CHAPTER FIFTEEN“THE VOICE ON THE WIRE”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“THE VOICE ON THE WIRE”
The prisoner lifted his manacled hands and held them toward Drew. “Let me loose,” he said, “and I’ll explain everything that I’ve done! I want it off my mind. I won’t sleep until you people are satisfied. I know you—you copper! I know Fosdick—the third degree artist.”
Drew frowned as he glanced at the cuffs. He scratched his dark hair and combed his fingers back toward his ears. He turned and glanced at Loris and Nichols in the opening between the two splendid rooms.
“I don’t like to take a chance with this fellow,” he admitted. “Do you want me to, Miss Stockbridge? It’s your life he was after, and he may be shamming now. You never can trust an opium addict. They have no soul.”
“I’ve as much as a copper’s!”
“Shut up, you!” boomed Delaney, threateningly. “Shut up! There’s a lady in this room!”
The prisoner clicked his cuffs together. Hestared at the cheval glass and the telephone. “A lady?” he repeated through the corner of his lips. “A limb of the Stockbridge tree,” he said bitterly. “I hold nothing against her. I told you that before. But we promised the old man we’ll take care of her after we killed him, and she came near going—let me tell you that. I could have killed her with twenty words.”
“He’s rambling,” said Delaney, reaching for the prisoner. “The dope has gone to his head. I don’t believe there’s any––”
“Easy, Delaney,” warned Drew thoroughly on the alert. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating this fellow. He acts like a man who has repented—who wants to right some of the wrong he has done. I don’t think we are taking chances in letting this fellow loose. He is unarmed. I tended to that. If he wants to ’phone—let’s let him.”
“Your case, Chief!”
Drew reached in his pocket and brought around a police regulation revolver. “I’ll have this right here!” he snapped as he slowly raised it. “You, Delaney, unlock one cuff and pass it to me. I’ll wrap the chain around my left wrist. If this fellow tries anything I’ll tend to his case—forever. These .44’s are made for stopping purposes, eh, Mr. Nichols?”
“They certainly are, Mr. Drew. I think wecan handle that little man without trouble. What does he want to telephone for?”
“What for, Bert?” asked Drew, swinging and confronting the prisoner. “Do you want to say good-by to somebody?”
“Good-by is right,” whispered the trouble-man, extending his hands toward Delaney, who fished out a small key. “Yes, it’s good-by to somebody. Unlock them!”
“Hold on!” exclaimed Drew. “I don’t like that tone. You’ll have to act better than that, Bert. What do you want to get loose for? What number do you want? I’ll call up.”
“No, I got to do it. I want one hand free—that’s all.”
Loris stepped to Drew’s side. “Can there be anything about the room,” she asked, “that he wants to use? Perhaps he’ll pick something up and use it too quickly for you to stop him.”
“I don’t think so,” said Drew grimly. “This gun, Miss Stockbridge, happens to have a hair trigger. We’ll chance it—with your permission.”
“I’m not afraid for myself—but don’t you think the poor fellow should be prevented from harming himself. He acts just like a man who wanted to do something terrible. He seems to have given up hope.”
“A woman’s intuition,” mused Drew. “Perhaps a close one,” he said aloud. “You getback into the other room, Miss Stockbridge. Let Mr. Nichols stand in front of you for protection. I’m going to grant this fellow’s request. Delaney, unlock the left cuff!”
The key rattled in the tiny key-hole as Drew poised his revolver and drew a sight between the prisoner’s fluttering eyelids. “Stand right there,” whispered the detective tersely. “Right there,” he added, reaching with his left hand and taking the cuff and chain from the operative. “Now, Bert, you’re half free. What do you want with the telephone?”
The prisoner pinched his wrist and worked his hand like a hinge. A white mark, which slowly changed to red, showed where Delaney had clamped the handcuff down to its last notch. The trouble-man eyed this mark. His lips hardened. He strained on the chain as he lifted his fingers to his brow with a tired gesture.
“Hurry!” said Drew. “Hurry, Bert, or we’ll cuff you up again. Do you want to telephone?”
“Y—e—s!” The voice was tremulous and dry. “Yes! I’ll use it. I’ll show you how that pirate—Stockbridge—was killed. The yellow squealer!”
Loris raised her chin proudly. She leaned against Nichols in the doorway. “I won’t stand for that!” declared the soldier. “You are being insulted in your own house!”
“Wait, Harry! Something is going to happen! I know it is!”
“You’re right, lady,” whispered the prisoner. “It’s going to happen to—well, I don’t care. I’m done. The jig is up!”
Cuthbert Morphy shrugged his shoulders and turned toward Drew. He stared at the menacing revolver with a cryptic smile. “Get your man downstairs,” he said, in hollow tones. “Get him to go in the library and call up this number. Tell Central to connect the two ’phones in this house. Shout into the library transmitter when the connection is made.”
Drew frowned. “What’s all that for?” he asked.
“Do as I say.”
“I don’t know about that. I give orders here. What do you want that done for? I thought you wanted a number on the ’phone. I thought you would get somebody on the wire who would explain everything.”
“Everything will be explained, Inspector. Everything! I told you the jig was up with me. I mean it, too. There’s nothing left but the truth.”
Drew wound the handcuff chain tighter about his left wrist. He braced his feet and turned to Delaney. “Go downstairs,” he said, “and call up this number. Do what this fellow says. The number is Gramercy Hill 9764.”
Loris and Nichols lifted their brows as they turned toward each other. “I’m afraid,” said the girl. “Something is not right, Harry.”
“It’s the only way we’ll ever find out what this man means. If they take him away without letting him talk over the ’phone we’ll never know. Leave things to Mr. Drew. He’s armed! I’m armed! There’s no danger!”
“Get downstairs to the library!” Drew ordered. “Do what this man wants. Shout into the transmitter. Go now!”
Delaney lunged through the tapestries and unlocked the door to the hall. He paused there in thought. He turned and glanced back.
“Hurry!” exclaimed Drew. “Hurry now!”
