"My father was a famous doctor here in New York," Mrs. Cleaver began. "He was what you call a self-made man; he had risen from obscurity and pulled my mother up with him. I was their only child. When I was growing up my father was making a princely income, and we lived like millionaires. The best people in New York were among his patients, and we went everywhere.
"I married at twenty—the usual fashionable marriage. Mr. Cleaver was the last of a fine old family of wealth and position, and I was considered to have done well for myself. But I loved him in a heedless, unthinking sort of way. He was young like myself, and extremely good-looking.
"My first real experience of life came with the death of my father, four years after my marriage. It was discovered that he had lived up to every cent of his great income. He left nothing but debts and an art collection. The proceeds of that went to purchase my mother a modest annuity. Even that was wasted, for she lived less than a year after my father.
"That left me with no one in the world to turn to but my husband. The tragedy of self-made people is that they have no lifelong friends. My husband was good to me in his way; we got along together well enough, but in his disappointment and chagrin at the disclosure of my father's affairs, I received my first suspicion that all was not well with our own.
"But I closed my eyes to it, and we continued to live as before, denying ourselves nothing. It was the only way I knew how to live. We had our big houses in town and in the country, a mob of servants, automobiles, horses. I knew nothing about business and my husband never spoke of it. One thing that helped to ease my mind was the fact that we were never bothered by creditors as I knew some of my friends were. My husband paid up everything on the nail. It was a point of pride with him.
"When he had spent his last dollar, literally his last, he shot himself.
"Well, there I was. Mr. Cleaver had no near relatives. His cousins had always frowned on our extravagance, and I could expect no aid from them. As for my so-called friends, at the first hint of disaster they began to melt away. I was so helpless I didn't even know how to close up my great house. I couldn't summon resolution enough to discharge the servants. I lived for a while on the proceeds of my dresses and jewels. It is tragic how much such things cost, and how little they bring!
"I was at the end of my rope, driven nearly frantic by worry. The unpaid servants were becoming impudent, and that seemed like the last straw. I have always been so dependent on servants! I was actually considering taking my husband's way out—when this man came to see me.
"He sent up no name. But in the frightful state I was in, one jumps at anything for a moment's distraction. I had him brought up. You have already described him; his silvery hair, brushed in an odd way, his sober, well-made clothes of no particular style. His old-fashioned manner prevented me from placing him socially; he might have been almost anybody. The piercing blue eyes were remarkable. His was most kind and courteous, fatherly one might say.
"Though it is three years ago, every detail of that interview is still fresh in my mind. He thanked me first for my indulgence in consenting to receive him incognito. I would agree, he said, when I had learned the object of his visit, that it were better he should remain unknown. He asked me to think of him simply as 'Mr. B.'
"He went on to say that through mutual friends he had learned of my difficult situation, and had been much moved thereby. It was the hardest case he had ever heard of, he said, and I had his sincerest sympathy. I was too desperate in my mind to even pretend to be indignant at the intrusion of a stranger into my affairs. Indeed I found his sympathy comforting. I hadn't received much. Most people had acted as if my misfortunes were due to my own fault. He soothed me like a nice old uncle.
"He said he was a very rich man, so rich in fact, that his money made him uneasy. He didn't want to die with it, he said, and he was looking around for some honorable way of getting rid of it. He used that very word, 'honorable'; it made me smile. He said it was easier to make a fortune than to get rid of it.
"Fancy how my heart began to beat at this. When one is desperate one cannot be particular. I could scarcely believe my ears. It seemed like the miracle I had been hoping for—like an answer to my prayer. He said that the more popular forms of philanthropy, such as colleges, hospitals, libraries, etc., were distasteful to him, as smacking too much of ostentation and publicity. He wanted to make his distribution in secret.
"'Everybody looks after the poor,' he said, 'and nobody thinks of the rich when they are overtaken by misfortune. They are the worthiest objects of help, and I intend to devote myself to the relief of the impoverished rich. You are my first case. Will a thousand dollars a week be sufficient?'
"I thought I was dreaming. I managed to stammer out a question about what conditions were attached to the loan or gift.
"'No conditions! No conditions!' he said,—'that is only one condition; that you will preserve absolute secrecy concerning it.'
"I promised of course. I scarcely knew what I was saying. I thought perhaps he was harmlessly insane. I certainly never expected anything to come of it. But when he had gone I found on the table a little packet containing a thousand dollars in bills.
"I still thought I had been visited by an amiable lunatic. I used the money to pay some of my most pressing obligations. I discharged the insolent servants, and got others. I didn't expect to hear from him again.
"But one week from that day a messenger boy brought me a packet containing a similar sum, and it has been coming ever since with absolute regularity.
"I can see that you are incredulous about there having been no conditions attached to the gift, but I have stated just what happened. I can see now that I was a fool, but then it was easy for me to believe that I had been relieved out of pure philanthropy. As if there was any such thing!
"At first the money came unaccompanied by any communication, but later, when he knew, I suppose, that I had become absolutely dependent on it, I began to receive instructions. In the beginning he still used the language of philanthropy—he wanted to help this young man or that young woman to gain a footing in good society—but latterly, feeling more sure of me, I suppose, he has become frankly peremptory. Oh! if I had only sent the money back in the first place!"
"What sort of instructions?" asked Jack.
"Principally for me to receive certain young people that he would send me, and introduce them to society; sometimes to introduce them to particular persons. This seemed harmless enough. People will do anything to get into society, you know."
"But when you saw these young people didn't you begin to be suspicious?"
"Oh, I didn't want to be suspicious! Their manners were good enough. They didn't shame me. And nowadays society is such a go-as-you-please affair, nobody held me responsible."
"What other kind of instructions did you get?"
"To ask certain people, generally some well-known rich man, to my house. The hardest thing I ever had to do was to go to the Madagascar and scrape acquaintance with Bobo in the corridor. I nearly died at that, but it was too late to turn back. I was terrified by the way the man always knew instantly when I had not obeyed him."
"The spies he had in your house would keep him informed," said Jack. "How did you know that day which of the two of us was Bobo?"
"He had described him to me."
"Does 'Mr. B.' still come here?"
"No, I have never seen him but the once. He writes to me, and very often he calls me up to learn if I have anything to report. I have no way of communicating with him unless he calls up."
"Now about Miriam?" said Jack.
Mrs. Cleaver sat up, and her tired eyes sparkled with hatred. "That woman!" she cried. "If you knew what I have had to put up with from her! I loathe her! Oh, I would like to see her brought low. What have you got against her? Tell me!"
Jack shook his head, smiling grimly. "All in good time," he said. "You're telling me your story now."
