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The Brand of Silence: A Detective Story

by Johnston McCulley · English · Gutenberg #21891 · 337,508 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Brand of Silence: A Detective Story

Author: Johnston McCulley


        
Release date: June 21, 2007 [eBook #21891]
                Most recently updated: April 13, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21891

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRAND OF SILENCE: A DETECTIVE STORY ***




                          The Brand of Silence

                           A DETECTIVE STORY

                          By HARRINGTON STRONG




CHELSEA HOUSE 79 SEVENTH AVENUE NEW YORK CITY

Copyright, 1919 by STREET & SMITH

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.




CONTENTS


       I. IN THE HARBOR

      II. THE GIRL ON THE SHIP

     III. SOME DISCOURTESIES

      IV. A FOE AND A FRIEND

       V. THE COUSIN

      VI. MURK--AND MURDER

     VII. EVIDENCE

    VIII. LIES AND LIARS

      IX. PUZZLED

       X. ON THE TRAIL

      XI. CONCERNING KATE GILBERT

     XII. BATTERED KEYS

    XIII. A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN

     XIV. MORE MYSTERY

      XV. A MOMENT OF VIOLENCE

     XVI. MURK RECEIVES A BLOW

    XVII. MURK IS TEMPTED

   XVIII. A WOMAN'S WAY

     XIX. COADLEY QUITS

      XX. UP THE RIVER

     XXI. RECOGNITION

    XXII. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

   XXIII. A STARTLING STORY

    XXIV. HIGH-HANDED METHODS

     XXV. AN ACCUSATION

    XXVI. THE TRUTH COMES OUT




THE BRAND OF SILENCE




CHAPTER I

IN THE HARBOR


Now the fog was clearing and the mist was lifting, and the bright
sunshine was struggling to penetrate the billows of damp vapor and touch
with its glory the things of the world beneath. In the lower harbor
there still was a chorus of sirens and foghorns, as craft of almost
every description made way toward the metropolis or out toward the open
sea.

The _Manatee_, tramp steamer with rusty plates and rattling engines and
a lurch like that of a drunken man, wallowed her way in from the
turbulent ocean she had fought for three days, her skipper standing on
the bridge and inaudibly giving thanks that he was nearing the end of
the voyage without the necessity for abandoning his craft for an open
boat, or remaining to go down with the ship after the manner of skippers
of the old school.

Here and there showed a rift in the rolling fog, and those who braved
the weather and lined the damp rail could see other craft in passing.

A giant liner made her way past majestically, bound for Europe, or a
seagoing tug clugged by as if turning up her nose at the old, battered
_Manatee_.

Standing at the rail, and well forward, Sidney Prale strained his eyes
and looked ahead, watching where the fog lifted, an eager light in his
face, his lips curved in a smile, a general expression of anticipation
about him.

Sidney Prale himself was not bad to look at. Thirty-eight he was, tall
and broad of shoulder, with hair that was touched with gray at the
temples, with a face that had been browned by the weather. Sidney Prale
had the appearance of wearing clothes that had been molded to his form.
He had a chin that expressed decision and determination, lips that could
form in a thin, straight line if occasion required, eyes that could be
kind or stern, according to the needs of the moment. A man of the world
would have said that Sidney Prale was a gentleman of broad experience, a
man who had presence of mind in the face of danger, a man who could
think quickly and act quickly when such things were necessary.

He was not alone at the rail--and yet he was alone in a sense, for he
gave no one the slightest attention. He bent over and looked ahead
eagerly, waving a hand now and then at the men on passing craft, like a
schoolboy on an excursion trip. He listened to the bellowing sirens and
foghorns, drank in the raucous cries of the ship's officers, strained
his ears for the land sounds that rolled now and then across the waters.

"It's great--great!" Sidney Prale said, half aloud.

He bent over the rail again. A hand descended upon his shoulder, and a
voice answered him.

"You bet it's great, Prale!"

Sidney Prale's smile weakened a bit as he turned around, but there was
nothing of discourtesy in his manner.

"You like it, Mr. Shepley?" he asked.

"Do I like it? Does Rufus Shepley, forced to run here and there around
the old world in the name of business, like it when he gets the chance
to return to New York? Ask me!"

"I have my answer," Prale said, laughing a bit. "And judge, then, how I
like it--when I have not seen it for ten years."

"Haven't seen New York for ten years?" Rufus Shepley gasped.

"A whole decade," Prale admitted.

"Been down in Honduras all that time?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you live to tell it? You are my idea of a real man!" Rufus Shepley
said.

Shepley took a cigar from his vest pocket, bit off the end, lighted it,
and puffed a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air. Rufus Shepley was a
man of fifty, and looked his age. If human being ever gave the
appearance of being the regulation man of big business affairs, Rufus
Shepley did.

Sidney Prale had held some conversation with him on board ship, but they
had not become very well acquainted, though they seemed to like each
other. Each man seemed to be holding back, waiting, trying to discover
in the other more qualities to like or dislike.

"Ten years," Sidney Prale went on thoughtfully. "It seems a long time,
but the years have passed swiftly."

"I always had an idea," Rufus Shepley said, "that a genuine white man
who went to one of those Central American countries turned bad after the
first year and went to the devil generally. But you don't look it."

"The idea is correct, at that, in some instances," Prale admitted. "Some
of them do turn bad."

"They get to drifting, eh? The climate gets into their blood. Do you
know what I think? I think that, in seven cases out of eight, it's a
case of a man wanting an excuse for loafing. I knew a chap once who went
down to that part of the world. Got to drinking too much, threw up his
job, used to loaf all the time, married some sort of a half-black woman
who had a bit of coin, and went to the dogs generally."

"Oh, there are many such," Sidney Prale admitted. "But the majority of
them are men who made some grave mistake somewhere else and got the idea
that life was merely existence afterward. A man must have an incentive
in any climate to make anything of himself--and down there the incentive
has to be stronger."

"I assume that you--er--had the proper incentive," Rufus Shepley said,
grinning.

"I don't know how some persons would look at the propriety of it. I
wanted to make a million dollars."

"Great Scott! Your ambition was a modest one, I must say. And you
managed to win out? Oh, I beg your pardon! It isn't any of my business,
of course!"

"That's all right," Prale answered good-naturedly. "I don't mind. I'm so
happy this morning that I'm willing to overlook almost anything. And I
don't mind telling you that I've won out."

"A million in ten years," Shepley gasped.

"Yes; and with an initial capital of ten thousand dollars," Sidney Prale
replied. "I'm rather proud of it, of course. I suppose this sounds like
boasting----"

"My boy, you have the right to boast! A million dollars in ten years!
Great Scott! Say, would you consider being general manager of one of my
companies? We need a few men like you."

Sidney Prale laughed again. "Sorry--but I'm afraid that I can't take the
job," he replied. "I am going to have my little holiday now--going to
play. A million isn't much in some quarters, but it is enough for me. I
don't care for money to a great extent. I just wanted to prove to myself
that I could make a million--prove it to myself and others. And, ready
to take my vacation, I naturally decided to take it in New York--home!"

"Ah! Home's in New York, eh? Old friends waiting at the dock, and all
that!"

Sidney Prale's face clouded. "I am afraid that there will be no
reception committee," he said. "I didn't let anybody know that I was
coming--for the simple reason that I didn't know whom to inform."

"My boy!"

"I have a few old friends scattered around some place, I suppose. I have
no relatives in the world except a male cousin about my own age, and I
never communicated with him after going to Honduras. There was a girl
once----"

"There always is a girl," Shepley said softly, as Prale ceased speaking.

"But that ended ten years ago," Prale continued. "I stand alone--with my
million."

"You advertise that fact, my boy, and there'll be girls by the regiment
looking up your telephone number."

"And the right one wouldn't be in the crowd," Prale said, the smile
leaving his face again.

"Well, you are in for a fine time, at least," Rufus Shepley told him.
"There have been quite a few changes in New York in the past ten years.
Yes, quite a few changes! There are a few new boarding houses scattered
around, and a new general store or two, and the street cars run out
farther than they used to."

