“It required Edith’s sympathy to get it out.
“What an infernal scoundrel the fellow is!
“What is true,” he continued, “is that we have for the first time knowledge of a threat on the part of Masson to kill Mrs. Constant.
“That becomes serious. Now we have a new motive for work.
“Patsy, you must be at the Grand Central Station to see your friends, Crummie and Graff, off to Chicago. Let them go, thinking that nobody suspects them.
“Then take up Masson’s shadow. That is to be your work for the present.
“In the meantime, I am growing alarmed about Ida. She was to wire me before this from Philadelphia.”
“Don’t worry, chief,” said Chick. “Ida knows how to take care of herself. If she has not wired you, it is because she means to turn up from that city this evening.”
“I hope so,” said Nick, uneasily.
Then the four went to dinner.
When Patsy set out to be present at the departure for Chicago of his two new acquaintances, Crummie and Graff, Nick and Chick accompanied him to the station, in order that they might become familiar with the appearance of Masson.
Under Edith’s recital of the tale told her by Blanche Constant of Masson’s persecutions, the latter person had assumed a new importance in Nick’s eye.
Arriving at the station, Patsy quickly espied the two East Side toughs.
They were roaming about the large room, evidently looking for some one, and not finding him.
“It begins to look,” said Patsy, “as if Masson had thrown ’em down.”
“Yet,” said Nick, “when you heard him talking to them, he seemed to be most anxious to have them get out of town, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” replied Patsy. “It was his idea. He proposed it to them.”
“There may have been a new turn in the game,” said Nick.
He had hardly said this when a man stepped out from a group of persons and walked over to the two, speaking to them.
Surprise was plainly shown on the faces of the two toughs when they were addressed, but the expression quickly changed to one of recognition.
This man was about the height of Chick, but he was smooth-shaven.
The three detectives, moving up more closely, saw this smooth-shaven stranger hand a small envelope to one of the two. Then he took from his pocket two small packages, handing one to each.
Patsy, who had edged away, so that he could get a clear view of the stranger’s face, came back to Nick, saying:
“Great Scott! The fellow has given himself a clean shave.”
“Shaved off his whiskers and mustache?” asked Nick.
“Sure,” said Patsy.
Nick made no reply, but Chick said:
“If the fellow looked no better before than he does after shaving, I pity him.”
“He looks a lot worse,” said Patsy.
Chick laughed, and Nick remarked:
“He is a foolish man.”
The doors leading to the train shed were now thrown open, and the gatemen began to call the train.
The two toughs shook hands with Masson and passed through the gate, on their way to the train they were to take.
Masson turned to go to the exit to the street, and in doing so passed close to the three detectives, apparentlywithout recognizing them. If he did, he made no sign of it.
He had gone but a few steps beyond this little group of detectives when he encountered a party of travelers, consisting of two ladies and two gentlemen. To this party he lifted his hat.
All of the four looked with some surprise upon him, and then one of the gentlemen broke into a laugh, saying:
“Why, you have made an astonishing change in your appearance, Masson.”
“Yes,” replied Masson, fully at ease. “And not for the better, I imagine.”
To this remark no one made reply, but the other gentleman said, lightly:
“It was a reckless thing to do—making such a complete change.”
“It was forced on me,” said Masson. “A fellow that looks like me has been going about town representing himself to be me, and causing me a good deal of trouble. The only way in which I could stop him was to destroy the resemblance.”
“Perhaps he will shave, too,” said one of the ladies.
“But he will not restore the resemblance,” replied Masson. “It was the whiskers that did the trick.”
Their conversation was changed with this, and Nick said to his companion:
“Was that said by Masson for our benefit, think you?”
“It sounded like a throw off,” said Chick.
The three detectives passed out of the building, andstood on the sidewalk in front of the main doors, waiting for Masson to make his appearance.
“You must follow Masson when he shows up, Patsy,” said Nick.
Patsy moved away, to be prepared for this duty, and Chick said:
“If Masson’s words were not intended for us, then they were important in showing that there is another man on the carpet who might be confused with him.”