"Oh, Miriam's just another of them. She came the day before I received my instructions to get hold of Bobo. I was ordered to take her into my house, and give it out that she was a cousin. That was the final humiliation!"
"Is that all you can tell me about Miriam?"
She nodded. "We don't confide in each other," she said with tight lips.
There was a considerable silence between the two before the fire.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Mrs. Cleaver nervously at last.
"Just trying to dope out a plan to get him—with your help."
"Oh, I'm afraid!" she wailed. "When my income is cut off what shall I do?"
"I promised you—in Bobo's name—to take care of that."
"To the same amount?" she asked sharply.
Jack smiled dryly. "I'm afraid I'd hardly feel justified in recommending that Bobo keep up all this—but, say, ten thousand a year."
"Ten thousand!" she cried, aghast. "That's nothing!"
A grimmer tone crept into Jack's voice. "Sorry, but we don't owe you anything, you know. If you refuse to help me, I should have to have you arrested."
If she had defied him Jack's position would have been a little awkward, for he was not prepared to go as far as he had said. But Mrs. Cleaver's spirit was broken now. She only shuddered and wept the louder.
"Ten thousand!" she wailed. "I'll have to give up everything that makes life worth living!"
"You told me you were sick of all this."
"I'll have to move into a miserable apartment!"
"Come now, plenty of people have a whale of a time on ten thousand—or even the half of that."
"Suburbanites!" she said with the utmost scorn.
"Has 'Mr. B.' any regular time for calling up?" asked Jack.
"No. Every few days. I haven't heard in nearly a week. I shall probably hear to-morrow."
"Very good. Now listen. When he calls up, make out you're in great anxiety. But don't give him too many details over the 'phone. Suggest that it's not safe to do so. You can let him understand though that it has something to do with Bobo or me. Tell him that you think I am having you watched. Tell him that you must see him in order to find out how to act. Don't ask him to come here; that would surely excite his suspicions. Name some public place; a hotel would be the best."
"Will I have to face him?" she faltered. "I'm afraid."
"I'll be there," said Jack. "You may leave him to me."
Jack had no great confidence that Mrs. Cleaver would stand by him unless he were right there to assert his supremacy; she meant well, but she was as weak as water. Therefore he took care to be on hand early at her house next morning, and was prepared to hang around all day if necessary listening for the telephone.
By great good luck the call came while he was in the room with her, so that she had no opportunity to betray him, even if she were disposed to do so. By the instant change in her when she heard the voice over the wire, Jack knew that it was he whom they were expecting.
In dumb play Jack ordered her to hold the receiver an inch from her ear. Then by bringing his head close to hers he was able to hear practically all the man said.
"Good morning. Is there anything you want to tell me?"
Jack thrilled a little hearing the veritable voice of his adversary. It was the nearest he had yet come to him. A familiar quality in the sound tantalized him. But he could not place it.
"Yes," said Mrs. Cleaver. Her breathlessness seemed quite natural. "I'm so glad you called up. I can't explain very well. There's something queer. I'm afraid they may be listening at the switch down-stairs."
"Something in connection with our two young gentlemen?" asked the voice.
"Yes, one of them is acting so strangely."
"The principal one?"
"No, the other. He seems well—suspicious. I could explain better if I saw you. Can I see you?"
"Yes, if you wish," came the calm reply.
"Where?"
"Let me see—you'll have to come at once, because I am leaving town this afternoon. Suppose you come to the Hotel Bienvenu, and meet me in the main lobby."
"Half an hour," Jack whispered to Mrs. Cleaver.
"I'll come just as soon as I can dress," she said over the 'phone. "Can you give me half an hour?"
"Very well. I shall expect you in half an hour."
Jack's heart beat high with hope. He immediately called up police headquarters and got the Third Deputy Commissioner on the wire. After identifying himself to that individual, he asked to have a plainclothes man meet him in the bar of the Hotel Bienvenu in twenty minutes time, to make an arrest. The Deputy Commissioner said he would bring the man up himself, so there could be no possibility of missing Jack.
To Mrs. Cleaver Jack said: "I will go to the Bienvenu now and wait for my men. You leave here in precisely twenty-five minutes. Have your chauffeur let you out at the side door of the Bienvenu, and then walk around by the street to the front door. This will bring you past the windows of the bar, and will give me a chance to point you out to my policeman. Then I'll send him up into the lobby, and I can remain in the background. He will arrive in the lobby at the same moment with you."
All the preliminaries passed off as Jack had planned. The Deputy Commissioner and the plainclothes man turned up in the bar of the Bienvenu at the very moment of the time appointed. They took up their post at a window, and sure enough in five minutes Mrs. Cleaver swam past their ken, regal and languid in her silver fox furs.
"That's the woman," Jack said to the policeman. "Mark her well. Now go up into the lobby. As you get there she will just be coming in the front door. Watch who approaches her. Arrest the man with whom she gets in conversation. He's supposed to be an elderly man, short, stocky, with gray hair brushed forward of his ears, gray mustache and Imperial. But he may be disguised. Arrest any man that goes up to her and engages her in conversation. Watch yourself well, for he's a desperate character."
"We'll wait down here," added the Deputy Commissioner. "If you need help blow your whistle."
The policeman departed upstairs, and Jack ordered the Deputy Commissioner a drink. Jack thought he was perfectly cool, until he became aware of a curious little fluttering in his veins. It became increasingly difficult to sit still. When the drink was brought he forgot all about it. He could not keep his imagination within bounds. He tasted the great glory that would be his when it became known that he, single-handed, had broken up the amazing traffic in blackmail. He saw himself taking his rightful place as John Farrow Norman, and enjoying his riches with an easy mind. He saw Kate relenting at last. Meanwhile his eyes were glued to the dragging minute hand of the clock.
"Something must be the matter with that clock!" he cried. "Oh, this is fierce! If I could only go up there and see what is going on!"
"Give him time," said the Deputy Commissioner soothingly. "He hasn't been gone three minutes yet. Your man may be late."
In five minutes the plainclothes man was back in the bar. One look in his perplexed face told Jack that things had not gone off as he had planned. The bright bubble of his dreams burst.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
The man shrugged. "She wants you, the lady. Told me to bring you quick."
"But the man?" asked Jack as he followed him back.
"Never came. She hadn't any more than sat down when a bell-hop begun paging her. Mrs. Cleaver, he was calling. He had a letter for her. She begun to read it, and jumped up and sat down again quick. I thought she was going to faint, and hung around like. She sees me looking at her and says: 'Are you the policeman?' I nods, and she says: 'Bring Mr. Robinson quick.' That's all."