"Oh, I've kept up to date after a fashion," Sidney Prale said, laughing
once more. "I'm ready to appreciate the changes, but I suppose I will be
surprised. The New York papers get down to Honduras now and then, you
know."

"I've always understood," Shepley said, "that there are certain
gentlemen in that part of the world who watch the New York papers very
closely."

"Meaning the men who are fugitives from justice, I see," said Prale.

"I didn't mean anything personal, of course."

"It does look bad, doesn't it?" said Prale. "I went straight to Honduras
when I left New York ten years ago, like a man running away from the
law, and I have remained there all the time until this trip. And I have
been gone ten years--thereby satisfying certain statutes of
limitation----"

"My boy, I never meant to insinuate that----"

"I know that you didn't," Prale interrupted. "My conscience is clear,
Mr. Shepley. When I land, I'll not be afraid of some officer of the law
clutching me by the shoulder and hauling me away to a police station."

"Even if one did, a cool million will buy lots of bail," Rufus Shepley
said.

The fog was lifting rapidly now. Here and there through the billows of
mist could be seen the roofs of skyscrapers glistening in the sun.
Sidney Prale almost forgot the man at his side as he bent over the rail
to watch.

"Getting home--getting home!" he said. "I suppose no man ever gets quite
over the home idea, no matter how long he remains away. Ten years ought
to make a change, but I find that it doesn't. I'll be glad to feel the
pavements beneath my shoes again."

"Sure!" said Rufus Shepley.

"Confound the fog! Ah, there's a building I know! And there are a few I
never saw before. We're beginning to get in, aren't we? Ought to dock
before noon, don't you think?"

"Sure thing!"

"A hotel, a bath, fresh clothes--and then for hour after hour of walking
around and taking in the sights!" Prale said.

"Better engage a taxi if you expect to take 'em all in before night, my
boy," Shepley said.

"I forgot! We haven't any too many taxis in Honduras. I had a car of my
own, but sold it before I came away."

"You let the busy auto agents know that, and you'll have a regiment of
them----"

"And there!" Sidney Prale cried. "Now I know that I am home! There is
the Old Girl in the Harbor!"

Prale removed his cap, and a mist came into his eyes that did not come
from the foggy billows through which the ship was plowing. The sun was
shining through the murk at last, and it touched the Statue of Liberty.
The great figure seemed like a live thing for a moment; the mist made it
appear that her garments were waving in the breeze.

"Now I know that I am home!" Sidney Prale repeated.

"She sure is a great old girl!" Rufus Shepley agreed. "Always glad to
see her!"

"Well, I've got to get ready to land; I'm not going to waste any time,"
Prale said. "I'm glad that I met you--and perhaps we'll meet again in
the city."

"Hope we do!" said Shepley, grasping Prale's hand. "Our factories are
out in Ohio, but the company headquarters are in New York, of course.
Here's my business card, my boy. And I generally put up at the
Graymore."

Sidney Prale took the card, thanked Rufus Shepley, and hurried down the
deck toward his stateroom, one of the best on the ship. Rufus Shepley
looked after him sharply.

"Went straight to Honduras and stayed there for ten years, eh?" Rufus
Shepley said to himself. "Um! Looks bad! I never put much stock in those
Honduras chaps--but this one seems to be all right. Never can tell,
though!"

Sidney Prale, still smiling, and humming a Spanish love song, reached
his stateroom and threw open the door; and just inside, he came to a
stop, astonished.

Somebody had been in that stateroom and had been going through his
things. The contents of his suit case were spilled on the floor. A bag
was wide open; he had left it closed and in a corner less than an hour
before.

Prale went down on his knees and made a quick inspection. There did not
seem to be anything missing. A package of papers--business documents for
the greater part--had been examined, he could tell at a glance, but none
had been taken.

"Peculiar!" Prale told himself. "Some sneak thief, I suppose. No sense
in complaining to the ship's officers at this late hour, especially
since nothing has been stolen. Makes a man angry, though!"

He put the suit case on the table and began repacking the things that
had been scattered on the floor. Then he gathered up his toilet
articles, bits of clothing he had left out until the last minute, a few
souvenirs of Honduras he had been showing a tourist the evening before.
He turned toward the berth to pick up his light overcoat.

There was a sheet of paper pinned to the pillow, paper that might have
been taken from an ordinary writing tablet. Sidney Prale took it up and
glanced at it. A few words of handwriting were upon the paper, words
that looked as if they had been scrawled hurriedly with a pencil that
needed sharpening badly.

"Retribution is inevitable and comes when you least expect it."

The smile fled from Sidney Prale's lips, and the Spanish love song he
had been humming died in his throat. He frowned, and read the message
again.

"Now what the deuce does this mean?" he gasped.




CHAPTER II

THE GIRL ON THE SHIP


Sidney Prale folded the piece of paper carefully and slipped it into his
wallet. Winning a fortune in ten years in a foreign country had taught
Prale many things, notably that everything has its cause and effect, and
that things that seem trifles may turn out to be of great importance
later.

He finished his packing, locked the suit case, put on coat and hat and
went out upon the deck. The _Manatee_ was docking. A throng was on the
wharf. Prale glanced at the buildings in the distance and forgot for the
time being the scrap of paper, because of his happiness at being home
again and his eagerness to land. Returning to New York after an absence
of so many years was in the nature of an adventure. There would be
exploring trips to make, things to find, surprises at every turn and on
every side.

The passengers were crowding forward now, preparing to go ashore. Sidney
Prale picked up his suit case and started through the jostling crowd.
Already those on board were calling greetings to relatives and friends
on the wharf, and Prale's face grew solemn for a moment because there
was nobody to welcome him.

"Not a friend in the world," he had said to Rufus Shepley that morning.

"A man with a million dollars has a million friends," Shepley had
replied. "The only trouble is, you can't enjoy that sort of friends
except by getting rid of them, unless you happen to be a miser."

Well, that was something, Sidney Prale told himself now. He had ample
funds, at least, and perhaps he could enjoy himself after ten years of
battling with financial sharks, of inspecting and working mines, of
cutting through dense forests and locating growths that could be turned
into wealth.

Prale put his suit case against the rail to wait until he could move
forward again. He looked down at the throng on the wharf, and up and
down the rail at his fellow passengers. Then he saw the girl again!

He had seen her before. The first time had been at Tegucigalpa, at a
ball given by some society people for charity. He had known her at once
for an American, and finally had obtained an introduction. Her name was
Kate Gilbert, and she lived in New York. It was understood that she was
of a wealthy family and traveling for her health. She was accompanied
only by a middle-aged maid, a giant of a woman who seemed to be maid and
chaperon and general protector in one.

That night at Tegucigalpa, Prale had talked to her and had danced with
her twice. He judged her to be about twenty-eight, some ten years
younger than himself. She was small and charming, not one of the
helpless butterfly sort, but a woman who gave indication that she could
care for herself if necessary.

Prale had been surprised to find her aboard the _Manatee_, but she had
told him that she was going home, that her health had been much
benefited, and that she felt she could not remain away longer. It had
seemed to Prale that she avoided him purposely, and that puzzled him a
bit. He could not understand why any woman should absolutely dislike
him. His record in Honduras was a clean one; it was known that he did
not care much for women, and surely she had learned that he was a man of
means, and did not think he might be a fortune hunter wishing to marry a
prominent heiress.

He had not spoken to her half a dozen times during the voyage. She made
the acquaintance of others aboard and, for the first few days, had been
busy in their company. The last three days had been stormy ones, and
Kate Gilbert had not been much in evidence. Prale judged that she was a
poor sailor.

Now she stopped beside him, the middle-aged maid standing just behind
her.

"Well, we're home, Mr. Prale!" she said.

"I suppose that you are glad to get home?"

"Surely!" she replied. "And I'll be angry if there are not half a dozen
to meet me when I land. I've been trying to spot some friends in that
crowd, but it is a hopeless task."

"I hope you'll not be disappointed," Prale said.

As he spoke, he glanced past her at the middle-aged maid, and surprised
a peculiar expression on the face of the woman. She had been looking
straight at him, and her lips were almost curled into a sneer, while her
eyes were flashing with something akin to anger.