“And,” added Nick, “it would afford an explanation of the contradictions that now bother us.”
At this moment Masson came through the door and walked briskly up Forty-second Street, Patsy following.
Nick made a signal to Chick, and started after.
Thus Masson was followed to Fifth Avenue, when he turned to the south, going down that avenue, to all appearance unconscious that he was followed.
At Thirty-seventh Street Nick stopped, Chick halting with him.
“I have followed as far as I want,” said Nick. “I wanted to see whether he walked with a hitch or jerk of his shoulders.”
“Did you notice it?” asked Chick.
“No,” said Nick. “I noticed nothing in the man’s habits of movement that indicated it.”
The two now turned to the west, leaving Patsy to continue his shadow of Masson alone.
This shadow led to a club some distance down FifthAvenue, in front of which stood two men, one of whom respectfully saluted Masson as he came up.
Masson walked directly to the man, and said, abruptly:
“There will be nothing doing, Denton, until to-morrow night. Then I want steam up and everything ready for a three or four weeks’ cruise. I want the launch to be at the old pier as early as eight o’clock, although I may not be there to meet it until ten.
“Now, Denton, I want no mistakes. The same men manning the launch that we have had before. I want the crew off the deck when I go aboard. You alone are to have the watch from nine to twelve.
“I shall be here at the club until midnight. After that I shall be at home until to-morrow. You can reach me any time to-morrow here at the club if you have need to.”
Masson was about to go into the clubhouse, and the two men to whom he was talking had moved off a short distance, when a third man came running up, saying:
“There is a mistake, Mr. Masson. The funeral does not take place to-morrow, but the day after.”
“Are you sure,” asked Masson.
“Sure. I got it from the undertaker in charge.”
Masson hurriedly called the two men back, and said to them:
“Wait! There may be a change of orders.”
Turning to the third man who had come up, he asked:
“What are the arrangements?”
“The funeral is at eleven, and the burial will be at Greenwood as soon thereafter as it can take place.”
“Hum!” exclaimed Masson, thoughtfully. “Day after to-morrow then. That changes all arrangements.”
He walked off to the two men who had come back and were patiently waiting for him to speak. To them he said:
“The orders I gave you are all off. Come to me to-morrow here for further orders. In the meantime, you can continue preparations for a long cruise. That’s all for the present.”
The two men went away, and Masson, taking the other by the arm, led him into the house.
Patsy had overheard the whole of this conversation by slipping out into the middle of the street, behind the four persons and climbing into a cab standing empty before the door.
When all had disappeared, he crawled out again and crossed to the other side of the street.
“Now, what does all that mean?” said Patsy to himself. “The first two men were from his yacht. That’s clear. And Masson is going on a long cruise. That’s clear, too. But who was the other man, and what’s that about a funeral?”
He stood thinking a little while, and then suddenly exclaimed:
“Gee! what if it’s the funeral of that Miss Romney? Well, I’ll shadow him for a while if he comes out, for Masson’s going to stay in the club.”
Shortly after the man who had entered with Masson came out, and leisurely walked off into the direction ofBroadway, closely followed by Patsy. It soon became apparent that he had no particular business on hand, nor any special place to go to, but was lounging from saloon to saloon.
“It’s eating up time for nothing following this chap,” said Patsy, to himself. “I’ll give him the drop, and start after the chief to find him.”
Acting upon this thought, Patsy hurried to his chief’s residence, to find that Nick had just come in with Chick.
He reported the conversation between Masson and the three men that he had overheard, to the great interest of the two elder detectives.
When he was through, Nick said:
“Masson has shipped off to Chicago the two men who were his instruments in the dog poisoning affair. Now he is going away for a long cruise himself.”
“But, chief,” said Chick, eagerly; “how about that funeral? His going away seems to be tied up with that.”
“I was coming to that,” said Nick, “and it is the most important thing. The undertaker, having been given full charge, had appointed to-morrow as the day of the funeral, but Mrs. Constant, having learned this, postponed the funeral another day, on the ground that it seemed like hurrying Ethel into the tomb to have the funeral so soon.