They entered the lobby, and Jack saw Mrs. Cleaver sitting in one of the big chairs. The brave air with which she had sailed past the window was in eclipse. She looked limp and white. As he came to her she held out an open letter without speaking. He read:
"Dear Mrs. Cleaver:
"So you have decided to turn against me—after spending a hundred and fifty thousand of my money. Well, that's your affair of course. I hope you know where you're going to get more. This was a clumsy trap to expect to take the old fox in. Tell the young secretary he will have to do better than this if he expects to make that great reputation he is dreaming of. Like most young men he is prone to go of at half cock. Tell him that he had better be sure that he has anything against me before he calls in the police. But give him and the Third Deputy Commissioner my regards. They are waiting in the bar.
"Cordially yours,"Mr. B."
Mr. B's taunting letter was a bitter dose for Jack's pride to swallow. Jack was young and very human, and it was only natural he should have been a little puffed up by his preliminary successes in a task that might well have daunted an experienced detective. And then to discover after all that his crafty adversary had only been playing with him, that he was aware of all his movements—well, Jack ground his teeth a bit. But the effect on the whole was salutary. The letter rebuked Jack's vanity, and steeled his resolution.
"I was a fool!" he told himself. "I didn't give the old boy credit for ordinary horse sense. Well, I won't make the same mistake again. I can't do anything more in my own character, that's certain. He has a perfect line on me as Bobo's secretary. But he doesn't know anything about Pitman yet—or young Henry Cassels, the student at Barbarossa's school. I'll get him yet."
The affair of the letter resulted in the swift break-up of Mrs. Cleaver's establishment. Jack did not see her again. He instructed the bank to pay her two hundred dollars weekly. She rented her house and departed—for an extensive trip through the South, it was given out.
Miriam disappeared too. Jack hoped that his mind would now be relieved of any further anxiety concerning her designs on Bobo. She would naturally suppose Jack thought, that in the general expose her connection with Mr. B. would be made known to Bobo, and she would scarcely have the effrontery to pursue him further. But Jack underrated that young lady's hardihood, as will be seen.
As a matter of fact Jack did not feel that it was necessary to explain to Bobo the whys and wherefors of what had happened. He had no confidence in Bobo's discretion. He ascribed Mrs. Cleaver's sudden departure to her well-known capriciousness. Bobo was a bit dazed by the change in the situation, and broken-hearted at the seeming loss of Miriam.
"Why don't I hear from her!" he cried a hundred times a day. "There wasn't any trouble the last time I saw her. You know, we went to the theater together, and you and Clara had dinner at home. When we got home Clara had gone to bed with a headache, but you were there waiting for us, and the three of us had a rabbit together, all as jolly as possible."
"The next day when I went back to lunch the whole house was upset. Miriam had gone out they said, and Clara wouldn't see me. The butler said she was packing. I hung around a couple of hours, and nobody so much as offered me a bite. At last I had to go away to get something to eat. When I got back Miriam had come in and gone again, gone for good the man said. He had had his wages, and was openly impudent. And she hadn't left me a line! The next day the whole house was closed up. I can't understand it! Did Clara write to you?"
"Just a line to say that she couldn't face the fag of a New York season, and was going South for a rest."
"Let me see the letter, will you?"
"Oh, I didn't keep it."
"What do you suppose has become of Miriam?"
"You can search me."
In his mind's eye Jack had a vivid picture of that final scene between Miriam and Clara. Figuratively the fur must have flown!
"I can't understand it!" said poor Bobo. "I didn't do anything to her. She has my address."
"Forget her!" said Jack.
"Oh, you never liked her!" said poor Bobo.
Bobo instituted a sort of footless search for her, which consisted mainly in mooning around the different places they had visited together. Jack let him alone. It could do no harm he thought, and it kept Bobo occupied.
Meanwhile the poor fellow's appetite suffered. He lost weight and no longer found any zest in spending money. He moaned in his sleep, and cried out Miriam's name. Jack somehow had not suspected that a fat man might be so subjected to love's torments.
And then one night when Jack returned to dinner, after having spent the afternoon with Anderson, he found a change. He first noticed it in the eagerness with which Bobo picked up the menu card. Finding Jack's sharp eyes on him, he dropped it again, and said with a sigh that he couldn't eat a thing. But he did—several things. Bobo had but an imperfect command over his facial muscles. The corners of his mouth would turn up.
"He has seen her," thought Jack. "I'll have to tell him the truth now."
"What'll we do to-night?" said Bobo casually.
"Stay home," suggested Jack.
"If you're tired you'd better turn in early," said Bobo with deceitful solicitude. "I'll go out for a little while. I want to look around one or two places."
"All right. I want to have a little talk with you first."
Bobo's face fell absurdly. "Oh, all right," he muttered.
When they were back in their own rooms Jack said without preamble: "So you saw her to-day."
"Saw who?" said Bobo with innocent wide open eyes.
"Come off! Who is it that makes your eyes shine, and your mouth purse up in a whistle?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"We're wasting time."
"If you are referring to Miss Culbreth," said Bobo on his dignity, "I have not seen her."
"What's the use of lying to me? You're as transparent as window glass!"
"Oh, if you've made up your mind that I'm a liar, what's the use of my saying anything?"
"Look here. Miriam is either what I think she is, or what you think she is. If she's all that's good and pure as you think——"
"As Iknow!" corrected Bobo.
Jack dryly accepted the correction. "As you know. It can't do her any harm to tell me the truth about what happened to-day."
"I can't!" said Bobo obstinately.
"I suppose she made you promise not to tell me."
Bobo was silent.
"Very well. Now listen. When you came with me the first condition of our agreement was that you should obey orders. Isn't that so?"
Bobo nodded sullenly.
"Well, I order you to tell me what happened to-day. That lets you out of any promise you may have made."
Poor Bobo was quite unable to stand out against a stronger nature. "Oh, since you put it that way, I have seen her."
"Where?"
"In the Park. On a bench near that fountain down the steps at the end of the Mall. We used to sit there sometimes in the sun. And I just went back on a chance—well you know!"
"Sure, I know how you feel," said Jack more sympathetically. "I'm sorry to see so much good feeling wasted."
"It's not wasted. While I was sitting there a woman came by heavily veiled. I didn't know her at first, but when she saw me she gave a little cry. It was forced from her. She didn't mean to let me recognize her. She tried to get away, but I stopped her."
Jack concealed his smile.
"It was Miriam," Bobo went on. "And what do you think! Just like me she had been attracted to the spot where we had been happy! Wasn't that wonderful!"