Prale did not understand that. Why should the dragon be incensed with
him? He was making no attempt to lay siege to the heart of Miss Kate
Gilbert. He was no fortune hunter after an heiress. The expression on
the face of the maid amused Prale even while he wondered what it could
mean.

"Picked your hotel?" Kate Gilbert was asking.

"Not yet, but I hope to get in somewhere," Prale told her. "May I be of
assistance to you when we land?"

"Marie will help me, thanks--and there will be others on the wharf," she
answered.

A cold look had come into her face again, and she turned half away from
him and looked down at the crowd on the wharf. Sidney Prale looked
straight at her, despite the glare of the middle-aged maid. Kate Gilbert
was a woman who would appeal to a majority of men, but there seemed to
be something peculiar about her, Prale told himself. He knew that she
had avoided him purposely during the voyage, and that she had spoken to
him purposely now, yet had asked nothing except whether he had chosen a
hotel.

Why should Kate Gilbert wish to know where he was going to stop? Perhaps
it had been only an idle question, he explained to himself. In her
happiness at getting home, she had merely wished to speak to somebody,
and none of her shipboard friends happened to be near.

He turned from her and glanced at the maid again. She was not the sort
to be named Marie, Prale told himself. Marie called up a vision of a
petite, trim woman from sunny France, and this Marie was nothing of the
sort. She appeared more to be a peasant used to hard labor, Prale
decided.

And he could not understand the expression on the woman's face as she
looked at him. It was almost one of loathing.

"Got me mixed up with somebody else, or somebody has been giving me a
bad reputation," Prale mused. "Enough to make a man shiver--that look of
hers."

Kate Gilbert, apparently, did not intend to have anything more to do
with him. Smiling a little at her manner, Prale lifted his hat, picked
up the suit case, and turned away. Once more he tried to force a passage
through the jostling crowd. He had not taken three steps when Kate
Gilbert touched him on the arm.

"Pardon me, Mr. Prale, but there is something sticking on the end of
your suit case," she said.

Prale glanced down. On one end of the suit case was a bit of paper. It
had been stuck there by a drop of mucilage, and the mucilage was still
wet.

He thanked Kate Gilbert and picked the paper off, but he did not throw
it over the rail into the water. He crumpled it in his hand and, when he
was some distance away, he smoothed it out.

There was a single word written on it, in the same handwriting
as that of the note he had found pinned to the pillow in the
stateroom--"Retribution."

Sidney Prale glanced around quickly. Nobody seemed to be paying
particular attention to him. Kate Gilbert and her maid had passed him
and were preparing to land. Prale put the piece of paper into his coat
pocket and picked up his suit case again. That bit of paper, he knew
well, had not been on the suit case when he had left the stateroom. It
had been put there as he had made his way through the crowd of
passengers along the rail. Who could have stuck it there--and why?

Now the passengers were streaming ashore, and Sidney Prale stepped to
one side and watched them. Perhaps he had some business enemy on board,
he told himself, some man he had not noticed, and who was trying to
frighten him after a childish fashion. He searched the faces of the
landing passengers, but saw nobody he had known in Central America,
nobody who looked at all suspicious.

"Either a joke--or a mistake," Prale told himself again.

He started ashore. He saw Kate Gilbert just ahead of him, the bulky maid
at her heels. An elderly man met her, but did not greet her as a father
would have been expected to do. Prale saw them hold a whispered
conversation, and it seemed to him that the elderly man gave him a
searching glance.

"I must look like a swindler!" Prale mused.

Finally, as he went out upon the street to engage a taxicab and start
for a hotel, he saw Kate Gilbert and her maid and the elderly man again,
getting into a limousine. The girl held a piece of paper in her hand,
and was reading something from it to the elderly man. As she got into
the car, she dropped the piece of paper to the curb.

The limousine was gone before Prale reached the curb. He put his suit
case down and picked up the piece of paper. There was nothing on it
except a couple of names that meant nothing to Sidney Prale. But his
eyes bulged, nevertheless, as he read them.

For the paper was similar to that upon which had been written the note
that he had found on the pillow in the stateroom--and the coarse
handwriting was the same!

"What the deuce----" Prale caught himself saying.

Had Kate Gilbert written that message about retribution and had her maid
leave it in the stateroom? Had Kate Gilbert written that single word and
had her maid paste it on his suit case as he passed, or pasted it there
herself?

Why had Kate Gilbert--whom he never had seen and of whom he never had
heard until she appeared at the ball in Tegucigalpa--avoided him in such
a peculiar manner? And why had the misnamed Marie glared at him, and
expressed loathing and anger when her eyes met his?

"What the deuce----" Prale asked himself again.

Then a taxicab drew up at the curb, and he got in.




CHAPTER III

SOME DISCOURTESIES


Sidney Prale obtained accommodations in a prominent hostelry on Fifth
Avenue, bathed, dressed, ate luncheon, and then went out upon the
streets, walking briskly and swinging his stick, going about New York
like a stranger who never had seen it before.

As a matter of fact, he never had seen this New York before. He had
expected a multitude of changes, but nothing compared to what he found.
He watched the crowds on the Avenue, cut over to Broadway and
investigated the electric signs by daylight, observed the congestion of
vehicles and the efforts of traffic policemen to straighten it out. He
darted into the subway and rode far downtown and back again just for the
sport of it. After that he got on an omnibus and rode up to Central
Park, and acted as if every tree and twig were an old friend.

He made himself acquainted with the animals in the zoo there, and
promised himself to go to the other zoo in the Bronx before the end of
the week. He stood back at the curb and lifted his head to look at new
buildings after the manner of the comic supplement farmer with a straw
between his teeth.

"Great--great!" said Sidney Prale.

Then he hurried back to the hotel, dressed for dinner, and went down to
the dining room, stopping on the way to obtain a ticket for a musical
revue that was the talk of the town at the moment.

Prale ordered a dinner that made the waiter open his eyes. He made it a
point to select things that were not on the menus of the hotels in
Honduras. Then he sat back in his chair and listened to the orchestra,
and watched well-dressed men and women come in and get their places at
the tables.

But the dinner was a disappointment to Prale after all. It seemed to him
that the waiter was a long time giving him service. He remonstrated, and
the man asked pardon and said that he would do better, but he did not.

Prale found that his soup was lukewarm, his salad dressing prepared
imperfectly, the salad itself a mere mess of vegetables. The fish and
fowl he had ordered were not served properly, the dessert was without
flavor, the cheese was stale. He sent for the head waiter.

"I'm disgusted with the food and the service," he complained. "I rarely
find fault, but I am compelled to do so this time. The man who has been
serving me seems to be a rank amateur, and twice he was almost insolent.
This hotel has a reputation which it scarcely is maintaining this
evening."

"I'll see about it, sir," the head waiter said.

Prale saw him stop the waiter and speak to him, and the waiter glared at
him when he brought the demi-tasse. Prale did not care. He glared back
at the man, drank the coffee, and touched the match to a cigar. Then he
signed the check and went from the dining room, an angry and disgusted
man.

"Another thing like that, and I look for the manager," he told himself.

He supposed that he was a victim of circumstances--that the waiter was a
new man and that it happened that the portions he served were poor
portions. His happiness at being home again prevented Sidney Prale from
feeling anger for any length of time. He got his hat and coat and went
out upon the street again.

He had an hour before time to go to the theater. He walked over to
Broadway and went toward the north, looking at the bright lights and the
crowds. He passed through two or three hotel lobbies, satisfied for the
time merely to be in the midst of the throngs.

At the proper time, he hurried to the theater and claimed his seat. The
performance was a mediocre one, but it pleased Sidney Prale. He had seen
a better show in Honduras a month before, had seen better dancing and
heard better singing and comedy, but this was New York!

The show at an end, Prale claimed his hat and coat at the check room and
walked down the street toward a cabaret restaurant. He reached into his
overcoat pocket for his gloves, and his hand encountered a slip of
paper. He took it out.

There was the same rough handwriting on the same kind of paper, and
evidently with the same blunt pencil.

"Remember--retribution is sure!"

"This thing ceases to be a joke!" Prale told himself.

His face flushed with anger, and he turned back toward the theater. But
he had been among the last to leave, and already the lights of the
playhouse were being turned out. The boy in charge of the check room
would be gone, Prale knew.