The big operative cursed audibly as he descended the two flights of carpeted steps. He nodded to the Central Office man at the library door. He passed inside, rounded the table and stood by the ’phone. He picked up the receiver. His eyes wandered along the floor as he waited. A dark spot showed on the hardwood. It was where the millionaire’s blood had gushed forth from the bullet hole in the base of his brain.
“Gramercy Hill 9-7-6-4!” said Delaney with a bull’s voice.
“B-r-r-r-r-! B-r-r-r-r-! B-r-r-r-r-r!” sounded from the ringing-box of the silver plated telephone in the sitting-room of Loris Stockbridge’s suite.
The prisoner pulled at the chain as he leaned toward the telephone. “It’s ringing,” he said in a thin whisper. “Let me—let me listen in.”
Drew studied the entire situation before he granted permission. Loris and Nichols were framed between the silken portières. The captain held his army regulation revolver at his hip. Loris leaned forward with her dark eyes smoldering and intent. The blood had left her cheeks. They were white and tersely set. She seemed older to Drew. He smiled reassuringly, dropped his gun to his hip, pressed it against the prisoner and shoved him toward the ’phone as a “B-r-r-r-r-” sounded above the lifting roar of Delaney’s voice in the depths of the great mansion.
The room became charged and surcharged with electricity. A crackling sounded as Drew’s feet glided inch by inch over the silk rug. The storm outside whined and synchronized with the rise and fall of the great voice shouting “Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello, you!”
The trouble-man turned. His hand reached upward and lifted the hard-rubber receiver from the hook. His lids fluttered toward Loris. His eyes softened with memories. “I’m glad I didn’t do it!” he hissed across the room. “Good-by, lady—good-by!”
“Be careful!” snapped Drew, pressing therevolver firmly against the prisoner’s right side. “Be careful! This is a hair trigger!”
The trouble-man smiled a twisted, wan smile as he turned his head toward the transmitter and said huskily:
“Hello! Hello! You big copper! Shout on! See how loud you can curse me! That’s it. That—is—it!”
Drew heard Delaney’s voice rise in indignation. The taunt had spurned him to greater effort. The metallic diaphragm of the receiver roared and clicked. It echoed the voice. It stopped. It vibrated again. It reached a reed-like tune of high-pitched anger. The prisoner closed his eyes and stiffened. He pressed the receiver directly over his ear. He drew back on the chain and to one side. Drew’s face darkened with suspicion. It was too late. The detective had time to spring away as a cone of lurid light and flame shot out from the telephone diaphragm and splashed across the prisoner’s set face. A sharp detonation racked the perfumed air of the room. Smoke wreathed about the astonished Inspector’s head, and floated upward toward the ventilator.
Cuthbert Morphy’s muscles relaxed. He spun, sank to his knees, then pitched forward across the rug with a bullet in his brain. Drew untwisted the chain with a wrist flip, sprang forward toward the cheval-glass, and stampedhis foot down upon the smoking telephone receiver as if it were the head of a rattlesnake.
He turned with clear light striking out from his eyes. He nodded toward the leaning form of the girl and the erect one of the captain. He divined in seconds how the murder of Montgomery Stockbridge had been accomplished. The full series of events and clues flashed through his brain. It was like an orderly array seen at a picture show.
Cuthbert Morphy, guised as a trouble-hunter in the employ of the telephone company, had devised a single-shot pistol out of a telephone receiver and had caused it to be actuated by the human voice so that it would always strike in the most vulnerable part of man’s anatomy—the ear.
With this lethal instrument he had slain the millionaire, and, when trapped and in danger of execution, he had employed the same method to bring about his own death. It was a fitting end to a life of crime and drug-brought imageries.
Delaney, with drawn gun and wild of eyes, burst through the tapestries and brought up with a dizzy lurch before the body of Cuthbert Morphy. He stammered and glared downward. He swung his heavy chin and stared at Loris and Nichols in the gloom of the further curtains.He clapped Drew on the shoulder with a heavy hand.
“Had to shoot him, eh, Chief? What’d he try? What—you got your foot on?”
“An electric pistol,” said Drew, with a grim smile distending his olive-hued lips. “An infernal machine, Delaney. I hope it isn’t a repeater. Cut that wire! Both wires! Get your knife out and cut through them, quick! I won’t take any chances.”
The big operative pocketed his revolver with a back swing of his right hand, brought it forward empty and ran it down his trouser pocket. He brought out a buck-horn jack-knife, pried it open, stooped and slashed through the two silk cords holding the receiver to the bottom of the transmitter which had fallen from the bracket.
Loris swayed with supple limbs. She raised her hands and pressed her unjeweled fingers against her face. She sobbed once, then turned and threw herself upon Nichols’ drab shoulder. “Harry,” she cried. “Oh, Harry—what happened? I didn’t see what happened!”
The captain glided an arm about her waist and half-carried, half-led her to a couch in the reading-room. “Rest here a minute,” he said, leaning down. “Be cool and as brave as you can. The trouble-man won’t trouble you any longer. He took his own medicine!”
Nichols returned to the sitting room in time to hear Drew exclaim, after Delaney had reached down and lifted the receiver, “The case is closed! This closes it with a bang! Give me that electric pistol, Delaney!”
The operative handed it over. “Get a big rug,” ordered Drew with sudden thought. “Cover that fellow over till we call the Central Office men and the coroner. I want to examine this receiver.”
“Right here on this little table would be a good place,” suggested Nichols, lifting off a handful of ivory ornaments and depositing them on top of a glass case. “I’ll spread a paper here. I’d like to see what’s inside that thing myself.”
“Do you know anything about electricity or telephony?” asked Drew, as he turned the hard-rubber receiver in his hand and stared at the listening end.
“Very little, Inspector. But fire-arms are in my line and that seems to be one.”
The detective nodded. “It’s one, all right,” he said, holding it out with a steady hand. “Looks harmless, don’t it? Two binding-posts on one end. A rubber cap on the other. Notice that diaphragm.”