"Very wonderful!" said Jack drily.
"She was so overcome she had to sit down for a moment," Bobo continued. "When I reproached her for not sending me word, she said she had been so shocked at the discovery of Mrs. Cleaver's wickedness, she hadn't known what she was doing. Her one idea was to escape from that woman's house. Why didn't you tell me what she had been up to?"
"Never mind that now. Go on with your story."
"When she collected her wits, she said she didn't think it was any use her writing to me, because she was sure I would think she was mixed up in it too."
"Well that was pretty near the truth," Jack put in.
"She said she was sure you would never let such a chance go by of turning me against her."
"But I didn't use it against her, did I?"
"Oh, I expect you had your own reasons. I didn't know what Miriam was talking about. I begged her to tell me what Mrs. Cleaver had been up to, but she refused to believe that I had not been told. Even when I had convinced her I knew nothing she wouldn't tell me because she didn't want to betray her cousin. Bad as she was, she was still her cousin, Miriam said."
"Bosh!" said Jack scornfully. "No more her cousin than you are!"
"Oh, you never believe anything Miriam says," complained Bobo.
"Let that go for the present. What else happened?"
"Nothing much. She was relieved to find out that I didn't think wrong of her. We talked—but we didn't say much." Bobo got red. "Hang it all, I don't have to tell you everything I say to a girl, do I?"
"No," said Jack grinning.
"In the end I promised her I wouldn't tell you I'd seen her. That's all."
"And you're going to see her again, to-night?"
"Y-yes."
"Where?"
"She's stopping temporarily at the Bienvenu."
"Now let's try and let a little light on this subject," said Jack. "She's always saying that I'm trying to turn you against her, isn't she?"
"Yes, and it's true."
"What reason does she give for my actions?"
"Why—I don't know."
"Think a little. Her idea is that I am afraid of her influence over you, because it may threaten mine, isn't it?"
"Well—yes."
"And that's ridiculous, isn't it?"
But Bobo was obstinately silent.
"Good God!" cried Jack. "Are you my boss or aren't you?"
"No," muttered Bobo.
"Then what possible motive could I have for wishing to turn you against her?"
"I don't know," said Bobo sullenly. "I can't read your mind."
Jack threw up his hands. "You're so stuck on your role of multi-millionaire, that you're always forgetting it's only a role you're playing. Now listen. I'm going to tell you the whole truth about Mrs. Cleaver and Miriam. It's all I can do for you. In the first place Mrs. Cleaver has been in the pay of the old man for three years. It was he who supplied the coin to keep up that house. I caught her with the goods."
"Impossible!" gasped Bobo. "A society woman like that! You're sure you are not mistaken?"
"Read that," said Jack, handing him Mr. B.'s letter to Mrs. Cleaver.
Bobo's hair almost stood on end as he recognized the handwriting, and appreciated the significance of what he read.
"But—but Miriam didn't know anything about this. She said she was stunned when she learned of what her cousin——"
"Please don't give me any more of that stuff. Mrs. Cleaver was only the old man's catspaw, but Miriam is a confidential insider."
"How do you know that?"
"Well, for one thing Mrs. Cleaver told me the old man had sent Miriam to her."
"But you've just said the woman was a crook. That's no proof."
"Oh, that's not all I have against Miriam. It appears that she was practicing her wiles on Silas Gyde before he was killed."
From his desk Jack got the unfinished letter that the dead millionaire had left behind him. To Bobo he read that part of it which referred to Miriam.
Bobo was shaken but unconvinced. "That description might fit dozens of girls," he said.
"Sure," said Jack, "all except the peculiar mole on the inside of her right forefinger. Ever noticed that?"
"N-no."
"Well, I have. If you're going to see her again, I recommend that you look for it."
Bobo was now weakening fast "What do you suppose her game is?"
"That's easy. To marry you and get a strangle hold on your supposed millions. Now I didn't want to tell you all this because it endangers the game I'm playing. But I got you into it, and I don't want your blood on my conscience either."
"My b-blood!" stammered Bobo, white as a sheet.
Jack said simply: "If you let yourself be inveigled into marrying that girl, when she finds out you haven't got a sou, she'll kill you. She's that kind."
Bobo shook as with an ague. "I'll never see her again," he whispered. "I swear it!"
Jack—in the character of Mr. Pitman, had now reached a degree of intimacy with Dave Anderson, manager of the Eureka Protective Association, sufficient to enable him to drop into Anderson's private office at any hour during the day without exciting remark. He was careful never to display the least curiosity concerning Anderson's business, but simply kept his eyes and ears open and picked up what he could.
His patience was rewarded at last. One morning as he entered the private office, he found Anderson engaged in tying up a little packet, the significant size and shape of which made Jack's heart beat faster.
"Remittance day," said the indiscreet Anderson carelessly. "Just wait till I get this off to the boss, and I'll go out and have a smile with you."
Jack had instantly made up his mind to follow that packet. "Sorry," he said, "can't stop now. Just dropped in to ask you the number of your cigar-maker on lower Sixth avenue. I've got to go down in that neighborhood, and I thought I'd get some."
"81 Sixth," said Anderson. "Will we lunch to-day?"
"All right," said Jack, "I'll be back in time."
Meanwhile Anderson was writing the address on the packet. Jack after considerable practice had taught himself to read his writing upside down. He now read:
"MR. PETER FEATHERSTONE,Hotel Abercrombie.(To be called for.)"
This was all he required. He bade Anderson good-by, and went out. Having plenty of time, he proceeded in leisurely fashion to the Abercrombie, one of the great hotels in the Thirty-Fourth street district. He was filled with a great hope.
"Please God, I'll get him this time. I'm safe against recognition in the Pitman disguise. I won't call on any plainclothes man now, but trust to myself."
Prudence restrained him from premature rejoicings. "No counting of chickens this time!" he warned himself. "Remember you're dealing with a customer as slick as an eel. If he slips through your fingers you've got to be prepared to begin all over to-morrow!"
In the pillared lobby of the Abercrombie Jack bought a newspaper, and planted himself in a chair in such wise, that while appearing to be absorbed in the news, he could command all that went on at the desk.
As he was waiting there little Harmon Evers the wig-maker passed through. Jack, not wishing to be recognized by any one just then, buried himself a little deeper in his newspaper, but Evers stopped beside him, nodding and smiling. His expression approved the Pitman make-up as put on by Jack.
"Couldn't have done better myself," he said.
Jack couldn't help but be flattered. "One becomes expert with practice," he said.
"You're on your business and I'm on mine," Evers said with a sly smile, indicating a little satchel that he carried.