“Now compare this fact with what Patsy overheard between Masson and that third man who came up, and we can conclude that the funeral Masson is interested in is that of Ethel Romney.
“It appears, then, that Masson is determined to begin his cruise on the day of that funeral. Why?”
“It is very strange,” said Chick, “and I take it we will have to find that out. It can’t be, chief, that it is to be explained on the simple ground that Masson wishes to attend that funeral?”
“Dismiss that idea, Chick,” said Nick. “Masson will not attend in any event. No, we must look deeper than that for an explanation.”
The three were silent a moment, each busy with his own thoughts, when Nick said:
“This calls for action. We may be forced to show our hands before we are quite ready.”
“We can hardly let Masson go out of sight,” said Chick.
“And yet,” said Nick, “we have not enough basis on which to detain him. We have got to meet this another way.
“The name of his yacht is theDerelict. When he is not aboard, it lies in the East River, off Twenty-third Street. Patsy, there is some work for you to do.”
The famous detective got up from his chair, and began pacing up and down the apartment, keeping it up for a long time. When he stopped he dropped again into his chair, and said:
“I am satisfied that this move of Masson’s bears some relation to the case we have in hand. What, I am not able to figure out. But we must get ‘onto’ it, to usePatsy’s words, and Patsy, you must be the one to get ‘onto’ it.”
“All right, chief,” said Patsy. “But you must tell me how.”
“Didn’t you tell me once that some summers ago you were on a yacht as a steward for a little while?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think you will have to try and hire out as a steward on theDerelict.”
Patsy laughed, and replied:
“Or as an able seaman?”
“Any way, so long as you get aboard,” said Nick. “That’s the most important thing we have to do at present. And you haven’t much time to do it in, either.”
“And it isn’t an easy thing to do,” said Patsy; “but I’ll start the ball rolling to-night.”
The little clock on the mantel of the room struck the hour of ten, and Chick said:
“If you are going to start the ball to-night, you’ll have to start it very soon, for it’s ten o’clock now.”
At that moment the servant entered the room with a telegram, which she handed to Chick.
Tearing off the envelope and opening the folded paper within, Chick read aloud:
“‘Am in trouble.’”
Chick hastily glanced at the top of the dispatch, and exclaimed:
“Philadelphia! The deuce! It’s from Ida.”
“How do you know?” asked Patsy. “Is it signed by her?”
“There’s no signature,” said Chick. “But I know it’s from her.”
Nick was already on his feet, and he said:
“And she wants help or she never would have sent the message. Chick, you and I start for Philadelphia now. We have just got time to catch the next train that leaves for that city.”
“Do I go, too?” asked Patsy.
“No,” said Nick. “We leave you in charge of the case. Get on to that yacht if you can. I fancy that that’s where the work must be done. We can’t tell how long Chick and I will be away. But, if anything important turns up, wire me to the old place in Philadelphia.
“Now, Chick, we must be off.”
Nick and Chick hurried away, and Patsy went off to start his own difficult work.
Ida met with an experience unusual to her on her trip to Philadelphia.
While riding on the cars she perceived that a man and woman, fellow-passengers, were eying her with no little curiosity.
What had attracted their attention she was at a loss to know, and for a time it irritated her.
But, turning to the window, she, by interesting herself in a magazine, tried to forget it.
And, becoming interested in her story, she did forget it, and was only started from her interest by seeing a man seat himself in the chair next to her.
For a time she paid no attention to this person, except to observe that he was a man apparently of thirty-five, wearing a closely-clipped brown beard and brown mustache, his hair cut very short.
Her book slipping from her lap gave this man the opportunity for which evidently he had been looking.
Picking it up, he returned it to Ida, receiving her thanks for his courtesy, and then attempted to enter into conversation with her.
However, making no reply to his remarks, when he persisted she swung her chair about so that she presented her back to the man.
She was aware that the man was angry, but she gave little heed to that, merely turning to satisfy herself that the man was not the one who, with the lady, had a little time before annoyed her by their close watchfulness of her.
She had not sat in this position but a little time, when the lady before mentioned arose from her seat, and crossing the car, sat down in the empty seat which Ida was now facing.