Nichols took the receiver and squinted at the rubber cap. “By George!” he said. “This is odd. There’s a tiny hole drilled or punched inthe center. It’s about the same size as the bore of a twenty-two caliber revolver.”
“Look at your hands!” said Drew. “What the devil,” he added with dawning conviction. “Say, Delaney, do you remember that spot of black under my left ear. The one you noticed after we left yesterday morning? The––”
“Sure, Chief. That’s where you got the smut—from that receiver!”
“I got it when I picked up the telephone in the library downstairs and tried to get Central. Do you remember how long she took? This is the same receiver in all probability. The trouble-hunter removed it from the library connections, loaded it, and brought it up here. It looks like any ordinary receiver. The telephone company have some with binding posts and some without. This is an earlier model.”
“The spot of black was from the first discharge when Stockbridge was killed!” exclaimed Delaney.
Drew ran his fingers around the inner rim of the rubber cap. He held them up. “See!” he exclaimed. “No wonder my neck was marked. That settles that mystery, Delaney. If we had any brains at all we would have connected the soot and the telephone. If we had done that we’d have solved the case early this morning, or yesterday morning. It’s after one, now!”
“This hole,” said Nichols, “was the only thing in the whole dastardly scheme that could have been seen. It’s the size of the end of a lead pencil. Funny you didn’t notice it?”
“I looked everywhere but there,” admitted Drew. “The receiver hangs with the diaphragm end down. That’s the reason I didn’t see it. Well—there’s always a reason,” he added. “Now, Delaney, fetch me that trouble-hunter’s satchel. We’ll see what this pistol is made of and how it is made. I venture to say that it is simple.”
Delaney awoke from his stupor and lifted a rug which he tossed over the body of Cuthbert Morphy. He wiped his hands with a finite motion. He wheeled and slouched lankily across the polished floor. He returned with the lineman’s kit.
“Pliers,” said Drew, as the big operative removed the straps and reached his hand inside. “I saw a pair there when we had it open before,” the detective added, unscrewing the rubber cap of the receiver and lifting the thin metal diaphragm from the face of two tiny magnets which were wound with fine silk wire.
“Regulation magnets,” whispered Nichols, leaning over the detective’s shoulder. “They’re regulation except there’s a hole drilled down between them. There must be a barrel all the way through the receiver.”
“We’ll see. Got those pliers, Delaney?”
The operative passed up a pair. “Ah,” chuckled the detective, unscrewing the binding-posts and lifting off a hard rubber cap. “Ah, see here!”
Delaney rose and peered over the captain’s shoulder straps. The two men watched Drew’s nimble fingers trace out the mechanism of the electric pistol.
“It’s simple!” declared the detective. “It’s very simple and ingenious in construction. It’s a crowning wonder to me that some one hasn’t used this sort of device to carry out a wholesale slaughtering. Suppose they never thought of it.”
Drew glanced at the silent mound under the Persian rug. “The wrong road,” he whispered tersely. “He took the wrong road. He was a mechanical and electrical genius. He was a patent expert.”
Delaney worked his brows up and down. “Shall I call Miss Stockbridge?” he asked.
“I’ll do it,” Nichols said, turning and hurrying through the portières. He returned with Loris leaning upon his arm. Her eyes were glazed and tear-laden. She held a tiny, limp lace handkerchief between her trembling fingers.
“There’s no danger,” said Drew. “Come here, Miss Stockbridge,” he added. “I want to show you what was all ready for you.”
The detective raised the hard-rubber receiver. “Here we have the diaphragm,” he said, pointing. “It’s a round plate of soft iron. It’s secured to the rubber by an insulated ring. It is the part you press up to your ear when you listen at a telephone. There’s a small hole punched in this one. The same sized hole extends down through the center core, or magnet. This hole isn’t rifled. It couldn’t well be rifled save with special machinery. That’s why the bullet found in Mr. Stockbridge’s brain was without longitudinal scorings. It was fired from a smooth-bored pistol.”
“That’s what you thought!” blurted Delaney with loyalty.
“I was at sea,” said Drew. “Now,” he continued, “we have a live cartridge at the opposite end of this core from the diaphragm. See it?” Loris leaned over the little table.
“Right here!” The detective pointed. “That is a twenty-two cartridge with a cupronickle bullet. See the cap? See how it is held from coming back by those tiny screws about the rim?”
Loris nodded and gathered up her straying hair.
“Now,” continued Drew. “Now, this cartridge was exploded by the action of the human voice. Here’s a tiny spiral of very slender platinum wire. It must be number forty, atleast. That’s very fine! This spiral is in series with the winding about the magnets. The same current pulsated by the human voice which actuates the receiver diaphragm, also passed through this spiral. Now,” Drew paused. “Now,” he added with rising voice, “here is a tiny charred piece of match-head, I guess. It was set in the coil. It flared when the wire became hot. The heat was sufficient to ignite the cap. See it!”
“I see it!” exclaimed Nichols.
“The action is simple,” continued Drew. “A pulsation of the current which was formed by the action of the vibrating, transmitter diaphragm, also pulsated the fine wire before it went to the receiver magnets. The louder the voice into the transmitter the more current—measured in fractions of amperes—passed through the spiral. It became sufficiently hot to flare the piece of match-head or whatever Cuthbert placed there. This flare was communicated to the percussion cap, or fulminate of mercury, at the base of the cartridge. This exploded the powder charge, which in turn projected the cupronickle bullet forward through the tube or the bore of the receiver and out through the thin, metal diaphragm, and––”
“What’s that?” asked the operative.
“Out through the hole in the diaphragm,”continued Drew, “and right into your ear or my ear, Delaney!”
“Not into mine!” exclaimed the operative. “I’ll never telephone as long as I live, Chief!”
“We’ll all be careful,” said Nichols, turning toward Loris.
Drew gathered together the different parts of the telephone receiver. “Evidence against Morphy,” he said dryly, as he dropped them into the side pocket of his coat. “They are our Exhibit A if he ever finishes that twenty years in the cooler.”
Loris reached out her hand. “You saved my life,” she said. “You saved it, Mr. Drew.”