"I didn't know you had to go out to yours," said Jack.
"Oh, yes, there's an elderly matinee idol lives here, who wouldn't dare leave his room until I have renovated him. If there was an alarm of fire before I got here, I believe he'd burn up."
Jack laughed.
"But I see you have serious affairs on your mind. Au revoir. Come down to my place when you can, and we'll talk philosophy."
With a nod and a smile he went on to the elevator.
Meanwhile Jack had missed nothing of what went on at the desk. In a short while a messenger boy came in carrying the packet he had seen in Anderson's hands. It was receipted for at the desk and tossed in the pigeonhole marked "F" of the division for letters to be called for.
For twenty minutes thereafter Jack watched the comedy of "The Hotel Desk" being played before him. Unfortunately his mind was at too great a tension to permit him to enjoy the finer shades of comedy. He silently swore at the crowd and the confusion which made it well-nigh impossible for one pair of eyes to follow all that was going on.
He concentrated on the letter box marked "F," and watched it until his eyeballs seemed ready to crack.
Finally the hand of one of the clerks shot out to that box, and hastily shuffling the contents, picked out the packet again. Jack's heart gave a jump. He hastily scanned the row in front of the desk at the moment, but there was no figure among them that answered to the descriptions of "Mr. B." At the end of the row was another messenger boy. The clerk handed the packet to him.
"Of course he wouldn't come himself," thought Jack.
Jack followed the messenger out of the hotel. Boy-like, he shambled up the street, whistling vociferously, tossing the packet in the air and catching it again, careless of the pedestrians he collided with in his exercise. Presumably had he known the contents he would have treated the packet with greater respect.
He turned West in Thirty-Fourth street, stopping to gaze in every window that attracted his attention. Jack was hard put to it to accommodate himself to the snail-like pace without being conspicuous. At the Madison avenue corner an automobile had broken down. The boy hailed this diversion with glee, and Jack, too, had to stand around until the youngster had gazed his fill.
Suddenly the boy aimlessly darted across the street like a bird—or a boy, threading his way among the cars hurrying in both directions. Jack almost lost him then. He finally picked him up on the other side, engaged in converse with another messenger. An argument developed and hostilities were threatened.
"I kin lick you wit' one hand behind me."
"You're anutter!"
"Want to see me do it?"
"Ya-ah!"
"You jus' say any more and you'll see!"
"I ain't askeered of yeh, yeh big stiff!"
"You say that again!"
"Ahh! I dare yeh to touch me! I dare yeh!"
And so on, and so on. Jack, feeling very foolish, had to make out to be studying the pattern of a rug displayed in a nearby window. Anybody who knows boys knows that these discussions are apt to be kept up a long time without getting anywhere. But they end as suddenly as they begin. Having exhausted their powers of repartee they parted, instantly forgetting each other. Jack's quarry continued around the corner and up Fifth avenue.
There were other interruptions; a man was painting a sign; another was dressing a window. Jack almost despaired of arriving at any destination. He wondered if the old man was as impatiently awaiting his packet. Finally it began to rain, and the boy mended his pace a little. He led Jack into the Public Library, and Jack with an accelerated beating of the heart wondered if the rendezvous were here. But the boy went out again by the Forty-Second street door, and it appeared he had only been taking advantage of the long corridors to walk dry shod.
The messenger darted across Forty-Second street in his usual reckless style, and Jack found himself back in the vicinity of the Eureka offices. To his astonishment, the boy turned into that very building. Jack went up in the elevator with him. He got put at the fourth floor, and entered the Eureka offices.
Jack lingered in the corridor, biting his lips in chagrin. All his trouble amounted to this, that he had been led back to the point he started from. He wondered if it were possible that the seemingly heedless Anderson had turned a clever trick on him. He felt that he had to find out at whatever risk. He had a good excuse to enter, for he had said he would be back. He entered, passing through the outer office into Anderson's room as he was accustomed to do.
Anderson was in the act of receipting for the packet. He greeted Jack without the least departure from his usual careless air, and Jack felt relieved. The boy went out, already pursing up his lips to whistle. It all meant nothing to him.
Jack ventured to say with an indifferent air: "Why, when I left you, you were just sending out a packet like that."
"It was the very same package," Anderson replied. "Funny thing, half an hour after I sent it the boss called up again, and said he'd changed his mind and wanted it at the Hotel Madagascar. He never did that before. I sent after it, but the boy was so long coming back, I went to the bank and drew more. 'Tain't healthy to keep the boss waiting too long. I just sent off the second lot."
"Madagascar!" thought Jack. "My own hotel! He has a nerve. Maybe there's a chance to get him there!"
"Ready for lunch?" asked Anderson.
"Sorry, I can't go with you to-day," said Jack. "I've had a hurry call from the house to go up to Yonkers. Just dropped in to tell you not to wait."
"Oh, too bad!" said Anderson. "See you to-morrow?"
"Sure!"
While he descended in the elevator Jack thought quickly. His thoughts were not altogether pleasant ones. Evidently "Mr. B." or one of his agents had seen him watching in the Abercrombie and had taken warning. If this were so his disguise had been seen through. Jack did not so much mind the fact that his adversary had given him the slip again, but he had counted heavily on that disguise. And now the whole structure that he had built upon it was crumbling.
But he was far from being discouraged. "Mr. B." had had the nerve to choose the Madagascar. Very well, he would try to call his bluff there. Since it was his own hotel he didn't have to waste the time to get there. He could telephone ahead. He hastened to the nearest booth.
He got the desk at the Madagascar. Establishing the fact that the voice on the wire was that of Baldwin, a clerk well known to him, he said:
"This is Robinson speaking, Mr. Norman's secretary. Do you recognize my voice?"
"Yes, sir, certainly, Mr. Robinson."
"Listen carefully. There's a crook trying to pull a little game on Mr. Norman, and I've framed up a plant to get him with the goods. Do you get me?"
"Yes, sir."
"There's just been a package delivered to the desk there, or will be delivered in a few minutes addressed to Mr. Peter Featherstone, to be called for. No, wait a minute! That name may have been changed—but I'm sure about the package. It's a small flat package the size and shape of a bundle of greenbacks laid flat. It's wrapped in a sheet of white typewriter paper, and tied with a green string. Look and see if you have such a package there now. I'll hold the wire." Presently the answer came: "Yes, sir, we have such a package, but it's addressed to Mr. Amos Tewkesbury."
"That's all right," said Jack. "The name doesn't signify. Now I want you to keep Connolly the house detective within call, and have him arrest, as quietly as possible, whoever calls for that package. Keep the man in the room behind the office until I can get there. I'll go in by the side door and telephone down to you from our suite. Is that all clear?"