He thought of Kate Gilbert again, and the bit of paper she had dropped
as she got into the limousine down on the water front. Surely she could
have no hand in this, he thought. What interest could Kate Gilbert, a
casual acquaintance and reputed daughter of a wealthy house, have in him
and his affairs?

"Somebody is making a mistake," he declared to himself, "or else it is
some sort of a new advertising dodge. If I ever catch the jokesmith who
is responsible for these dainty little messages, I'll tell him a thing
or two."

Prale turned into the restaurant and found a seat at a little table at
one side of the room. The after-theater crowd was filling the place. The
orchestra was playing furiously, and the cabaret performance was
beginning. Sidney Prale leaned back in his chair and watched the show.
The waiter came to his side, and he ordered something to eat and drink.

Then he saw Kate Gilbert again, at a table not very far away from his.
She was dressed in an evening gown, as if she had just come from the
theater or opera. She was in the company of the elderly man who had met
her at the wharf, and a young man and an older woman were at the same
table.

Prale's eyes met hers for an instant, and he inclined his head a bit in
a respectful manner. But Kate Gilbert looked through him as if he had
not been present, and then turned her head and began talking to the
elderly man.

Prale's face flushed. He hadn't done anything wrong, he told himself. He
merely had bowed to her, as he would have bowed to any woman to whom he
had been properly introduced. She had seen fit to cut him. Well, he
could exist without Kate Gilbert, he told himself, but he wondered at
her peculiar manner.

He left the place within the hour and went back to the hotel and to bed.
In the morning he walked up the Avenue as far as the Circle, dropped
into a restaurant for a good breakfast, and then engaged a taxicab and
drove downtown to the financial district. He had remembered that he was
a man with a million, and that he had to pay some attention to business.

He went into the establishment of a famous trust company and sent his
card in to the president. An attendant ushered him into the president's
private office immediately.

"Sit down, Mr. Prale," said the financier. "I am glad that you came to
see me this morning. I was just about to have somebody look you up."

"Anything the matter?" Prale asked.

"Your funds were transferred to us by our Honduras correspondent," the
financier said. "Since you were leaving Honduras almost immediately, we
decided to care for the funds until you arrived and we could talk to
you."

"I shall want some good investments, of course," Prale said. "I have
disposed of all my holdings in Honduras, and I don't want the money to
be idle."

"Idleness is as bad for dollars as for men," said the financier,
clearing his throat.

"Can you suggest some investments? I have engaged no broker as yet, of
course."

"I--er--I am afraid that we have nothing at the present moment," the
financier said.

"The market must be good," Prale observed. "I never knew a time when
investments were lacking."

"I would not offer you a poor one, and good ones are scarce with us at
present," said the banker. "Sorry that we cannot attend to the business
for you. Perhaps some other trust company----"

"Well, I can wait for something to turn up," Prale said. "There is no
hurry, of course. Probably you'll have something in a few weeks that
will take care of at least a part of the money."

The banker cleared his throat again, and looked a trifle embarrassed as
he spoke. "The fact of the matter is, Mr. Prale," he said, "that we do
not care for the account."

"I beg your pardon!" Prale exclaimed. "You mean you don't want me to
leave my money in your bank?"

"Just that, Mr. Prale."

"But in Heaven's name, why? I should think that any financial
institution would be glad to get a new account of that size."

"I--er--I cannot go into details, sir," the banker said. "But I must
tell you that we'd be glad if you'd make arrangements to move the
deposit to some other bank."

"I suppose you don't like to be bothered with small accounts," said
Prale, with the suspicion of a sneer in his voice. "Very well, sir! I'll
see that the deposit is transferred before night. Perhaps I can find
banks that will be glad to take the money and treat me with respect. And
I shall remember this, sir!"

"I--er--have no choice in the matter," the banker said.

"Can't you explain what it means?"

"I have nothing to say--nothing at all to say," stammered the financier.
"We took the money because of our Honduras correspondent, but we'll
appreciate it very much if you do business with some other institution."

"You can bet I'll do that little thing!" Prale exclaimed.

He left the office angrily and stalked from the building. Were the big
financiers of New York insane? A man with a million in cold cash has the
right to expect that he will be treated decently in a bank. Prale walked
down the street and grew angrier with every step he took.

Before going to Honduras he had worked for a firm of brokers. He hurried
toward their office now. He would send in his card to his old employer,
Griffin, he decided, and ask his advice about banking his funds, and
incidentally whether the financier he had just left was an imbecile.

He found the Griffin concern in the same building, though the offices
were twice as large now, and there were evidences of prosperity on every
side.

"Got an appointment?" an office boy demanded.

"No, but I fancy that Mr. Griffin will see me," said Prale. "I used to
work for him years ago."

Then he sat down to wait. Griffin would be glad to see him, he thought.
Griffin was a man who always liked to see younger men get along. He
would want to know how Sidney Prale got his million. He would want to
take him to luncheon and exhibit him to his friends--tell how one of his
young men had forged ahead in the world.

The boy came back with his card. "Mr. Griffin can't see you," he
announced.

"Oh, he's busy, eh? Did he make an appointment?"

"No, he ain't busy," said the boy. "He's got his feet set up on the desk
and he's readin' about yesterday's ball game. He said to say that he
didn't have time to see you this mornin', and that he wouldn't ever have
time to see you."

"Don't be discourteous, you young imp!" Prale said, his face flushing.
"You're sure you handed Mr. Griffin my card?"

"Oh, I handed it to him--and don't you try to run any bluff on me!" the
boy answered. "From the way the boss acted, I guess you don't stand very
high with him!"

The boy went back to his chair, and Sidney Prale went from the office, a
puzzled and angry man. There probably was some mistake, he told himself.
He'd meet Griffin during the day and tell him about the adventure.

He was anxious to meet some of the men with whom he had worked ten years
before, but he did not know where to find them. He'd have to wait and
ask Griffin what had become of them. Then, too, he wanted to transfer
his funds.

Prale got another taxicab and started making the rounds of the banks he
knew to be solid institutions. Within a few hours he had made
arrangements to transfer the account, using four financial institutions.
He said nothing, except that the money had been transferred to the trust
company from Honduras, because the company had a correspondent there.

His funds secure, Prale went back uptown and to the hotel. The clerk
handed him a note with his key. Prale tore it open after he stepped into
the elevator. This time it was a sheet of paper upon which a message had
been typewritten.

"You can't dodge the law of compensation. For what you have done, you
must pay."

Sidney Prale gasped when he read that message, and went back to the
ground floor.

"Who left this note for me?" he demanded of the clerk.

"Messenger boy."

"You don't know where he came from?"

"No, sir."

Prale turned away and started for the elevator again. A bell hop stopped
him.

"Manager would like to see you in his office, sir," the boy said. "This
way, sir."

Prale followed the boy, wondering what was coming now. He found the
manager to be a sort of austere individual who seemed impressed with his
own importance.

"Mr. Prale," he said, "I regret to have to say this, but I find that it
cannot be avoided. When you arrived yesterday, the clerk assigned you to
a suite on the fifth floor. He made a mistake. We had a telegraphic
reservation for that suite from an old guest of ours, and it should have
been kept for him. You appreciate the situation, I feel sure."

"No objection to being moved," Prale said. "I have unpacked scarcely any
of my things."

"But--again I regret it--there isn't a vacant suite in the house, Mr.
Prale."

"A room, then, until you have one."

"We haven't a room. We haven't as much as a cot, Mr. Prale. We cannot
take care of you, I'm afraid. So many regular guests, you understand,
and out-of-town visitors."

"Then I'll have to move, I suppose. You may have the suite within two
hours."

"Thank you, Mr. Prale."

Prale was angry again when he left the office of the manager. It seemed
that everything was conspiring against his comfort. He got a cab, drove
to another hotel, inspected a suite and reserved it, paying a month in
advance, and then went back to the big hotel on Fifth Avenue to get his
baggage. He paid his bill at the cashier's window, and overheard the
room clerk speaking to a woman.