“I blundered and blundered and blundered on this case,” admitted the detective frankly. “Now I’m going to request you to wait a few minutes before I call the coroner. Delaney has some questions. I feel sure he wants to ask me one or two.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN“THE END”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“THE END”
Triggy Drew’s eyes shone with triumphant fire as he turned and faced the group gathered in the sitting room.
He adjusted his coat lapels, clicked his heels and smiled politely. His hand strayed up to his short-cropped mustache which was still neat and well-trimmed despite the labors of the day.
“Although the case is practically closed,” he said with concern, “there are features which are not entirely cleared up—even in my mind. Perhaps we have a little time,” he added, glancing at his watch. “Let’s go into the other room—away from these memories—and have a cup of tea, if Miss Stockbridge will be so kind as to order some.”
Loris glanced at Nichols. She nodded as she turned toward Drew. He moved over to the rug which covered Cuthbert Morphy’s body. He stooped and adjusted this. He rose and dimmed the lights by snapping off two of the switches and turning a bulb in its socket. He hesitated as he glanced at the telephone wires which Delaney had cut.
“Central will wonder what has happened,” he said half aloud. “The connections leading to this house have given them a lot of trouble in the last few hours. I suppose they haven’t another trouble-man like this one, though?” Drew pointed toward the shadowed rug which gleamed with silk and rare woven designs.
Loris raised her hand and grasped the portières. She shuddered slightly. She allowed her eyes to wander over the room as if for a last fleeting glance. They locked with the detective’s own. She smiled with a plaintive droop to her mouth.
“I’ll order the tea,” she said invitingly. “Will you come in?”
Drew bowed and followed her through the portières. Delaney already stood by the door which led to the maid’s room. Harry Nichols had picked up a small book and was impatiently examining its pages. The soldier turned and eyed the detective.
“We’ll sit down?” he asked, laying the book on a cushion. “I’m a bit curious to know how you worked out a number of things. I think that Miss Stockbridge is, too.”
“I’d like to be a detective!” exclaimed Loris, gliding across the room and tapping with her knuckles on the door. “Wouldn’t you, Mr. Delaney?” she added naïvely.
Delaney chuckled. “I would, Miss,” he saidwith candor. “I’m not a regular. I’m only a volunteer. Mr. Drew has me along to do the heavy work. He says what I can’t lift I can drag.”
Loris smiled as the maid answered by opening the door to a crack. “Tea for four,” she said. “Pekoe and tea biscuits—unless––”
She turned and widened her eyes prettily. “Would you have anything else?” she asked Drew.
“Strong tea!” exclaimed the detective. “I’ll take ‘hops,’ as we call it. Make it very strong and then we’ll settle some of these questions. My head is none too clear. I’ve been under a strain. I’m frank to admit that!”
The tea arrived within ten minutes. Drew had prevented Delaney from ’phoning for the coroner or to Fosdick. “Some matters to clear up,” he whispered suggestively. “We’ll leave this place with the case entirely completed.”
Nichols arranged two chairs about a tiny teak-wood table. He had set this table within the bay of an alcove. The space was small, with Delaney’s big feet very much in the way.
Drew poised his cup and glanced from Loris to Nichols. Their heads were very close together. The blue-black luster of the girl’s hair was a perfect contrast to the officer’s blond pompadour which was slightly disarranged.The light from above haloed with the soft fire of frosted glass and cut prisms.
The detective upended the cup, drank deeply, then passed it over to Delaney. “Another, please,” he said, watching the operative struggling with a saucer which was far too fragile for his thick fingers. “One more cup,” he added. “No sugar.”
Loris leaned from the cushion at the small of her back and glanced toward the portières with thought-laden eyes. “Poor misguided fellow,” she said softly. “I feel uneasy, Mr. Drew. Somehow or other I feel that we were partly responsible for his death. I wish it hadn’t happened.”
“I’ll agree with you. We must forget more than we remember in this world. Our time is short. The coroner and the Central Office squad will have to be notified. I don’t doubt that Fosdick will be surprised at the turn in the case. He has some of your servants locked up, you know!”
Loris pressed closer to Nichols. “I wish that body wasn’t in there,” she whispered. “Suppose he had other confederates who would break in?”
“He worked alone,” assured Drew, finishing the second cup and setting it down. “I found no evidence of another crook. He worked single-handed and single-minded. He made onemistake. Morphy was a bungler. A bungler is a man who lets his artistic temperament get the better of him. Had he allowed Cuthbert to slay both the—Mr. Stockbridge and yourself over the ’phone, he would never have solved the case. It was the telephoning from Sing Sing that opened up the entire matter.”
“The inevitable slip!” exclaimed Nichols.
“Yes,” said Drew. “They all make it. I could tell you of a thousand instances. But back of the inevitable slip, as you call it, is something deeper. It has not often been mentioned in dealing with criminals.”
“What is it?” asked Loris.
“Ego! Criminal ego! Most transgressors would go to the electric chair if the newspapers would write enough about them.”
Loris raised her brows. “Is that the reason,” she asked, “why Morphy telephoned before he killed poor father?”
“Exactly!” declared the detective. “Ego explains much that we call revenge. Now,” he added, glancing about and at a tiny clock on a cabinet. “Now the questions from everybody! Make them short. Mr. Delaney and I will leave in ten minutes.”
Nichols glanced at Loris. “You first,” he said.
“I’ve just one or two, Mr. Drew,” she said.
“What are they?”
“Why did that poor dead man spare my life when he called me up the first time? He could have killed me then.”
“I explained that. It wasn’thisvendetta.”
“Vendetta?”
“That is what this case is. An almost successful attempt to wipe out, or I should say obliterate, the Stockbridge Family—root and branch. Morphy had nursed the thing for over a year. He had soured up there in prison. His mind became abnormal. He conceived an abnormal revenge. Also a personal one. He had every reason to believe that he would never be discovered.”
“Then, Mr. Drew, he would have called me up on the phone later and done what he did—to father? He would have told me who he was over the telephone, and—and––”
“Yes, Miss Stockbridge. Yes, be calm, though. He is beyond the pale now. You will never hear from him again. Be assured of that!”