"Perfectly, sir."
Jack hailed a taxi and had himself carried home, that is to say to Kate's house, where Mr. Pitman had his ostensible domicile. It was not the sober Mr. Pitman's habit to employ taxis, but this was an urgent case. Jack had to remove the Pitman make-up, of course, before he could show himself around the Madagascar.
He hastily changed to the more elegant attire of the millionaire's secretary, and then made his way through the vault into Silas Gyde's old rooms, thence across the corridor to the rear of the state apartments. Something less than half an hour had elapsed since he had called up Baldwin.
Bobo was there, moping in a dressing-gown while he waited for lunch time, the only thing that relieved his heavy hours. He brightened a little at the sight of some one to whom he might pour out his troubles.
"I wish I were dead!" he groaned.
Jack was in no mood to listen to him then. He ran to the telephone, and snatched the receiver from the hook.
"What's up?" said Bobo, infected with his excitement.
"Give me Mr. Baldwin at the desk," Jack said to the operator.
"Hello, Baldwin. This is Robinson. Have you got my man?"
"Yes, sir, we've got him all right!"
"Thank God! Have him quietly brought up here."
Jack hung up the receiver and did a go-as-you-please around the Dutch room, hurdling the chairs. Bobo gazed at him goggle-eyed.
"What on earth——!"
"I've got him!" cried Jack. "I've got him! I did it with my own little wits. Once too often he tried to fool me! He was just a little too nervy trying to pull something in my own hotel!"
"Got who? The old man himself!" cried Bobo amazed.
"Joy and deliverance!" sang Jack. "All honest millionaires can now sleep easy o' nights!"
"But what's going to become of me now?" said poor Bobo.
Jack's transports were interrupted by a ring at the outer door of the suite. He ran to it and flung it open.
Bitter disappointment awaited him.
It was not the famous, much-desired "Mr. B" that he saw outside nor was it a figure that could possibly have taken his shape. Connolly, the house detective, had his huge hand on the shoulder of a slinking, weedy youth with sallow vacuous face, and cigarette stained fingers; in other words, the typical loafer of the Times Square neighborhood. Baldwin was behind the pair, eager to see what would happen.
"Oh, that's not my man!" cried Jack.
There was an awkward silence.
"I followed your instructions to the letter," said Baldwin, eager to justify himself. "You said to arrest any man that asked for that package. This man asked for it."
"Sure," said Jack quickly. "You did right. I'm disappointed, that's all."
"I haven't done anything," whined the prisoner. "What are you going to do to me?"
"Shall I let him go, sir?" boomed Connolly.
Jack roused himself. "Not on your life," he said. "He's got to give an account of himself. Bring him in and shut the door." To the weedy youth he said: "Who sent you here?"
The answer came voluble and craven: "I don't know who the guy was. I never seen him before. Honest, I didn't know there was anything crooked in it. I'm no crook, boss."
"Describe the man who sent you here."
The answer came readily: "A medium old guy, stoutish, not real fat. Had his hair brushed in a funny way, old-fashioned-like, and a little chin whisker."
"That's my man!" said Jack grimly. "Where did you meet him?"
"I was standin' in front of the pitcher theater on Seventh below Forty-Second with some other fellows when a big black limousine car came along and stopped at the curb. We all took notice of it, it was such a long car, long as an ambulance. The door opened a little way, and an old guy leaned out and held up a finger to me.
"He asks me if I want to earn a dollar, and I says sure. So he tells me to go to the desk of the Madagascar, and ask for a package for Mr. Amos Tewkesbury, and bring it to him. But he said he wouldn't be in the car when I got back. He said he'd be standing on the northwest corner of Forty-Second Street and Seventh, and I wasn't to stop when I saw him, but just slip him the package, and take the dollar he'd be holding in his hand. That's all. I didn't see no wrong in it."
"Maybe he's lying, sir," said Connolly.
Jack shook his head. "Sounds like my man," he said.
"What'll I do with him, sir?"
"Let him have the package and let him go," said Jack.
To the prisoner he said sternly: "Your story may be true, but this is an ugly business you've mixed yourself up in. You'd have a hard time proving your innocence in court. The only way you can square yourself is by helping us pinch this crook."
The sallow youth turned a shade paler. "He's stronger than me, and he's heeled," he muttered.
"I don't want you to lay hands on him. I'll take care of that. You follow your instructions just as he gave them to you. Hand him the package without stopping. Go quickly, and don't look behind you."
To Connolly Jack said: "Take a taxi to the corner of Eighth and Forty-Second, and walk back on Forty-Second. You've heard the description of the man I want, and the car he rides in. If he gives me the slip, and tries to escape towards the West, nab him."
It was still raining. Jack snatched up an umbrella and, opening it with his penknife, made a little triangular cut midway in the silk.
"My disguise," he said.
The sallow youth, clasping the package, hurried out of the hotel with Jack at his heels. Jack raised the umbrella and held it low over his head. Thus while his face was hidden from the passersby, he could still see ahead through the little hole. The stretch of pavement between the Madagascar and Forty-Second street was as thronged as it is twenty hours out of the twenty-four, even in the rain.
They had crossed Forty-Third street and were within two hundred feet of the appointed place. Jack was peering eagerly ahead through his peep-hole, when suddenly his umbrella was knocked sideways, and a clawlike hand clutched his wrist. A cracked voice squalled:
"Stop him! He snatched my pocketbook!"
It was a bent little old woman in a queer rusty bonnet over a brown wig. She wore glasses so thick, that her eyes were like little points far behind them. She redoubled her cries.
"He's a thief! He stole my pocketbook!"
Jack crimsoned with anger and mortification. He was helpless. To knock the old woman out of the way would only have been to convict himself of her preposterous charge. In five seconds a great crowd was pushing and shoving around them.
"All my money! All my money!" wailed the old woman, and actually two tears rolled down her withered cheeks. It was the perfection of acting.
A loud murmur of sympathy went up from the crowd, and violent threats were made in Jack's face. He ground his teeth in impotent rage. Anything he might have said would only have made matters worse. He retained the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut.
"Hold him!" cried the old woman. "I'll get a policeman!"
Half a dozen pairs of hands seized Jack roughly. The old woman threaded her way with surprising celerity through the crowd.
Jack permitted himself to say: "You'll never see her again. It's a frame-up to let her and her partner make a getaway."
"Shut up, you thief!" they roared. "Shut up, or we'll smash your hat over your eyes." Those behind who had little idea of what was going on roared out of sympathy.