"Certainly, madam," the clerk was saying. "We will have an excellent
suite on the fifth floor within half an hour. The party is just vacating
it. Plenty of suites on the third floor, of course, but, if you want to
be up higher in the building----"

Sidney Prale felt the blood pounding in his temples, felt rage welling
up within him. He felt as he had once in a Honduras forest when he
became aware that a dishonest foreman was betraying business secrets. He
hurried to the office of the manager, but the stenographer said the
manager was busy and could not be seen.

Prale whirled away, going through the lobby toward the entrance. He met
Kate Gilbert face to face. She did not seem to see him, though he was
forced to step aside to let her pass.




CHAPTER IV

A FOE AND A FRIEND


After settling himself in the other hotel, Prale ate a belated luncheon.
For the first time that day, he looked at the newspapers. He had
remembered that a New Yorker reads the papers religiously to keep up to
the minute; whereas, in Honduras, it was the custom for busy men to let
the papers accumulate and then read a week's supply at a sitting.

Aside from his name in the list of arrivals, Prale found no word
concerning himself, though there was mention of other men who had come
on the _Manatee_, and who had no special claim to prominence.

"I don't amount to much, I guess," said Prale to himself. "Don't care
for publicity, anyway, but they might let the world know a fellow has
come home."

He went for another walk that afternoon, returned to the hotel for
dinner, and decided that, instead of going to a show that evening, he
would prowl around the town.

He walked up to the Park, went over to Broadway, and started down it,
looking at the bright lights again, making his way through the happy,
theater-going throngs toward Times Square. In the enjoyment of the
crowds he forgot, in part, the discourtesies of the day, but he could
not forget them entirely.

Why had the banker acted in such a peculiar fashion? It was not like a
financial institution to refuse a deposit of a round million. Why had
Griffin refused to see him? Why had he as good as been ordered out of
the hotel?

"Coincidence," he told himself. "No reason on earth why such things
should happen unless I am being taken for somebody else--and that
wouldn't be true in the case of Griffin."

He came to a prominent hotel and went into the lobby, looking in vain
for some friend of the old days with whom he could spend an hour or so.
Down in Honduras he had had his million and friends, too; and here, in
his old home, he had nothing but his money. At this hour, down in
Honduras, the band would be playing in the plaza, and society would be
out in force. There would be a soft breeze sweeping down from the hills,
bringing a thousand odors that could not be detected in New York. Here
and there guitars would be tinkling, and men and maidens would be
meeting in the moonlight.

There would be a happy crowd at a certain club he knew, at which he
always had been made welcome. A man could sit out on the veranda and
look over the tumbling sea, and hear the ship's bells strike. Sidney
Prale found himself just a bit homesick for Honduras.

"Got to get over it," he told himself. "No sense in feeling this way.
I'll have a hundred friends before I've been in town a month!"

He went out upon the street, made his way down it, and dropped in at
another hotel. There he saw Rufus Shepley sitting in an easy-chair,
smoking and looking at an evening paper.

Well, he knew Shepley, at least. Shepley was only a steamship
acquaintance, but he was a human being and could talk. Prale was just a
bit tired of confining his conversation to waiters and cigar-store
clerks.

He stopped before Shepley and cleared his throat.

"Well, we meet again, Mr. Shepley!" he said.

Rufus Shepley looked up, and then sprang to his feet, but his face did
not light and he did not extend a hand in greeting. Instead, his
countenance grew crimson, and he seemed to be shaking with anger.

"You presume too much on a chance acquaintance, sir!" Rufus Shepley
thundered. "I do not wish you to address me again--do you understand,
sir? Never again--either in public or private!"

"Why----" Prale stammered.

"I don't want anything to do with a man of your stamp!" Rufus Shepley
went on. "Ten years in Honduras, were you? We all know why men go to
Honduras and spend years there."

Shepley had raised his voice, and all in the lobby could hear. Men began
moving toward them, and women began walking away, fearing a scene and a
quarrel.

Sidney Prale's face had flushed, too, and he felt his anger rising
again.

"I am sure I do not wish to continue the acquaintance if you do not,
sir," he said. "I can be courteous, at least."

"Some men are not entitled to courtesy," Shepley roared.

"What do you mean by that?" Prale demanded.

"I mean that I don't want anything to do with you, that's all! I don't
want you to speak to me again! I don't want anybody to know that you
even know me by sight!"

"See here!" Prale cried. "You can't talk to me like that without giving
me some explanation! You can't defame me before other men----"

"Defame you?" Shepley cried. "You can't make a tar brush black, sir?"

Rage was seething in Prale now. There was quite a crowd around them, and
others were making their way forward.

"I don't pretend to know what is the matter with you, and I don't much
care!" he told Shepley. "If your hair wasn't gray, I'd take you out on
the sidewalk and smash your face in! Please understand that!"

"Threaten me, will you?"

"I'm not threatening you. I don't fight a man with one foot in the
grave."

"Why you----"

"And I don't care to have you address me in public again, either,"
Sidney Prale went on. "It probably would be an insult."

"Confound you, sir!" Shepley cried.

He reached forward and grasped Prale by the arm. Sidney Prale put up a
hand, tore the grasp loose, and tossed Rufus Shepley to one side.

"Keep your paws off me!" he exclaimed. "I think that you're insane, if
you ask me!"

The hotel detective came hurrying up.

"You'll have to cut that out!" he said. "What's the row here, anyway?"

"The place is harboring a maniac!" Prale said.

"It's harboring a crook!" Shepley cried.

Prale lurched forward and grasped him by both arms, and shook him until
Rufus Shepley's teeth chattered.

"Another word out of you, and I'll forget that your hair is gray!" Prale
exclaimed, and then he tossed Shepley to one side again.

"Either of you guests here?" the house detective demanded. "No? Then
maybe you'd both better get out until you can cool off. If you want to
stage a scrap, go down and rent Madison Square Garden and advertise in
the newspapers. I wouldn't mind seeing a good fight myself. But this
lobby isn't any prize ring. Get me?"

Sidney Prale, his face still flaming, whirled around and started for the
entrance, the crowd parting to let him through. Rufus Shepley, fuming
and fussing, followed him slowly. The house detective accompanied him to
the door.

Prale was waiting at the curb, a Prale whose face was white now because
of the temper he was fighting to control. He stepped close to Shepley's
side.

"I don't know why you insulted me, but don't do it again!" Prale said.
"I ought to settle with you for what you've said already."

The house detective, who had heard, stepped forward again, but Sidney
Prale swung across the street and went on his way.

He walked rapidly for a dozen blocks or more, paying no attention to
where he was going, until his anger began to subside.

"Why, the raving maniac!" he gasped, once or twice.

He didn't pretend to guess what it meant. Shepley had seemed to be
friendly enough when they had separated aboard ship. What could have
happened to make the man change his mind and attitude?

"Must be some mistake!" Prale told himself. "If there is any more of
this, I'll have to get to the bottom of it!"

He reached Madison Square, and sat down on a bench to smoke and regain
his composure. He knew that he had a terrible temper, and that it had to
be controlled. A temper that flashed was all right at times in the
jungles of Honduras, but it was not the proper thing to exhibit in the
heart of New York City. It might get him into serious trouble with
somebody.

He finished his cigar, listened to the striking chimes, and lighted
another smoke. A pedestrian stopped beside him.

"Old Sid Prale, or I'm a liar!" he cried.

Prale looked up, and then sprang to his feet.

"Jim Farland, the sleuth!" he cried in answer. "Old Jim, the holy terror
to evildoers. Now I am glad that I'm home!"

"When did you get in?"

"Yesterday. Sit down. Have a cigar. You're the first old friend I've
met!"

Detective Jim Farland sat down and lighted the cigar. "You've been gone
some time," he said.

"Ten years, Jim."

"Went away rather sudden, didn't you?"

"I did. I made my decision one night and sailed the night following,"
said Prale.

"I always wondered why you went, and what became of you. Had a good job
with old Griffin, didn't you?"

"The job was all right, Jim. But there was a girl----"

"Ah, ha!"

"And she threw me over for a fellow who had some money. That made me
huffy, of course. I swore I'd shake the dust of New York from my shoes,
go to some foreign country, take with me the ten thousand dollars I had
saved, and turn it into a million."

"And came back broke!" Farland said.

