looking back at the body, puzzled. "Very strange. Let us go up to the apartment right away."
Kennedy stowed the little tube in which he had placed the body fluid safely in his pocket and led the way out again to our waiting car.
Delaney had picked out a fashionable neighborhood in which to live. As we entered the bronze grilled door and rode up in the elevator, Kennedy handed each of us a cigar and lighted one himself. I lighted up, too, thinking that perhaps there might be some virtue in tobacco to ward off the unseen perils into which we were going.
The wealthy ranchman, evidently, on his arrival in New York had rented an apartment, furnished, from a lawyer, Ashby Ames, who had gone south on account of his health.
We entered and found that it was a very attractive place that Ames had fitted up. At one side of a library or drawing-room opened out a little glass sun-parlor or conservatory on a balcony. Into it a dining-room opened also. In fact, the living rooms of the whole suite could be thrown into one, with this sun-parlor as a center.
Everything about the apartment was quite up-to-date, also. For instance, I noticed that the little conservatory was lighted brilliantly by a mercury vapor tube that ran around it in a huge rectangle of light.
Dr. Leslie and the police had already ransacked the place and there did not seem to be much likelihood that anything could have escaped them. Still, Kennedy began a searching examination after his own methods, while we waited, gazing at him curiously.
By the frown on his forehead I gathered that he was not meeting with much encouragement, when, suddenly, he withdrew the cigar from his mouth, looked at it critically, puffed again, then moved his lips and tongue as if trying to taste something.
Mechanically I did the same. The cigar had a peculiar flavor. I should have flung it away if Kennedy himself had not given it to me. It was not mere imagination, either. Surely there had been none of that sweetishness about the fragrant Havana when I lighted it on the way up.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"There's cyanogen in this room," Craig remarked keenly, still tasting, as he stood near the sun-parlor.
"Cyanogen?" I repeated.
"Yes, there are artificial aids to the senses that make them much keener than nature has done for us. For instance, if air contains the merest traces of the deadly cyanogen gas—prussic acid, you know—cigar smoke acquires a peculiar taste which furnishes an efficient alarm signal."
Dr. Leslie's face brightened as Kennedy proceeded.
"That is something like my idea," he exclaimed. "I have thought all along that it looked very much like a poisoning case. In fact, the very first impression I had was that it might have been due to a cyanide—or at least some gas like cyanogen."
Kennedy said nothing, and the coroner proceeded. "And the body looked cyanotic, too, you recall. But the autopsy revealed nothing further. I have even examined the food, as far as I can, but I can't find anything wrong with it."
There was a noise at the door, outside in the hall, and Dr. Leslie opened it.
"Dr. Haynes," he introduced, a moment later.
Haynes was a large man, good-looking, even striking, with a self-assertive manner. We shook hands, and taking our cue from Craig, waited for him to speak.
"It's very strange what could have carried Delaney off so suddenly," ventured Haynes a moment later. "I've been trying to figure it out myself. But I must admit that so far it has completely stumped me."
He was pacing up and down the room and I watched him more or less suspiciously. Somehow I could not get the idea out of my head that he had been listening to us outside. Now and then, I fancied, he shot a glance at us, as if he were watching us.
"They tell me at the burial company that you were there today," put in Dr. Leslie, his eyes fixed on Haynes' face.
Haynes met his gaze squarely, without flinching. "Yes. I got thinking over what the papers said about the 'purple death,' and I thought perhaps I might have overlooked something. But there wasn't—"
The telephone rang. Haynes seized the receiver before any of the rest of us could get to it. "That must be for me," he said with a brusque apology. "Why—yes, I am here. Dr. Leslie and Professor Kennedy are up here. No—we haven't discovered anything new. Yes—I shall keep the appointment. Good-by."
The conversation had been short, but, to me at least, it seemed that he had contrived to convey a warning without seeming to do so.
Dr. Leslie looked at Haynes searchingly. "Who was it?" he asked. "Madame Dupres?"
Haynes did not hesitate. "Yes," he nodded. "I had an appointment with her and told her that if I was late it would probably be that I had stopped here."
The answer came so readily that I must confess that I was suspicious of it.
"Did Madame Dupres know the Baroness Von Dorf?" asked Craig quickly.
"Yes, indeed," returned Haynes, then stopped suddenly.
"But they didn't travel in the same circle, did they?" asked Dr. Leslie, with the air of the cross-examiner who wished to place on record a fact that might later prove damaging.