“Pardon me,” said the lady; “I take this seat and speak to you for two reasons. One is rather a kindly one, and the other wholly selfish and curious.
“I perceive that you are being annoyed by the man on the other side of you. I saw that by sitting beside you and talking with you I could put an end to his annoyances.”
This the lady said in a low tone that could not be heard by the man at the back of Ida.
When Ida had thanked her for the interference the lady went on, but now in a much louder voice.
“My selfish and curious reason is one not so helpful, but I hope you won’t think it impertinent.
“My husband has recognized you as the celebrated Ida, the aid of the famous Nick Carter, of whose exploits I have frequently read.
“I have long admired you, wondering how a woman could do such brave things as I have known you to do. So I wanted to know and talk with you.”
Though much annoyed at thus having her identity revealed in a public place, Ida could not refrain from meetingthe lady pleasantly, for in the lady’s speech and manner there was, after all, much that was complimentary.
Yet it was an uncommon experience for Ida. She knew that Nick, Chick and Patsy were subject to such happenings, and were often compelled to resort to disguises to prevent accidental recognitions.
She did not care to be so conspicuous as recognition made her, but a moment’s thought told her that, after all, no great harm was done, since her mission to Philadelphia could hardly be called a secret one; that is, secrecy was not required in doing her work.
But, what gave her the most annoyance was that she was conscious that the man on the other side of her had heard the lady, had started into unusual interest, showing a little agitation and had swung his chair around so as to bring his ears nearer to the two.
However, he soon got up, going to the other end of the car.
After this the lady and Ida chatted pleasantly until the train drew into the great station in Philadelphia, when the lady rejoined her husband, and Ida left the car.
The first thing that Ida did on reaching the street was at once to set out for the house in which the family of Blanche Constant and Ethel Romney lived.
As she passed the City Hall she saw, standing on the lower step of the main entrance, looking at her intently, the man who had attempted to get her into conversation on the cars.
Making no sign, and thinking that it was an accident,Ida hurried along, keeping a sharp lookout behind her. It seemed to her that the man was following her at a distance.
And when she reached the street, where she was to take the street car, she thought that she saw the man concealing himself in a neighboring doorway.
Of this she could not be certain, but, when mounting the car, which was a good deal crowded, she had the uncomfortable feeling that the man was on the same car.
“All this may be accidental,” said Ida to herself, “but I don’t think it is.”
Arriving at her destination she left the car hastily, and, reaching the curbstone, turned to watch the people descending from it.
The man who had seemed to follow her was not among those who got off at the corner, but, as she watched the car roll up the street, a man dropped off about midway of the block above, and Ida thought it was the man in question.
This man hurriedly walked up the block in the same direction the car was going, and disappeared around the same corner.
Ida now looked at her memoranda, and found that the house occupied by the family of the murdered girl was in the street on the corner of which she was standing. It was not her intention to visit this house, but she had intended to inspect it from the outside.
It was clear that the houses of that neighborhood were not occupied by the wealthier residents of Philadelphia,but it was also clear that it was a thrifty neighborhood, and that the people living there were at least in comfortable circumstances.
Most of the people whose names Nick had put down on the list he had given her lived thereabouts.
One, however, was a detective friend of Nick’s, who, Nick said, would give Ida such assistance as she might need were she to require it.
Ida, however, had determined that she would not call upon this detective unless she were compelled to, by failing to secure what she was after in applying to the other people.
Having observed the house, Ida passed on, intending to call on a woman living on the block below, whose name had been given her by Nick.
As she reached the next corner, to her surprise, as well as to the surprise of the other, she came face to face with the man who had annoyed her previously, and who had just turned the corner.
In his surprise and embarrassment the man lifted his hat and went on.
Ida continued her way, a good deal troubled by the encounter.
Her call on the lady in question resulted in a success that she could not have hoped for.
In fact, she secured information which was complete, and was only confirmed, not added to, by those whom she subsequently visited.
And in this information were revelations of which Nick had not dreamed.