"Nothing of the sort, Jim. I came back with a million."

"Great Scott! I suppose I'd better be on my way then. I ain't in the
habit of having millionaires let me associate with 'em."

"You sit where you are, or I'll use violence!" Prale told him. "I
suppose you are still on the force? Still fussing around down in the
financial district watching for swindlers?"

"I left the force three years ago," Jim Farland replied. "Couldn't seem
to get ahead. Too honest, maybe--or too ignorant. I'm in a sort of
private detective business now--got an office up the street. Doing
fairly well, too--lots of old friends give me work. If you have anything
in my line----"

"If I have, you'll get a job," said Prale.

"Let me slip you a card," said Farland. "You never know when you may
need a detective. So you came back with a million, eh?"

"And ran into a mess," Prale added.

"I can't imagine a man with a million running into much of a mess,"
Farland said.

"That's all you know about it. I may need your services sooner than you
think. There is a sort of jinx working on me, it appears."

"Spill it!" Jim Farland said.

Sidney Prale did. He related what had happened at the bank, at the
hotel, in Griffin's office, and told of the scene with Rufus Shepley.

"Funny!" Farland said, when he had finished. "I know old Rufus Shepley,
and as a general thing he ain't a maniac. Something behind all this,
Sid."

"Yes; but what on earth could it be?"

"That's the question. If anything else happens, and you need help, just
let me know."

"I'll do that, surely," said Prale. "And I'm glad that I've got one
friend left in town."

"Always have one as long as I'm here," Jim Farland assured him. "And it
ain't because of your million, either. It's true about the million?"

"Absolutely!"

"Gee! That's more than old Griffin himself has in cash, anyway," Farland
declared. "Maybe it's a good thing that girl turned you down. You'd
probably be a clerk at a few thousand a year, if she hadn't. How'd you
make the coin?"

"Mines and fruit and water power and logs," said Prale.

"Sounds simple enough. When the detective business goes on the blink, I
may take a turn at it myself."

"If you ever need money, Jim, call on me. If you want to engage bigger
offices, hire operatives, branch out----"

"Stop it!" Farland cried. "I want nothing of the kind. I'm a peculiar
sort of duck--don't care about being rich at all. I just want to be sure
I'll have a good living for myself and the wife and kids, and have a few
friends, and be able to look every man in town straight in the eye. I'd
rather work for a friend for nothing than do work I don't like for ten
thousand an hour."

"I believe you!" Prale said.




CHAPTER V

THE COUSIN


An hour later, having parted with Detective Jim Farland, Sidney Prale
walked slowly up Fifth Avenue, determined to go to his hotel suite and
rest for the remainder of the evening. His conversation and short visit
with Farland had put him in a better humor. There was no mistaking the
quality of Farland's friendship. He and Prale had been firm friends ten
years before, when Farland was on duty in the financial district, and
they had made it a point at that time to eat luncheon together when
Farland's duties permitted.

New York seemed a better place, even with one friend among several
million persons. So Prale swung his stick jauntily, and hummed the
Spanish love song again, and told himself that Rufus Shepley and Kate
Gilbert, old Griffin and the hotel manager and the rest of the motley
crew that had made the day miserable for him amounted to nothing in the
broader scheme of things, and were not to be taken seriously.

He came to a block where there were few pedestrians, where the great
shops had their lights out and their night curtains up. He heard steps
behind him, and presently a soft voice.

"Sid! Sid!"

Sidney Prale whirled around, alert and on guard, for he did not
recognize the voice. A medium-sized man stood before him, a man of about
his own age, who had a furtive manner and wore a beard.

"Don't you know me, Sid?"

"Can't say that I do!"

"Why, I'm your cousin, George Lerton. I'm the only relative you've got
in the world, unless you got married while you were away."

Prale stepped aside so that the nearest light flashed on the face of the
man before him.

"Well, if it isn't!" he said. "Didn't recognize you at first. How long
have you been wearing the alfalfa on your face?"

"Two or three years," George Lerton told him, grinning a bit. "I saw
your name in the passenger list, Sid, and wanted to see you. I found out
where you are stopping----"

"Why didn't you come to the hotel, then, or leave a note?" Prale asked.
"Come on up now."

"I--I wanted to talk to you----"

"And I want to talk to you. What are you doing for yourself, George?
Still working in a broker's office?"

"Oh, I've got an office of my own now."

"Getting along all right?"

"Fairly well," Lerton said. "Business has been pretty good the last
year."

"Maybe you can dig up a few good investments for me, then," Prale said.
"I've got some coin now."

"I understand that you're worth a million, Sid."

"Yes, I've made my pile, and came back to New York to enjoy it. But come
along to the hotel."

"I'd--I'd rather not."

"Why not? We've got to talk over old times and find out about each
other. We're cousins, you know."

The truth of the matter was that Sidney Prale never had thought very
much of his cousin. Ten years before they had worked side by side for
Griffin, the broker. There was something furtive and shifty about George
Lerton, but he never had presumed on his relationship, at least. He and
Sidney Prale had been courteous to each other, but never had been warm
friends.

They came from different branches of the family. Lerton had some traits
of character that Prale did not admire, but he always told himself that
perhaps he was prejudiced. They had seen a deal of each other in a
social way in the old days.

"Let us just talk as we walk along," Lerton now said.

"All right, if you have an engagement," Prale replied. "We can get
together later, I suppose. How have the years been using you? Married?"

"I was--I am a widower."

"Sorry," said Prale. "Children?"

"No--not any children. I--I married Mary Slade."

"What?" Prale cried.

He stopped, aghast. Mary Slade had been the girl who had turned him down
for a man with money--and that man had not been George Lerton, who did
not have as much as five thousand at that time.

"It--it's a peculiar story," Lerton said. "You went away so quick--after
you quarreled with her. And that other man--she threw him over, soon.
She couldn't endure him, even with all his money. She regretted her
quarrel with you. I'm quite sure she wanted you for a time. I got to
taking her about. You didn't write, and she was too proud to look you
up, and so--after a time----"

"You married her," said Prale.

"About three years after you went away, Sid. She died after we had been
married a year."

"But she always wanted money, and I had as much as you."

"I made a strike soon after you left, Sid. I plunged with my five
thousand, and turned it into a hundred thousand inside four months. I
kept on, and got more. I was worth almost half a million when we were
married."

"I see. Well, there are no hard feelings, George. She was a good woman,
in a way, and I'm sorry you lost her. I suppose we'll have to get
together, for old time's sake."

"Are you going to stay here long, Sid?"

"Long? I've sold out all my Honduras holdings, and I'm here to spend the
rest of my days. I've come home for good, George. The United States is
plenty good enough for me. I'm going to be a civilized gentleman from
now on."

"You--you're not going back?"

"Why should I? I brought that million with me. I left nothing in
Honduras except a few friends. I suppose I'll run down there some day
and see them, but this is going to be home, you can bet."

"Don't do it, Sid!" Lerton exclaimed.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't stay here, Sid. Get out as quick as you can! Go back to
Honduras--anywhere--but don't stay in New York."

"Why shouldn't I? What on earth is the matter with you? Are you insane?"

"I--I can't tell you, Sid. But you are in danger if you don't leave New
York. I can tell you that much. That's why I didn't call at the hotel;
I'm afraid. Sid, I'm afraid to have anybody see me talking to you. If
you came to my office, I'd refuse to see you----"

"Why?" demanded Sidney Prale, in a stern voice.

"I--I can't explain, Sid."

"I've endured a lot of nonsense to-day, and I'm not going to endure any
more!" Prale said. "You're going to open your mouth and tell me what you
mean, if I have to manhandle you."

"You can beat me until I'm unconscious, Sid, but you can't make me
talk!" Lerton told him.

"But what does it all mean?"

"You'd better go away, Sid; you'd better get out of the country and stay
out!"

"No reason why I should. I never gave up my citizenship; I haven't done
anything wrong. I'm back in my old home, and I fail to see why I
shouldn't remain here if that is my wish."

"But you're in danger!"

"In danger from what?" Sidney Prale cried.

"You have powerful enemies, Sid."

"Why?"