"Not exactly," answered Haynes, with some hesitation.
"You knew her, of course?" added Craig.
Haynes nodded.
"I wonder if you could locate the Baroness," pursued Kennedy.
Haynes seemed to express no surprise at the obvious implication that she was missing. "I have no objection to trying," he answered simply; then, with a glance at his watch, he reached for his hat and stick and excused himself. "I'm afraid I must go. If I can be of any assistance," he added, "don't hesitate to call on me. Delaney and I were pretty closely associated in this deal and I feel that nothing is too much to ask of me if it is possible to clear up the mystery of his death, if there is any."
He departed as quickly as he had come.
"I wonder what he dropped in for?" I remarked.
"Whatever it was, he didn't get it," returned Leslie.
"I'm not so sure of that," I said, remembering the brief telephone conversation with Madame Dupres.
Kennedy did not appear to be bothering much about the question one way or the other. He had let his cigar go out during Haynes' visit, but now that we were alone again he continued his minute search of the premises.
He opened a closet which evidently contained nothing but household utensils and was about to shut the door when an idea occurred to him. A moment later he pulled from the mystic depths an electric vacuum cleaner and dragged it over to the sun-parlor.
Without a word we watched him as he ran it over the floor and walls, even over the wicker stands on which the plants stood, and then over the floor coverings and furniture of the other rooms that opened into the conservatory. What he was after I could not imagine, but I knew it was useless to ask him until he had found it or had some reason for telling it.
Carefully he removed the dust and dirt from the machine and wrapped it up tightly in a package.
We parted from Dr. Leslie at the door of the apartment, promising to keep in touch with him and let him know the moment anything happened.
At the first telegraph office Kennedy entered and sent off a long message to our friend Burke of the Secret Service in Washington, asking him to locate the Baroness, if possible, in that city, and to give any information he might have about either Haynes or Madame Dupres.
"It's still early in the evening," remarked Kennedy as we left the telegraph office. "Suppose we drop around to the St. Quentin. Perhaps we may run into our friends there."
The St. Quentin was a favorite resort of foreigners in New York, and I, at least, entered prepared to suspect everyone.
"Not all these mysterious-looking men and women," laughed Kennedy, noticing me as we walked through the lobby, "are secret agents of foreign governments."
"Still they look as if they might give you the 'high sign,'" I replied, "particularly if you flashed a bankroll."
"I don't doubt it," he agreed, his eye roving over the throng. "I suspect that Scotland Yard and the Palais de Justice might be quite pleased to see some faces here rather than on the other side of the Atlantic."
He drew me into an angle and for some moments we studied the passing crowd of diplomats and near-diplomats.
A moment later I saw Kennedy bow and, following the direction of his eyes, looked up to a sort of mezzanine gallery. There were Haynes and a most attractive woman, talking earnestly.
"Madame Dupres," Craig whispered to me, aside.
She was tall, slender, gowned in the most modish manner, and had a foreign way about her that would have fascinated one even more cosmopolitan than a Texas veterinary.
Now and then someone would stop and chat with them and it seemed that they were on very good terms, at least with a certain group at the St. Quentin.
Kennedy moved out further into the lobby where he was more noticeable; then, with a sudden resolution, mounted the steps to the mezzanine floor and approached Haynes.
"Let me introduce Professor Kennedy, Madame Dupres," presented Haynes.
Kennedy bowed.
Whatever one's opinion of madame, he was forced to admit that she was clever. It was evident, also, that she and Haynes were on very intimate terms, also.
"I hope that you will be able to clear up the mystery that the newspapers have found in Mr. Delaney's death," she remarked. "Mr. Haynes has told me that he met you tonight with Dr. Leslie. By the way, has he told you his own theory?" she asked.
"We shall do our best," replied Kennedy, meeting her eye in as impersonal a manner as it was possible, for it is always difficult to dissociate a beautiful woman from a case like this and judge her not as a beautiful woman but on the merits of the case. "No, Mr. Haynes has not told me his theory—yet."
"I'm very glad to have met you," she added, extending her daintily gloved hand to Kennedy, "and you may be sure that if there is any way in which I can be of service I shall expect you to call on me. Just now I hope you will excuse me. I have some letters to get off—and I will leave you men to discuss Mr. Haynes' theory without being hampered by a mere woman. Never mind, Harris," she added as Haynes made as if to escort her to the ladies' writing room.