From this woman, who was familiar with the history of the family, Ida learned that Blanche and Ethel were twin daughters of an old actor and actress; that the father had died when the girls were about twelve years of age, and that the mother, after continuing on the stage for some two years thereafter, had married again and left the stage.
The man she had married was a superior mechanic, who had invested his savings in the purchase of a saloon, which quickly became a sporting haunt; he was a widower, with a son aged about eighteen years at the time of his father’s marriage.
When his father engaged in the liquor business he had taken the son into the store, who, under the influences, grew to be rather sporty in his tastes and practices.
As the two girls developed they did not get along well with their stepfather, and Blanche, the more spirited of the two, left her home when eighteen to become an actress.
Ethel, however, who had neither a taste nor an aptitude for the stage, remained at home, enduring an unpleasant life.
After Blanche had made what was considered to be a wealthy marriage, the conditions at the Romney home were utterly changed.
George Macrane, the stepbrother, under the suggestion of Donald, his father, became a suitor for the hand of Ethel.
There seemed to be an idea on the part of the father and son that a good deal of money must come from Blanche to Ethel, and that the husband of Ethel must benefit by it.
Ethel, from the first, had resisted these efforts, and was compelled to fight the battle almost alone.
Her mother was evidently a weak woman, completely under the rule of her husband, and joined her husband and his son in their effort to force upon the girl the unwelcome suit.
The girl Ethel had shown more spirit in this resistance than she had displayed in all her life before. It became persecution, for her life was made miserable during the four years that it lasted.
All sorts of annoyances were put upon her. She was not permitted to go out, or to receive company, and, if she talked with any one, especially a man, a great row was made with her.
As the time went on these persecutions were increased.
Finally the girl Ethel, in her distress, had carried her troubles to the lady talking to Ida.
This lady had advised Ethel to tell all her troubles to her sister Blanche, something which Ethel had not done, because of the urgency of her mother not to trouble Blanche with the family affairs.
At length the matter had become so bad that Ethel had permitted Blanche to know how unpleasant was her life at home, with the result that Blanche had insisted that Ethel should come to live with her.
The decision to do so had been met by a terrible row at home, and was only accomplished by Blanche coming over to Philadelphia and actually carrying Ethel off in spite of the opposition of the stepfather and son, which became so much of a quarrel that the elder Macrane, losing his temper, attempted to strike Blanche, and was only prevented by the interference of the mother and son.
Blanche had carried Ethel off, but not until both father and son had threatened that it would not end with that.
Further inquiry on the part of Ida showed that the elder Macrane was a man of almost ungovernable passion, while the son was in much better control of himself, but was sullen, determined and vindictive.
Ida left this lady intending to confirm this story by further inquiries, and, indeed, did so in parts by three subsequent calls.
She said to herself, that at the present rate of progress she was making, she would be able to return so as to arrive in New York by midnight at least.
It was now just growing dark when she set out for the next name on the list.
Ida was led a little distance from the neighborhood in her next call, and to a part of the city that differed in appearance from that in which, up to this hour, she had spent her time.
It was more sparsely settled, the houses further apart and the buildings larger.
As she reached the address of the person she was next to call on, she was met by a rather rough-looking young man, who asked her who she was looking for.
Ida did not like the looks of the fellow, and, as she answered, her hand stole to her pocket where her trusty revolver, which had served her well in the past, safely lay.
Having given the name of the person she wanted, the young tough told her to enter the hall door, climb the stairs and knock at the first door she came to.
She entered the hall as directed, but found it wholly dark.
Stopping a moment to strike a match, so as to see her way, the first faint glimmering of the light showed her the forms of three men crouching at the foot of the stairs.
Instantly the match was knocked from her hand, and, in the intense darkness that followed, she found herself seized both from before and behind.
Though she struggled, she was powerless in the grasps of the scoundrels.
Then something was pulled over her head which seemed like a bag. Naturally much frightened, nevertheless Ida did not lose her wits, and keenly noted every move of the rascals who had seized her, carefully watching for some sign of the brown-bearded man, whom she immediately suspected of being at the bottom of the attack on her.