"I--I don't know, exactly. But you have powerful enemies. Some of my
best customers have informed me that they are through doing business
with me if I have anything to do with you. They told me that before you
had been back three hours."

"Powerful enemies? Why? Business enemies?"

"I--I don't know."

"Um! So that is why the bank refused my deposit, why I was turned out of
a hotel, and why old Rufus Shepley raised such a row with me! Powerful
enemies, have I? But there isn't sense in it! I haven't done anything to
make powerful enemies, or any other kind. I'm about fed up with this
stuff!"

"Go away, Sid. You've got money--you can live anywhere!"

"You bet I can! And I'm going to live in New York!"

"Don't try it, Sid!"

Prale whirled and faced him. "You know more than you're telling!" he
accused. "You open your face and talk! I never did have any too much
love for you, and you can wager that I'm not going to let you frighten
me into running away from New York! Talk!"

"I haven't anything more to say, Sid!"

"If I have to choke it out of you right here----"

"You'd better not. It would give your enemies a chance!"

"Lerton, I've fought the Honduras jungles! I've fought half-savage men
and treacherous employees, snakes and fever, financial sharks and common
adventurers. I didn't come back to New York to back down in front of a
man like you--or half a hundred like you. Maybe that is strong talk--but
you have it coming! Give my enemies a chance? I'll give them all the
chance they want. Maybe they'll come into the open, then, and let me see
whom I'm fighting! I don't like foes that fight from the dark!"

"You'd better go away, Sid. I'm talking for your own good!"

"For my good? For yours, you mean! Afraid you'll lose a few customers
and a few dollars, by standing by your cousin, are you? Why don't you be
a man, tell me what you know, help me to fight! Bah! I'm disgusted with
you!"

He hurled George Lerton away from him, curled his lips in scorn of the
man.

"I've tried to warn you," Lerton whimpered.

"I don't understand this and I'm sure you could explain a lot, if you
would. Perhaps I've got more dollars than the customers you are so
afraid of losing. Suppose I hand my million to you for investment. Will
you talk, then?"

"I--I wouldn't dare touch it," Lerton whimpered.

Prale looked at him closely. "It must be something pretty bad to make
you toss aside the chance to handle a million in investments," he said.
"I know you, George! You'd sell your soul for money! You got anything
more to say to me about this?"

"I--I dare not say anything more."

"Very well. If you are afraid to be seen in my presence, kindly keep
away from me hereafter and don't worry about me looking you up at your
office. I'll not take the trouble!"

Sidney Prale said nothing more; he whirled around and walked rapidly up
the Avenue, enraged, wondering what it all meant, determined to find out
as soon as possible.

Lerton ran after him.

"Won't you go away, Sid?" he whimpered.

"No. I'll stay here, and if I have enemies I'll fight them!" Prale told
him. "Why are you so eager to have me run away?"

"I don't want to see you in trouble, Sid."

"That's peculiar. In the old days you used to gloat whenever I got in
trouble. You seem to have a wonderful and sudden regard for my welfare,
and I can't explain it to myself."

Once more, Prale whirled around and started up the Avenue. His brain was
in a tumult. What did George Lerton know that he refused to tell? Why
should there be powerful enemies? He knew of no reason in the world.

"He's dead eager to get me out of town," Prale mused. "There's something
behind it, all right."




CHAPTER VI

MURK--AND MURDER


Instinct, intuition, or some similar faculty caused Prale to turn off
the Avenue eastward toward the river. He was not angry now. His mind was
in action. He had convinced himself that there was something behind all
this, and he was eager for the solution.

Those mysterious warnings had begun on board ship, he remembered. The
piece of paper Kate Gilbert had dropped, and which he had picked up, had
writing similar to the messages he had received. He would have to engage
Jim Farland, he told himself, and learn a few things concerning Miss
Kate Gilbert.

Had the journey because of ill health been a subterfuge? Had Kate
Gilbert gone to Honduras to watch him? If she had, what was the reason
for it?

"It's enough to make a man a maniac," Prale mused. "And that Shepley
man! He was all right when we parted on the ship. Somebody said
something to him about me after he landed. He treated me as if I had
been a skunk."

Then he thought of George Lerton, his cousin. He couldn't quite make up
his mind about Lerton. The man seemed frenzied in his eagerness to get
Prale to leave New York. And Prale knew that it was not because of an
overwhelming love George Lerton had for him, not anxiety lest ill
fortune should come to Sidney Prale.

He would have to think it out, he told himself. At least, he knew that
he had foes working against him, and could be on guard continually. Down
in Honduras he had won a reputation as a fighter, and a fight was a
fight in any clime, he knew; there might be a difference in the rules
here and there, but the same qualities decided the winner.

He continued walking down the street toward the river. In Honduras he
had become accustomed to walking up and down the beach and looking at
the water whenever he wanted to think and solve some problem, and it
probably was habit that sent him to the water front now.

He tossed away the butt of his cigar and did not light another at the
moment. For a time he stood looking out at the black water, at the craft
plying back and forth, their lights flashing. He stepped upon a little
dock and started walking its length. After a time he came near the end
of it without having encountered a watchman, and sat down on a box in a
dark, secluded corner.

There, his back braced against the building and the building shielding
him from the cold wind that came up from the distant sea, Sidney Prale
sat and tried to think it out.

One thing made a comfortable thought--he had money with which to fight.
Either he was the victim of some injustice, or a grave mistake was being
made. He wished that he had forced George Lerton to tell him more, and
he decided that he would do so if they met again. He might even hunt him
out and force him to speak. Sidney Prale thought nothing of handling a
man like Lerton.

He heard steps on the dock and remained silent in the darkness, thinking
that possibly some watchman was making the rounds. If he was discovered,
he would say that he had been looking at the river, give the watchman
his card and a tip, and leave.

The steps came nearer and Prale could make out the form of a man
slipping along the dock's edge in a furtive manner. There was not light
enough for Prale to see his features. He was walking bent over, a short,
heavy-set man who did not wear an overcoat.

Prale watched as the man passed within six feet of him and went to the
edge of the dock. There he stood, outlined against the sky, looking down
at the water. Prale imagined that he heard something like a sob, and
gave closer attention. Then he saw the man take off his coat and drop it
behind him, remove his cap and place it on the coat, and look down at
the water again.

And then Sidney Prale sprang straight forward, and grasped the body of
the other as it was in mid-air.

"No, you don't!" Prale exclaimed.

He found immediately that he had a fight on his hands. The other whirled
and began kicking and striking. Sidney Prale hurled him backward,
rushed, caught him up again in a better hold, threw him back against the
building, and held him there, breathless and panting.

"Another smash out of you, and I'll drop you into the river myself!"
Prale said. "Suppose you take time to get your breath now."

"I--I thought you was a cop."

"Afraid of the cops?"

"It's against the law to--to try to commit suicide."

"So I understand," said Prale. "Well, I am not a cop. Trying to drown
yourself, were you? Why?"

"Why not?" the other asked. "I'm done with livin'."

"Not just yet, but you would have been if I hadn't been sitting here."

"I've knocked all over the world--and made a few mistakes," said the
derelict. "Oh, nothin' that would get me in trouble with the cops! But I
just found out that I'm clutterin' up the earth and don't amount to
anything. I'm sick of half starvin' to death, and workin' like a dog
when I get the chance just to get enough to keep a few old clothes hung
on me."

"Disgusted generally with your lot?" Prale asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Friends or relatives?"

"Not any."

"What's your name?" Prale asked.

"You mean my real name? I don't remember. It's been so long since I've
used it, and I've used so many others since that I don't know. What's
the difference?"

"I'll call you Murk," said Prale. "That expresses the dark river, the
deed you were about to do, and the evident state of your feelings."

"It's as good as any, I suppose."

"What's your particular grievance against the world in general?"

"It ain't anything in particular," said Murk. "It's just general."

"I see. A drifter, are you?"

"I reckon I am."

"Sore at existence, eh?"

"Well, what's the use of livin'?" Murk demanded. "There ain't a man,
woman or child in the world that gives a whoop what becomes of me. I'm
just in the way to be kicked around."

"Maybe you haven't found your proper place in the scheme of things."