Drew leaned in his chair and glanced at Delaney. The big operative fidgeted in his seat, squirmed, reached for the tea-pot, then drew back his hand and started drumming the table with his fingers.
Nichols disengaged his arm from behind Loris and squared his shoulders. He moved forward. “I’m going to ask a question for MissStockbridge,” he said. “Did you ever suspect her?”
“Never!” declared Drew.
“Or me?”
The detective hesitated before he answered. His smile cleared the air as he said. “Once—for about an hour. That was when I found out that you were partly German. I got over it, though.”
“So did I,” declared Nichols. “I got over the German part in no time. I enlisted!”
“That’s a good answer! The best one I know!”
Delaney turned to his chief. He drew in his legs. “There’s a question I’d like to ask,” he said.
“What is it?”
“That magpie?”
Drew eyed Loris. “It’s her bird now,” he said. “She may not want it dragged back here again. I shouldn’t think she would.”
“I don’t!” exclaimed Loris. “I wish that you would explain how you followed the clew, though. It talks so seldom, and then when it does talk it says such nonsense it’s a perfect enigma.”
“That bird,” said Drew, “was the fine turning point of the case. Before it was brought into the office, downtown, I had no clew to start from. There was no indication to show fromwhence the blow had fallen. Your father was slain for a motive. He was talking to Morphy when he died. Cuthbert had connected the two men.”
“Through the two booths?” asked Loris.
“Yes. Through the booths at Grand Central. Their conversation was probably a brief one. Morphy undoubtedly gloated a minute or two, then told Mr. Stockbridge that his time had come on this earth. Naturally Mr. Stockbridge asked who was talking. Morphy answered by stating who he was, and also that he was at Sing Sing. Mr. Stockbridge repeated this statement aloud. He probably said, ‘What, Sing Sing?’ or ‘Ah, Ossining!’ or words to that effect. The bird heard it and remembered it.”
“How strange!” exclaimed Nichols.
“Not at all,” said Drew, leaning forward. “It was just like a magpie to pick out the one salient part of a conversation and repeat it. The couplet ‘Sing Sing’ was one it had never heard. It is so striking to even a bird. It probably came with such emphasis, there was no forgetting it!”
The group facing the detective was silent for a long minute. Delaney moved uneasily as Nichols toyed with his cup. Loris breathed in suppressed wonder at the tiny clew which had overthrown the best laid plans on the part of Morphy and his confederate. It was like anecho of a dead voice coming back to confront a murderer. She shivered as she widened her eyes and stared at Drew.
“There’s another question,” she said. “How did the trouble-man get into this house in the first place, Mr. Drew?”
“I was responsible. He forced my hand!”
“How?”
“By a clever subterfuge. He disconnected the library telephone wires at the junction-box in the alley. He knew that sooner or later Mr. Stockbridge would try to use the ’phone. He couldn’t get a connection, or I couldn’t. It was the time I tried to ’phone and then notified Gramercy Hill Exchange through another ’phone. He was listening in and consequently caught the gist of my orders to Harrigan. He hurried to Gramercy Hill Exchange and there met Frisby, another trouble-man, starting out to investigate my complaint. He took Frisby’s place, hurried over and closed the library connection and then came into the house, stating that we had sent for him.”
“Clever,” said Nichols. “That was clever, wasn’t it?”
“Remarkably so!” exclaimed Drew. “It was a case of making the detective on the premises act as a tool. It was like a safeblower asking a night watchman to move a safe out on a truck. I never suspected that fellow at all. I hardlylooked at him when he was testing the connections in the library. I even heard him rattling a pair of pliers over the binding posts on the receiver. That was the time he took the old one off and put on the loaded pistol. It was done very quickly.”
The detective paused and glanced at his watch. “We must go,” he said, staring at Loris with soft interest. “I’m afraid we’re keeping you from your sleep.”
“No. I want to ask you another question,” she said eagerly. “I’m still in doubt about the slot booths at Grand Central. Why were they used?”
“As a throw off! That is what the English would call shunting. Electricians use the same word. It means diverting a current or a connection. Cuthbert did this so that his trail would be harder to check up. He thought of almost everything.”
“He missed his vocation!” interjected Nichols.
“And misused his talents,” added Loris. “Think of being clever enough to do all of those things, and stoop to murder. He paid ten times over. He must have been under that man Morphy’s power. So many men were. I heard father say that when Morphy was arrested. He said Morphy was the most dangerous man inthe world. That he would cause trouble sooner or later.”
Drew rose and nodded. “He did that!” he exclaimed with conviction. “He came very close to getting away with it. But for the magpie and the fact that he ’phoned from the prison at the same time your father was murdered, there would have been no clew. Cuthbert would have entered this house after you were slain, and removed the receiver. That would have thrown the case into one of the unsolved mysteries. Electricity is a dangerous tool in the hands of clever crooks.”
“It leaves no trace!” said Delaney, rising and standing by his chief. “It isn’t made out of anything except little shakes in the wire or something like that.”
Drew smiled good-naturedly. “It’s a mystery to most people,” he said, turning toward the windows and listening. “It’s a bigger mystery to a woman than to a man,” he added. “It’s a good agent if properly used and kept within bounds. It brings back life as well as takes it. It creates and also destroys. No one knows what it is. All that we do know about it is its action on material substances—the power to transform mechanical energy into vibrations and then back again into mechanical energy.”
“Like a voice on a wire?” asked Loris.
“Yes, Miss Stockbridge. The mechanical vibration of a diaphragm in a telephone transmitter is changed to electrical vibrations, passes along a wire and changes back to the same thing we had at the beginning. Cuthbert took advantage of this fact. All that was sent into the library was Morphy’s voice on the wire. The wire left no trace. The voice actuated the diaphragm and at the same time the fine heating coil at the cap on the cartridge. The energy of the voice was sufficient to raise the temperature of the coil. This raise in temperature flashed some compound set in the wire. The flash started the fulminate of mercury in the cap. The cap exploded the smokeless powder. It was a series of steps each a little higher than the one below it.”