But the temper of a crowd is subject to abrupt changes. A minute passed and the old woman did not return. It suddenly struck the people that the well-dressed Jack, proud, angry and silent, did not much resemble a purse-snatcher. Jack, feeling the change, said scornfully:
"Do you see her coming back? I tell you it's a frame-up."
The men who had hold of Jack became uncertain, and finally let go. Jack elbowed his way out, and none sought to stop him now. The crowd dissolved. The whole incident had occupied less than two minutes, but that was long enough to do the mischief. The packet presumably had been handed over, and both messenger and principal swallowed up.
Jack hastened over the remaining distance to the corner of Forty-Second street. Neither the sallow youth nor the old gentleman with the imperial was visible of course. Jack hesitated at a loss which way to turn. There was a chance that the old man, having received the money, had turned Westward and so might be intercepted by Connolly, but it was a faint one.
While Jack stood there the traffic officer at that important crossing gave the signal for the East and West-bound traffic to cross, and a double line of cars darted across Seventh Avenue. Fourth in the line of those bound East Jack saw the long black limousine that had been so often described to him.
As it flashed by he had a glimpse of a silk-hatted head with gray hair brushed forward of the ears, ruddy complexion, gray moustache and imperial. Alongside was the rusty black bonnet and the brown wig. The man's head was down, and his attitude suggested he was counting something in his lap. The woman's glance followed his.
It was Jack's first glimpse of his quarry, and his hunting instinct was spurred to action. He made a zig-zag dash across the street under the very wheels of motors and trolley cars. The black limousine was out of his reach, but by great good luck he found a taxicab standing by the curb with its engine running.
He flung himself in, crying: "Four times your fare if you can keep that car in sight. A hundred dollars if I am able to arrest the couple in it!"
The taxi leaped ahead. Jack lowered the front window, and leaning forward, pointed out the right car to the chauffeur. In a wild spurt down Forty-Second street they gained half a block on the limousine. They just managed to get across Sixth avenue before the whistle blew. At Fifth the whole line was held up for perhaps half a minute. The press was so great here, Jack could not see the black car, but he had carefully marked its position, about six cars ahead.
When the whistle blew for the East and West traffic to resume they saw it turn down Fifth with a burst of speed. They followed. In and out of the close traffic the big car threaded its way with a wonderful exhibition of sang-froid on the part of the chauffeur. Jack had a good chauffeur too. But a race through such a crowd is purely a matter of luck. They never succeeded in getting within less than five car lengths of their prize. Jack saw that the black car now bore a Georgia license. He made note of the number.
At Thirty-Fourth street the line was held up again. The whistle had just blown, and this promised to be a longer stoppage. Jack jumped out of the taxi, and ran ahead down the line with fast beating heart.
The black limousine was empty.
Jack gritted his teeth. "The devil's own luck favors him," he thought. "They must have left the car during the block on Forty-Second."
The chauffeur had not seen him. Jack did not approach him, thinking it better to take a chance of following him to his garage. The line got in motion again, and Jack swung himself aboard his taxi as it passed.
At Twenty-Eighth street the whistle blew just as the black car was crossing. It continued blithely down the avenue, the chauffeur waggling a derisive hand outside his car. Jack would have risked defying the whistle, but his way was effectually blocked by other cars in front and on both sides.
"My luck again!" he groaned.
They were held up there while a ten-horse truck bearing a steel girder crawled across the Avenue. When the whistle gave them leave to move again, the limousine had disappeared into a side street. They saw it no more.
Jack had the license number, but an investigation instituted by telegraph only proved as he expected, that that number had been issued to some one giving a mythical address in Atlanta. As for notifying the New York police, he knew very well that within half an hour the license tags on the black limousine would be changed.
The most indomitable spirits have their dark hours, and this was Jack's. He returned to the Madagascar feeling that he had come to the end of his resources. It was hard to bear with the commiseration of the hotel detective and clerk on his failure; and he was in no mood to put up with Bobo's selfish complaints.
Bobo's reasoning powers, as has been seen, were of a primitive simplicity. Like a child or a savage he was always under the complete sway of the feeling of the moment. Just now he was, or thought he was, broken-hearted over the loss of Miriam. Forgetting that he had given her up of his own free will, and for good cause, he blamed Jack for all his present misery.
"Did you get him?" he asked when Jack came in.
"No."
To say that Bobo was pleased at the escape of "Mr. B." would be putting it too strongly, but he was certainly not sorry to see Jack's discomfiture.
"Huh! You're too sure of yourself!" he said.
Jack flashed an angry look at him, but said nothing.
"You always think you know more than anybody else!" Bobo unwisely went on. "You're always making up your mind what people are, and telling them what, to do, and all. You want to regulate the universe."
"Still thinking about that girl!" said Jack. "Will you please tell me what Mr. B.'s giving me the slip has got to do with her?"
"I'm just telling you you don't know everything," said Bobo with a superior air.
It was too much. Jack's patience snapped suddenly. "You fool! Your talk has as much sense as barnyard cackle! Is it my fault that you lost your head over an adventuress? This is the thanks I get for trying to save you! For Heaven's sake, go and marry her and be damned to you! But stop grousing about it to me!"
He went out slamming the door, and leaving a much-scared Bobo behind him. Passing through the suite, he crossed to Gyde's old rooms, and let himself through the vault into his room in Kate's house. There was a great change in this room. Under the present régime it was a model of neatness and comfort.
Here Jack lit his pipe and flung himself down, and a measure of peace returned to him. There was comfort in the silence, and in the thought of the locks that secured him from the chatter of fools.
"The old boy wasn't so far wrong when he built himself a refuge like this," he thought.
But by and by when the fragrant smoke had steadied his nerves, he began to tire of solitude. To particularize, he desired the society of a certain person, to wit: the mistress of the house.
In order to see her it was necessary for him to assume the Pitman make-up. Much against his will—he was thinking of putting Mr. Pitman out of the way now, he arrayed himself in that character, and sallied forth in search of Kate.
He found her in her own sunny sitting-room on the floor above. The old-fashioned mother was there too. Mrs. Storer was not in the secret of Jack's disguise. She considered Mr. Pitman rather a common fellow, but was always polite. Now after a few minutes' small conversation, she recollected an errand in her well-trained way, and left the room.
Kate was sewing. The needle became her better than the typewriter. As mistress of a house she seemed to have discovered her true vocation. It may be mentioned in passing that this establishment was a success, and was already paying its way.
"We don't see much of you now," said Kate.