She was now lifted from her feet and carried farther into the hall. Then she was certain she was borne into the open air. Then again into a narrow passage, up some stairs and into a room, where she was placed on a chair.
The men left her alone, but she could hear them close and bolt the door behind them.
All was as silent as the grave. Outside, from the distance, she could hear dimly the roll of wheels and the noise of the trollies, but that was all.
She tried to tear off the covering that had been put on her head, and found she had no difficulty in drawing it off.
There was no light in the room save that which entered through the windows from the street.
It was little, but sufficient to see that the room she was in was barely furnished. There was a table and two chairs. That was all.
She went to a window and saw that it looked out on the street, but could see no one there.
She examined her pockets and her dress. There had been no attempt to take anything from her. Her revolver still rested safely in her pocket. She felt more secure when she found this had been left to her.
She also drew from her pocket what she had forgotten she had—a blank form for a telegram and the stump of a pencil. Her pocketbook was secure also.
Hearing a noise without the window she went to it again to see that a young lad was crawling along the coping.
Trying to throw up the sash, she found it was nailed fast. Winding her handkerchief about her hand, so that it would not be cut, she broke a pane of glass and thrust her head through it.
The boy was startled and seemed as if he were going to crawl back.
“Who are you?” asked Ida.
“Did they lock youse up there?” asked the boy.
“Yes; how did you know?”
“I was on the stairs and seed ’em.”
A thought occurred to Ida. She asked:
“Will you do something for me?”
“If I kin.”
Ida took out her pocketbook, and, handing a bill to the lad, said:
“Here’s a dollar. I want you to take a telegram for me. It will cost a quarter. The rest of the money shall be yours. Will you take the paper to the telegraph office?”
“Sure. Where’s de paper?”
“I’ll write it.”
Ida hurried to the table and filled in the address of Chick, at Nick Carter’s, in New York. Then she wrote these words: “Am in trouble.”
She had only gotten so far when she heard quick steps in the hall without, approaching her door.
Without waiting further she rushed to the window and thrust the telegram she had written out of the window to the boy, who snatched it and crawled away in a hurry.
Ida went back to the table, her hand on her revolver.
The bolts were withdrawn and a man entered the room.
At a glance Ida saw that he was disguised, and not skillfully at that.
He crossed the room to where she was standing, the table between them, and stood looking at her intently a moment or two.
Ida returned his gaze. Neither spoke for a while. Then the man said:
“You are Nick Carter’s Ida. What is your business here?”
“I have none,” said Ida. “I was brought here against my will.”
“I mean in Philadelphia.”
“That is my business.”
“Answer me, or it will be worse for you. You are here on the Ethel Romney case.”
“Suppose I am, what then?” asked Ida, boldly.
“Well, you won’t do much locked up here, will you?” asked the man.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Ida. “You can’t tell.”
The man did not know what to make of that answer and did not reply for a moment or two. Then he said, roughly:
“Nick Carter thinks that the one who did the girl came here.”
Ida made no reply, but she was thinking hard.
“He’s wrong. It was a New York swell. You’re working on the wrong lay.”
Still Ida made no reply.
“Who does Nick Carter think did it?”
Ida continued her silence.
“What have you got onto since you’ve been here?”
Ida did not answer that question.
“Why don’t you answer?” said the man, roughly. “I’ll make you answer mighty quick.”
Still Ida did not speak.
The man, losing his temper, attempted to reach her by passing around the table, but Ida edged away until their positions were reversed, and she stood where the man had, and the man was where she had stood.
The door was open behind her. She made a dash for it. The man seemed prepared for that, for he violently pushed the table aside and sprang after her.
Ida, drawing her revolver, whirled about, and, leveling her gun, called out:
“Don’t come. I’ll shoot!”
The man laughed, sneeringly, and advanced.
Ida fired. The ball carried high, knocking off his hat. But it halted the scoundrel.
Ida sprang through the door, dashed along the hall, finding the head of the stairs and rushed down them.
The man followed, shouting at the top of his voice, apparently calling the name of some one.
Descending the stairs Ida found an open door and rushed through it to see that she was in a small yard.