“Was there any other way of doing the same thing?” Nichols inquired, as he rose lankily and stood over Loris.
“Yes!” declared Drew. “I can look back over what I found in the technical books about electricity and telephony and see several other ways for Cuthbert to accomplish the same result. The electrical pistol did not necessarily have to be actuated by the human voice.”
“How terrible!” Loris whispered, with her brow puckering. “Perhaps others will use the same idea to slay their enemies.”
“We’ll keep it a close secret,” the detectivesaid. “It rests with us four, now. Outside of us, there is only Morphy who knows.”
“How else could the pistol be discharged?”
“Two other ways that I see, Miss Stockbridge. It would be rather easy to arrange a little magnetic trigger in the receiver. This trigger could be actuated by an excess of current—say the connecting of a hundred and ten volt lighting circuit on the line. It might burn out the magnet wiring, but it would also release the trigger and fire the cartridge.”
“That’s like a door-catch?”
“Yes,” said Drew. “Like a door-catch operated by a magnet or like the firing pin of a large cannon. They’re not all operated by lanyards. Some work with push-buttons.”
Nichols passed his hand over his brow. “I know another way,” he said, glancing down at Loris. “There is a way which is far cleverer than Cuthbert thought of. It could be done by a tuning-fork or reed.”
“Certainly!” exclaimed Drew. “I never thought of that. A reed attuned to a certain voice could be adapted to trip a trigger. Then the loaded receiver could be set so that one of your friends who had a peculiar voice, either high or low, would slay you. Rather terrifying revenge, that!”
“Beyond the pale!” said Nichols. “It’s too bad this man Cuthbert didn’t exercise one-tenthof his genius in perfecting war inventions. He’d have helped us a lot.”
Drew nodded and strode to the curtains at a side window. He peered out, rubbed the frosted panes, and pressed his nose against the glass.
“Stopped snowing!” he exclaimed, coming back and clasping Delaney’s arm. “You hurry downstairs and telephone Fosdick that we are waiting for him. Tell him to notify the coroner that there’s a subject here which will interest him. We’ll not explain everything to either the coroner or Fosdick. No one save us shall know the secret of the receiver.”
“Delaney,” said Nichols, as the big operative started through the portières. “Mr. Delaney.”
“Yes!” boomed back through the room.
“Ask the Commissioner if he will release Miss Stockbridge’s servants. It was an outrage.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Drew, striding to the portières. “Tell him I said so, Delaney. Tell him just what you think. Give it to him strong! He bungled and he don’t deserve a bit of sympathy.”
“Mr. Drew?”
The detective wheeled on one heel and glanced back at Loris, who had risen and was standing with her arm linked within Nichols’. “Mr. Drew,” she repeated with slow insistence, “won’t you have another cup of tea before you go?”
“That I will, Miss Stockbridge. We three shall drink to the end of the case. Have you asked all the questions you want to? I want to forget this night as soon as possible. You were too close to death to suit me.”
“I don’t think of any more questions,” said Loris, disengaging her arm and gliding across the room. “We’ll get the tea. There is one matter. I want to pay you for your splendid services.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Drew. “Ah, Miss Stockbridge, they were far from being splendid. I lost my reputation in the first instance. I should never have allowed your father to remain alone in the library. That was very short-sighted on my part.”
“You couldn’t think of everything.”
“I underestimated the gravity of the situation.”
“Perhaps father didn’t explain how dangerous his enemies really were.”
“No, I don’t think it was that, exactly. I had been reading so many accounts of German spies that I connected this case with one of them. I took precautions against anything that a German might think of. I didn’t figure on super-brains of the criminal order. Cuthbert Morphy had them!”
The maid appeared with the tray and hot water. Drew took the cup from Loris with abow. He allowed the tea to cool as he glanced at the two lovers. They had grown closer together over the time of the investigation. Nichols had that poise which is given to well-trained army men. He never said too much. This was a trait which pleased the detective immensely. It spoke volumes for Loris and her judgment in placing her trust in him.
“I actually hate to leave you people,” Drew said, finishing the cup. “But I must be on my way.”
Loris arched her dark brows. Her mouth parted into a soft smile. Her eyes glistened with moisture. “Harry is going, too,” she said, glancing from Drew to Nichols. “He has to go! I’ll sleep upstairs in mother’s old room to-night. The maid can watch. Perhaps the butler will be back.”
“He’ll be back!” ejaculated the detective, adjusting his coat collar and stroking his mustache. “I’ll see to that if I have to go over Fosdick’s thick head. You can expect all of your servants within an hour.”
Heavy footfalls on the rugs outside the suite announced Delaney. He came through the portières rubbing his hands in the manner of a man who was well-satisfied with his errand.
“I got them!” he boomed, glancing from Drew to Nichols and then letting his eyes shine on Loris. “I got Fosdick, first. I told himwhat I thought of him, too. I don’t like him. Never did! He said he’d be right up and see about things. He can see!” The big operative swung toward his chief.
“How about the coroner?” asked Drew.
“He’s coming as fast as his hurry-up wagon will let him. I told him there was another—well, you know what I told him, Chief?”
The detective lifted his lowered brows. “Yes! Yes!” he said hastily, after a keen glance at Loris. “Yes. You did right. Now, get into the other room and gather up all of the tools and plaster-casts and every scrap of our own evidence. Put them in the trouble-man’s satchel. Set the satchel outside the door to the hall. Then wait for me. I’ll be but a minute.”
Delaney paused. “There’s one thing,” he said in a half stammer––“One thing, Chief, that’s been troubling me while I was ’phoning to the coroner and to Fosdick.”
“What is it?”
“If I can have that magpie? I’m going to give it to my wife—Mary—if I can. There’s no bird in the house.”
Drew turned toward Loris who had drawn Nichols to a window.
“Can he have it, Miss Stockbridge?” he asked.
“Certainly!”