As Madame Dupres passed down the steps there was no denying that she made a splendid impression. Haynes watched her with a glance that was almost ravenous. There could be no doubt of her influence over him.
As she passed through the lobby she paused at the telegraph desk a moment, then went into the writing room.
"Yes, I think I have an explanation," began Haynes, when she was out of sight. "I've been trying to figure out what could have killed Delaney. Of course I can only guess, but I don't think it is such a bad guess."
"What is it?" asked Craig.
"You remember the mercury vapor light?"
Kennedy nodded.
"Mercury vapor lights of that sort are a pretty good source of ultra-violet rays sometimes," went on Haynes. "Well, doubtless you know that various plants belonging to different families produce free prussic acid. They are really cyanogenetic plants. Light and the assimilation processes depending on light exert a favorable influence on cyanogenesis. For instance, a mixture of citric acid with a much smaller amount of potassium nitrite and a trace of bicarbonate of iron, if exposed to light, will generate hydrocyanic acid. That, I believe, is what actually happens in some plant tissues. Animals rarely touch such plants. I believe that such a process might be aided rather than retarded by ultra-violet rays. What do you think of it?"
Craig was following Dr. Haynes keenly. As for me, I was astounded by his frankness. I recalled what Kennedy had already said up in Delaney's apartment, and watched his face covertly.
"Your explanation is plausible," was all that Craig said. "By the way, have you found out anything about the Baroness?"
"Not a word, yet," replied Haynes unhesitatingly. "She seems to be out of town."
"And madame—has she any idea where she is?"
Haynes shook his head. "You may rest assured," replied Haynes in a tone that was meant to carry conviction, "that if we can find out we shall be only too happy to do so—ourselves."
There was nothing to be gained by further inquiry here, and I could imagine that Kennedy was burning with anxiety to get at work on his own line of inquiry at the laboratory. After a few minutes of conversation we excused ourselves and left the hotel.
Craig's air of abstraction was not such as to invite further questioning, and I left him an hour or so later in the laboratory surrounded by his microscopes, slides, and innumerable test-tubes which he had prepared for some exceedingly minute investigation in which his exact soul delighted.
How late he worked I do not know, for I did not hear him come into our apartment. But he was up very early, in fact woke me up stirring around the living room.
I had scarcely completed dressing, while he scanned the morning papers in a vain hope that some stray news item might shed some light on the mystery in which we were now involved, when the whirr of our door buzzer announced that we had an unusually early caller.
Kennedy opened the door and admitted a stranger. He was one of those well-groomed middle-aged men whose appearance denotes with what care they seek by every means to retain youth that is fast passing. I could imagine him calmly calculating even his vices.
"My name is Ames—Ashby Ames," he introduced. "Dr. Leslie, the coroner, has suggested that I see you."
Ames looked as if he had been traveling all night and had not had a chance to freshen himself up in his haste.
"I've just heard about that trouble down at my apartment," he continued, "and, though I had planned a trip for my health to the southern resorts, I thought it best for me to come right back to New York. It's a beastly mess."
He had thrown his hat vindictively on the table, though his manner to us was rather that of one seeking advice. "Why," he stormed, "this affair is the limit! I rent my apartment to an apparently reputable person. And what do I find? It is not even a mere scandal. It is worse. The place is closed and guarded—quarantined, as it were. I can't get back into my own rooms!"
Kennedy smiled. "I can't blame you for feeling vexed, Mr. Ames," he soothed, "but I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you more than I am doing. We are making every effort to clear the thing up—and I have been on the case, you must remember, less than twelve hours."
"Oh, I've no criticism of you," rejoined Ames, somewhat mollified. "I didn't come here to criticise. I came only because I thought you might like to know that I was back in town, and because Dr. Leslie mentioned your name. No, indeed—no criticism. Only," he added, "now that my vacation is spoiled and I am back in town, there is going to be some action—that's all."
"It can't come too swiftly for me," encouraged Craig.
"I'm going to jump right into this beastly row," pursued Ames aggressively. "This morning I'm going to look these people up. They tell me that Baroness has been spending a good deal of time at my place. Pine business—eh? She's disappeared. But I'll get after that Haynes and the Madame Dupres they tell me about—and I'll let you know if I find out anything."
He had not given Kennedy a chance to say anything, and in fact Kennedy did not seem to want to say anything yet.
"Just thought I'd drop in," concluded Ames, who hadn't taken a chair, but now extended his hand to us; "I think I'll drop into a Turkish bath and freshen up a bit. Keep in touch with me."