"It's not from not wanting to on my part," he said, watching her dreamily. "But a twenty-four hour day scarcely gives you time enough to play one part, let alone two or three." The sunlight behind her was making a little halo in the edges of her dark hair, and he scarcely knew what his tongue was saying.
"How are things going?" she asked.
The consciousness of defeat still rankled in Jack's breast; he felt a very natural desire to shine in somebody's eyes, so he said carelessly:
"My net is closing around the old man. He can't escape me now. I'll gather him in, when my case is complete."
"Fine!" said Kate.
But Jack could not be sure there was not a faint ring of irony in her voice. He never could be sure of Kate.
"All my lines are working well," he went on. "I had a glimpse of the old man to-day, but I thought it was better to let him go for awhile. I'm not sure of being able to convict him."
"This morning when you left this house I believe you were followed," said Kate.
Jack was not going to admit just then that there was anything he had overlooked. "Oh, I think not."
"Well, I noticed a man standing at the corner looking at this house. His hat was pulled down over his eyes. As soon as you went out he disappeared."
"I take precautions against being trailed," said Jack.
"And I believe somebody has been tampering with the servants," Kate went on. "Yesterday I found Bessie, the upstairs girl, exhibiting entirely too much curiosity as to the arrangements of your room. I shall let her go at the end of the week."
"It isn't possible they could have discovered the secret of this house," said Jack. Something told him he was talking fatuously, but a little devil of perversity held sway over him for the time being.
"You know best of course," said Kate.
This time he was almost sure he heard the ironical note, and he glanced at her uneasily. But the dark head was bent too low over her work for him to read her face. He felt a mighty desire to humble this cool and scornful maid, and changed his tack.
"You're looking very charming to-day."
"Thank you."
He got up, and sat as close to her as he could pull a chair.
"Go back where you were," she said calmly.
"I won't!" he said masterfully.
"Then I will." And she changed to the chair he had left.
Jack glowered at her. "One would think I spread a contagion."
"Well, you know I don't care particularly for Mr. Pitman."
"That's only an excuse. It's me you don't care for."
She laughed tantalizingly. Jack saw now that he had started wrong but didn't quite see how to repair the original mistake. He got up to go. He knew that if he lost his temper, he would be completely at her mercy.
"I'd better go if we're only going to quarrel," he muttered.
"Who's quarreling? Can't you take a joke?"
"It's like a flick of the whip on the raw."
He had sounded the right note at last. She heard the real pain in his voice, and jumped up, careless of where the sewing went.
"Jack, wait a minute! What's the matter?"
He paused with his hand on the door-knob. "Nothing."
"What's the matter?" she repeated. "I insist on knowing!"
"Oh, well, things have gone a bit wrong. What do you care?"
She actually stamped her foot. "How dare you speak to me that way! You came in here like the Lord Hereditary Marshal of England. How was I to know?"
"Well, I didn't want to let on that I had balled things up," he said sheepishly.
"You idiot! Will you ever learn the first rudiments of sense? Sit down here!" She pulled him down beside her Pitman make-up and all. "Now tell me all about it!"
Jack looked at her a little dazed by this sudden change of front. "Why—I thought you were just having a little fun with me."
"Certainly I was. You asked for it. Whenever you take that 'my poor little woman' tone with me, you simply give me a pain. But if you are really up against it—Ah!"
Her voice caught on a deep low note of tenderness. Jack gave up all thoughts of mastery; he would have been quite content to kiss her hand.
"Well, I am up against it," he said quite humbly and naturally—and told her all about it.
She said nothing until he was through; then: "There's no occasion to be cast down that I can see. You and the old man are playing a close game, and he's turned a trick on you. But the game's not over yet."
"He's so darn sure of himself!" grumbled Jack. "He knows what I have on him, but he goes around quite openly in his old black hearse! Shows himself everywhere. Goes on making his blackguardly collections right under my nose. He seems to enjoy playing with me."
"That's a kind of vanity," said Kate. "I have read that criminals often display it. It is that very thing that will surely deliver him into your hands in the end if you bide your time. Some day he is bound to take a chance too many."
Jack began to feel comforted. "I believe I could have him arrested to-morrow if I gave his description to the police," he said.
"Then why don't you?"
He shook his head obstinately. "I've got to do this myself. I've sworn it.—But how does he know I'm not going to turn over my case to the police? He seems to be able to read my mind!"
"Oh, there's no magic in that. He watches you of course, and anybody who knew anything about you must know that you would feel that way."
There was subtle flattery in this, and Jack began to feel warm about the heart once more.
"Well, he hasn't put me out of the game yet, though on this deal he has certainly called all my tricks. The minute I tried to use Mrs. Cleaver he trumped her. He has called the Pitman disguise, and he must know about my connection with Anderson. If he has spotted me coming out of this house, he must have guessed that there is a way through from the hotel. I'll have to think up an entirely new combination."
"How does the situation stand with the anarchists?" asked Kate.
"Nothing new down there since I told you. I am now a full member of the circle that Emil Jansen belonged to, but so far I have not succeeded in establishing 'Mr. B's' connection with it. I know there is a connection, because the murderers of both Ames Benton and Silas Gyde graduated from that circle. I have to move slowly there."
"Then there is the girl Miriam," suggested Kate. "I believe you could do something with her. Do you know where she is now?"
"Bobo told me she was at the Hotel Bienvenu. But she hates me like poison."
Kate smiled a little. "From what you've told me about her I gathered that she had a weakness of vanity, too. She was piqued because you resisted her charms. Why don't you look her up and well—not resist them quite so hard?"
"Kate!" he said scandalized.
"What?" she said with an innocent air.
"You recommend me to do that!"
"Why not? We don't owe her any consideration, I suppose."
"Oh, it's not that. But if you cared about me the least little bit, you wouldn't be handing me over to another woman."
"That's up to you. I couldn't be jealous of one like Miriam. If you are in any danger from that source, Mercy! I don't want you."
"In other words you know you've got me thrown and hog-tied!" he said scowling.
"Don't be vulgar. This is simply business. You really have a chance of getting somewhere through her. The old man will be sending her remittances now. If you could trace one of those back to its source——"
"Good! That's an idea! I think I see my way, too." His lassitude was gone. A fresh determination filled him. "Kate, you are my good fairy!" he cried. "You have put new life into me! I am going to start to work again this very minute!"
She said nothing, but her eyes were bright.
At the door of the room he paused, holding her hand. "You might let me kiss you before I go," he said diffidently. "Just as a kind of encouragement to go in and win."
Kate smiled. "That's the first time you ever asked me with becoming modesty.—Once. Right here." She put her finger on the dimple in her right cheek.