“Thanks,” throated the operative, passingthrough the portières with renewed energy. “Thanks,” he added under his breath as he started picking up the plaster casts and tools. “That’s how we caught ‘Cutbert,’ and I’ll nurse the bird like a Grand Opera singer.”
Loris glided from out the curtains and crossed the room. She stood a moment under a cone of soft light which reflected downward and brought out every detail of her gown and girlish figure. She turned and smiled widely at Drew who stood by the portières.
“I’ve almost forgotten something,” she said, drawing out a chair and sitting down with a graceful sweep of her skirt. “I’ve forgotten that you are tired and that you have worked hard.”
“Not at all,” said Drew.
“Yes, you are tired and you have worked very hard. Harry will bear me out in that. He was just saying that you would make a good major of overseas forces. Why don’t you join the army?”
Drew reached into his right hand trouser pocket. He brought his hand out with a small gold badge between his fingers. “I’ve already joined the army,” he said. “This is a Secret Service badge. Don’t you know that much work can be done over on this side? A burnt warehouse, for instance, is equal to a victory for the Kaiser. My agency is almost exclusively devotedto Government work. We never mention it, though.”
“I see,” said Loris, reaching into a pigeonhole and drawing out a small yellow check-book. “I’m glad,” she added, picking up a mother-of-pearl penholder and inspecting the pen-point. “I rather thought you would do your share. I think everybody should to the limit of their pocketbook and ability. Harry is.”
Drew bowed slightly. “That’s right, stick by Harry,” he said to himself. “She’s a sticker and then some,” he added, frowning toward the check-book and the poised pen.
“Mr. Drew?”
The detective took one step in her direction. He waited then.
“Mr. Drew, how much money do I owe you? I’ll pay you out of my account until the estate is settled.”
The detective smiled broadly. “Nothing,” he said, toying with his watch chain. “I don’t think you owe me anything in this case.”
“Oh, but I do!”
“I don’t think so. Your father retained me. He was—was slain through my own carelessness. I think I owe you something.”
“I can’t let it remain that way.” Loris turned and widened her eyes. A tiny pout sweetened her mouth. Nichols came across the rugs and stood by her side. He turned to Drew.
“That wouldn’t be fair,” he said. “You certainly earned your fee in this case. Why, you look five years older than when you came up into my rooms with that little pistol!”
Drew touched his mustache. He closed his lips. Fatigue swept over him as he said huskily:
“I’ve aged, yes. Well, I guess I have. The responsibility was more than I expected.”
“How much?” asked Loris, opening the check-book.
Drew raised his eyes to the ceiling. A faint smile brightened his olive skin and brought out the fullness of his cheeks.
“Five thousand dollars,” he said, without glancing at Loris.
She dipped the pen into the ink well, leaned her elbow on the leaf of the writing desk and hastily scratched a check with angular writing which had certainly been cultivated in a select boarding school. She turned, waved the check in the air, then rose and advanced toward the detective, who had not lowered his eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, holding out the oblong of tinted paper. “I want to thank you.”
Nichols stared at the detective. The soldier’s eyes were like bayonets beneath a parapet. He had thought the figure rather high. Loris had no one to advise her save himself and the presence of Drew had tied his tongue.
“I want to thank you,” repeated Loris.
Drew lowered his eyes and reached for the check. He glanced at it, started folding two edges, then smiled brightly as he crossed the room, picked up the mother-of-pearl penholder and dipped it into the ink.
“I’ll endorse it,” he said, flattening out the check with his palm. “I’ll endorse it so that it can be transferred.”
“To whom?” asked Loris.
“Why, to where it belongs. Do you think that I could take it? It’s too much in the first place. In the second place I’m going to do my full bit from now on. What do you say, if we endorse this over to the American Red Cross? It’ll buy beds and bandages and it’ll help out all around!”
Loris lifted her eyes beneath her down dropping lashes. She smiled with tiny puckerings at the corners of her mouth. The glance was so archly sweet that Drew felt it was more than a reward. He caught her mood and hastily dashed off his signature across the back of the check.
“You present it to them,” he said. “Take it with my compliments to the treasurer of your own division. I’ll venture they will not question the signature.”
Nichols’ hand crept out. It clasped over Drew’s fingers in a soldier’s grip. The twomen faced each other. Drew reached up his left arm and patted the captain on the shoulder. “Two bars,” he said. “I hope to see stars there,” he added sincerely. “Stars, when you come back from the conquest of Berlin.”
“They’ll be there!” declared Loris with flashing eyes. “Harry will get them!”
Delaney peered through the portières despite his instructions to the contrary.
“All set, Chief,” he said. “I hear Fosdick downstairs.”
“Coming,” said Drew, as he turned away from Loris and Nichols.
The two detectives paused in the center of the room. The mound under the splendid rug held their eyes for a fleeting moment. The ends of the telephone wires lay across the hardwood floor. They glanced at these.
“No trace!” said Drew. “We needn’t tell Fosdick much. Come on!”
Delaney held out the detective’s coat and hat. Drew thrust his arms into his silk-lined sleeves, pulled the hat down over his eyes and swung as the big operative turned his shoulder.
“Look,” whispered Delaney.
Loris Stockbridge and her lover stood under the glow from the soft clusters of the inner room of the suite. The captain held his peaked cap in his right hand. He also was departing.
“Turtle-doves,” Delaney breathed with almost pride.
“Ah!” said Drew. “Ah, my friend, you must remember that we were once that way ourselves. But now—but now, Delaney—there is a thing which is sweeter than love’s young dream. It is a tired man’s sleep. I think I have earned mine to-night!”
THE END
ZANE GREY’S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.
THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS
A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close.
THE RAINBOW TRAIL
The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western uplands—until at last love and faith awake.
DESERT GOLD
The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story’s heroine.
RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon authority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the story.
THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN
This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert and of a hunt in “that wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines.”
THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the Mormons—Well, that’s the problem of this great story.
THE SHORT STOP
The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win.
BETTY ZANE
This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers.
THE LONE STAR RANGER
After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along the Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws.