Hastily glancing about she saw a door in the fence. She sprang to this and found it unlocked. In a moment she was in the street.
But she was hardly through the gate than the man was upon her.
Ida drew her revolver again, but this time, as she leveled it, it was knocked from her hand by a man who had come from behind a tree.
She was overpowered again. In the struggle she tore the disguise from the man who had followed, and the hasty glimpse she had satisfied her that he was the man who had accosted her on the cars—the brown-bearded man.
This time they tied a handkerchief over her eyes.
“She’s the devil’s own,” said the voice which Ida thought was the voice of the one from whom she had just escaped.
“You say she belongs to Nick Carter?” said another voice. “So she is.”
“She won’t get away this time,” replied the other.
The two attempted to pick her up again.
While her eyes were being bandaged, Ida had seemed to make no resistance, but was busy in taking something from her pocket.
But when the two lifted her up, she wriggled out of their grasp, sinking to the pavement, where she tried to do something with her hand.
The two pounced on her again, and this time lifted her clear from her feet, and not gently, either.
It did not appear that they carried her again through the gate by which she had escaped, but up the street a short distance and into another hallway.
But she struggled with every step, throwing out her right arm and bringing it into contact with everything she could strike.
She did this so regularly that it seemed as if she had a purpose in it, though what it was, was by no means clear.
She was carried up a pair of stairs and put in a room again, and, as before, seated in a chair.
“There,” said a voice that she recognized as that of the brown-bearded man, “I reckon you’ll stay here for a while.”
Ida lifted her hands, which had been left free, and tore the bandage from her eyes.
She was not in the same room, and it was lighted so well that she could see that she had made no mistake in supposing that one of the men was the one who had traveled from New York at midday with her, and that theother was the tough who had, in accosting her, induced her to enter the dark hallway.
She had not spoken a word.
“She’s game,” said the tough.
“I should say so,” replied the other. “But we’ll take some of the gameness out of her before we get through with her.”
The two withdrew, locking and bolting the doors behind them, leaving Ida alone in the dark to think over her strange plight, and whether her telegram would reach Chick, and, if it did, if Chick would find her.
It was after midnight before Nick and Chick reached the streets of Philadelphia.
Before they drew into the station, Nick had said:
“We’ll waste no time, but go directly to the neighborhood in which Ida was to do her work.”
“If it’s not in the main streets, the people will have been asleep these two hours,” said Chick.
“All the same,” said Nick, “if Ida is in trouble, as we believe, I don’t know the girl if she won’t find some way of letting us know where she is, if we get into our neighborhood.”
So it was that when they left the station, they followed the route that had been taken by her earlier in the afternoon, getting off the car at exactly the same corner that she had done.
Here Nick stopped a moment, to think of the memorandum he had given Ida as his guide to their further movements.
“Chief,” said Chick, “if we are now on the ground where Ida has been working, we ought to be careful how we move around, for fear some one will drop to us.”
“You are right about that, Chick,” said Nick, leading the way down the street—the same one Ida had gone.
As he got opposite a house, about the middle of theblock, he stopped short, and said, in a low tone, to Chick: “That’s the house Ethel Romney left to go to New York, where she met her death.”
“The old home of Blanche Constant, then?” asked Chick.
“Yes,” replied Nick. “I only know it by the fact that this is the street and that is the number.”
At that moment there was a noise, as if the door of the house was being opened, made distinct by the silence which reigned in the street.
The two detectives immediately slipped into concealment of the first doorway, and watched.
The man came out, carefully closing the door after him, and, coming down the steps, stopped a moment on the sidewalk, where the light from the arc lamp fell full on his face.
“Brown-bearded and brown-haired,” remarked Nick, in a whisper.
The man under watch finally turned and walked off toward the lower corner. Chick slipped out and across the street, directly in his rear. He did not attempt to follow the man, but watched him walk away. Then he slipped back to Nick on his tiptoes, saying, eagerly:
“By thunder, chief, that man walks with a hitch and jerk of his right shoulder.”
“I thought I saw that myself,” replied Nick. “Under other circumstances we’d follow that man, but now our business is to find Ida.”