THE BORDER LEGION
Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless Western mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved him—she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader—and nurses him to health again. Here enters another romance—when Joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, a thrilling robbery—gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly.
THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS, By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey
The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, “Buffalo Bill,” as told by his sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his first encounter with an Indian. We see “Bill” as a pony express rider, then near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting account of the travels of “The Wild West” Show. No character in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than “Buffalo Bill,” whose daring and bravery made him famous.
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
KATHLEEN NORRIS’ STORIES
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.
MOTHER. Illustrated by F. G. Yohn.
This book has a fairy-story touch counterbalanced by the sturdy reality of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother’s experiences.
SATURDAY’S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.
Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a quest for happiness. She passes through three stages—poverty, wealth and service—and works out a creditable salvation.
THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock.
The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied interests, and has her own romance.
THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert.
How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life.
THE HEART OF RACHAEL. Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.
Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in working out these, there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction’s most appealing characters.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.
“K.” Illustrated.
K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him, and goes to live in a little town where beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. The joys and troubles of their young love are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has made the author famous.
THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.
An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the “Man in Lower Ten.” The strongest elements of Mrs. Rinehart’s success are found in this book.
WHEN A MAN MARRIES. Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker.
A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family income and who has never seen the wife, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How the young man met the situation is humorously and most entertainingly told.
THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Illus. by Lester Ralph.
The summer occupants of “Sunnyside” find the dead body of Arnold Armstrong, the son of the owner, on the circular staircase. Following the murder a bank failure is announced. Around these two events is woven a plot of absorbing interest.
THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. Illustrated (Photo Play Edition.)
Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and slender means.
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
R. M. BOWER’S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.
CHIP OF THE FLYING U. Wherein the love affairs of Chip and Della Whitman are charmingly and humorously told.
THE HAPPY FAMILY. A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys.
HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT. Describing a gay party of Easterners who exchange a cottage at Newport for a Montana ranch-house.
THE RANGE DWELLERS. Spirited action, a range feud beween two families, and a Romeo and Juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly story.
THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS. A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author among the cowboys.
THE LONESOME TRAIL. A little branch of sage brush and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes upset “Weary” Davidson’s plans.
THE LONG SHADOW. A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free outdoor life of a mountain ranch. It is a fine love story.
GOOD INDIAN. A stirring romance of life on an Idaho ranch.
FLYING U RANCH. Another delightful story about Chip and his pals.
THE FLYING U’S LAST STAND. An amusing account of Chip and the other boys opposing a party of school teachers.
THE UPHILL CLIMB. A story of a mountain ranch and of a man’s hard fight on the uphill road to manliness.
THE PHANTOM HERD. The title of a moving-picture staged in New Mexico by the “Flying U” boys.
THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX. The “Flying U” boys stage a fake bank robbery for film purposes which precedes a real one for lust of gold.
THE GRINGOS. A story of love and adventure on a ranch in California.
STARR OF THE DESERT. A New Mexico ranch story of mystery and adventure.
THE LOOKOUT MAN. A Northern California story full of action, excitement and love.
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
THE NOVELS OF WINSTON CHURCHILL
THE INSIDE OF THE CUP. Illustrated by Howard Giles.
The Reverend John Hodder is called to a fashionable church in a middle-western city. He knows little of modern problems and in his theology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church could desire. But the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakening follows and in the end he works out a solution.
A FAR COUNTRY. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.
This novel is concerned with big problems of the day. AsThe Inside of the Cupgets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, soA Far Countrydeals in a story that is intense and dramatic, with other vital issues confronting the twentieth century.
A MODERN CHRONICLE. Illustrated by J. H. Gardner Soper.
This, Mr. Churchill’s first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. It is frankly a modern love story.
MR. CREWE’S CAREER. Illus. by A. I. Keller and Kinneys.
A new England state is under the political domination of a railway and Mr. Crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the people is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own interest in a political way. The daughter of the railway president plays no small part in the situation.
THE CROSSING. Illustrated by S. Adamson and L. Baylis.
Describing the battle of Fort Moultrie, the blazing of the Kentucky wilderness, the expedition of Clark and his handful of followers in Illinois, the beginning of civilization along the Ohio and Mississippi, and the treasonable schemes against Washington.
CONISTON. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn.
A deft blending of love and politics. A New Englander is the hero, a crude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then surrendered all for the love of a woman.
THE CELEBRITY. An episode.
An inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. It is the purest, keenest fun—and is American to the core.
THE CRISIS. Illustrated with scenes from the Photo-Play.
A book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are inspiring.
RICHARD CARVEL. Illustrated by Malcolm Frazer.
An historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of Colonial times, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases and interesting throughout.
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
THE NOVELS OF GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.
GRAUSTARK. Illustrated with Scenes from the Play.
With the appearance of this novel, the author introduced a new type of story and won for himself a perpetual reading public. It is the story of love behind a throne in a new and strange country.
BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK. Illustrations by Harrison Fisher.
This is a sequel to “Graustark.” A bewitching American girl visits the little principality and there has a romantic love affair.
PRINCE OF GRAUSTARK. Illustrations by A. I. Keller.
The Prince of Graustark is none other than the son of the heroine of “Graustark.” Beverly’s daughter, and an American multimillionaire with a brilliant and lovely daughter also figure in the story.
BREWSTER’S MILLIONS. Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo-Play.
A young man, required to spend one million dollars in one year, in order to inheritseven, accomplishes the task in this lively story.
COWARDICE COURT. Illus. by Harrison Fisher and decorations by Theodore Hapgood.
A romance of love and adventure, the plot forming around a social feud in the Adirondacks in which an English girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic young American.
THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND. Illustrated by A. I. Keller.
A story of modern New York, built around an ancient enmity, born of the scorn of the aristocrat for one of inferior birth.
WHAT’S-HIS-NAME. Illustrations by Harrison Fisher.
“What’s-His-Name” is the husband of a beautiful and popular actress who is billboarded on Broadway under an assumed name. The very opposite manner in which these two live their lives brings a dramatic climax to the story.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York