"I've sure done some travelin' lookin' for it, boss, but maybe I ain't
found it, as you say. I sure ain't found any place that looks like it
needed me bad."

"Hard to make a living?"

"Oh, I get along. But, what's the use?" Murk wanted to know. "I ain't
got anybody--I get lonesome lots of times. If I had money, it might be
different."

"I'm not so sure about that," said Prale, smiling a bit. "I've got a
million dollars, and, as far as I know right this minute, I have just
one friend in New York."

"If I had a million dollars I wouldn't care whether I had a friend or
not," Murk said.

"You can be just as lonesome with a million dollars as you can without a
cent," Prale told him. "I was sitting down here because I was lonesome,
and because there are some enemies working at me, and I don't know who
they are or why they want to trouble me."

"Well, let's jump in the drink together," Murk said.

"Why not fight it out?" asked Sidney Prale.

"Mister, I've been fightin' for years, and it don't get me anything. It
just tires me out--that's all. The next world can't be any worse than
this."

"Are you a fighter, or a quitter?"

"Nobody ever called me a quitter."

"But you were trying to be a few minutes ago. You were going to quit
like a yellow dog!" Prale told him. "You were going to throw up the
sponge and give the devil a laugh."

"That's between me and the devil--nobody else would care."

"If you had a friend, an influential friend, and didn't have to keep up
a continual fight to hold body and soul together, could you manage to
face the world a little longer?"

"I reckon I could."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-five," said Murk.

"Old enough to have some sense. I am three years older. I'm almost as
lonesome as you are. Why not join forces, Murk?"

"Sir?"

"If I showed you a corner where you would fit in, would you be loyal?
Would you stand by me, help me fight if it was necessary, and all that?"

"You just try me--that's all."

"Very well, Murk, I'm going to trust you. I told you the truth when I
said I had a million dollars. I have but one friend I can depend upon,
and I have enemies. I like to fight, Murk, but I like to have a good pal
at my back when I do."

"That's me, too, sir; but I ain't ever had the pal."

"You've got one now, Murk. You'd be dead now, but for me. So you must be
my man, understand?"

"I don't quite getcha."

"You're under my orders from now on, Murk. We'll have a nice row,
standing back to back perhaps. I'll take you on as a sort of valet and
bodyguard. You'll have good clothes and a home and plenty to eat and a
bit of money to spend. I'll expect you to be loyal. If I find that you
are not--well, Murk, I got back yesterday from Central America. I got my
million down there, by fighting for it, and there were times when I had
to handle men roughly. I can read men, Murk. Can you imagine what I'd do
to a man who double crossed me?"

"I getcha now! You needn't be afraid I'll double cross you. I don't
think this is real."

"It's real, Murk, if we strike a bargain. Do we?"

"I've got everything to win and nothin' to lose--so we do!" Murk said.

"Fair enough. Now we'll get off this dock. Pick up your cap and coat."

Murk picked them up and put them on, and then he followed at Prale's
heels until they were on the street and beneath the nearest light. There
they stopped and looked each other over.

Murk was short, but he was built for strength. Prale could tell at a
glance that the man, even poorly nourished as he was, had muscles that
could be depended on. Prale liked the look around Murk's eyes, too. Murk
was a dog man, the sort that proves faithful to the end if treated
right.

"Well, how do you like me?" Prale asked.

"You look good to me, sir."

"My name is Sidney Prale."

"Yes, Mr. Prale."

"You understand our little deal thoroughly?"

"Yes, sir."

"Come along, then. Here is a cigar--light up!"

Murk lighted the cigar, and Prale lighted another, and they went rapidly
up the street to Fifth Avenue. Prale signaled a passing taxicab, and
they got in. When the cab stopped, it was in a district where some cheap
clothing stores remain open until almost midnight.

Half an hour later they emerged again. Murk was dressed in a suit which
was somber in tone, and which was not at all a bad fit. He was dressed
in new clothing from the skin out. Prale took him to a barber shop, and
waited until the barber gave Murk a hair cut and a shave.

"Gosh!" Murk said, when he looked at himself in the glass. "This can't
be me!"

"It is, however," Prale assured him. "Now, we'll go home, Murk, and get
settled."

"Where is home?"

Prale named the hotel.

"I'd get thrown out on my bean if I ever stuck my nose in the kitchen
door," Murk said.

"You're not going into the kitchen, Murk. You're going to be registered
as my valet and bodyguard, and you're going up in the elevator with me.
Kindly remember, Murk, that you are the personal servant of Mr. Sidney
Prale."

"Yes, sir."

"And your boss has a million dollars and nobody knows how many secret
enemies. Those things give you a standing, Murk. When we are alone, of
course, you'll be a sort of pal. I never had a valet before and I
couldn't stand a regular one. Instead of being a valet, when we are
alone, I want you to be a regular fellow."

"I getcha, Mr. Prale."

"Off we go, then."

They arrived at the hotel, and Prale registered Murk as his valet and
took him up to the suite.

"You bunk in there, Murk," Prale said, pointing to another room. "Take a
bath and go to bed and get some rest. If you are inclined to throw me
down, you'll find some money and jewelry in the top drawer of the
dresser. Rob me and sneak out during the night, if you want to. Cut my
throat, if it's necessary."

"You needn't be afraid, sir--you can trust me!"

"I do!" said Sidney Prale.

Prale slept well that night. When he awoke in the morning, Murk was
dressed and sitting by the window. He drew Prale's bath without being
told, and then stood around as if waiting to be of service.

"I--I found this slipped under your door, sir," he said, after a time.

"What is it, Murk?"

"A piece of paper with writing on it, sir."

"More news from the enemy, I suppose. What does it say?"

"It says as how a man's sin always finds him out."

"That's interesting, isn't it? Do you think I am a sinner of some sort,
Murk?"

"I don't care if you are, sir!"

"Murk! You needn't get excited about it. Put the paper in the lower
drawer of the dresser; I'm making a collection of them," Prale said. He
went back into the other room and continued dressing. "Go to the
telephone and order breakfast served to us here, Murk," he directed.

"What shall I order, sir?"

"Order plenty of whatever you like, and tell them to make it double,"
said Prale.

Murk grinned and gave a proper order. Prale was dressed by the time the
breakfast was served. He and Murk made a hearty meal.

And then Prale lighted his morning cigar and began reading the
newspapers. Murk went around the suite, straightening things and trying
to be of service. He looked at Sidney Prale often; it was plain to be
seen that Prale was Murk's kind of man.

There came a knock at the door.

"See who it is, Murk," Sidney Prale said.

He did not even look up from the paper he was reading. He supposed it
was some hotel employee. Murk stalked across to the door and threw it
open. Two men stood there. Murk flinched when he saw them. He did not
know either of them, but he knew them immediately for what they were.
Murk was a man of experience.

"Mr. Prale in?" one of them asked.

"Yes, sir."

Without asking permission, the two men stepped inside, and one of them
closed the door. Prale dropped the newspaper and turned around to face
them.

"Are you Sidney Prale?" one of them asked.

"I am."

"You are under arrest, Mr. Prale."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Under arrest," I said. "You know your rights, perhaps, so you need not
talk unless you wish to do so."

"You are officers?"

They showed their shields.

"Straight from headquarters," one of them replied. "We want to take a
look around your room while we are here."

"Suppose," said Sidney Prale, "that you tell me, first, why I am under
arrest? Of what crime am I accused?"

"You are charged with murder."

"Murder? What crazy joke is this?" Prale cried. "And what particular
person am I accused of murdering?"

"You are charged with the murder of Mr. Rufus Shepley," the detective
replied.




CHAPTER VII

EVIDENCE


Many times in his life, Sidney Prale had been greatly surprised,
astonished, shocked. But never had he experienced such a feeling as he
did at this bald announcement of a police detective.

The statement was like a blow between the eyes. Prale stared at the two
detectives for an instant, his face flushed, and then he began to laugh.

"It isn't a laughing matter, Mr. Prale," one of the detectives told him.

"Pardon me, but it is so utterly preposterous," Prale replied. "I fail
to see how I can be accused of such a crime. I am not a cut-throat, and
Rufus Shepley was a man I met on shipboard casually, and have seen him
only once since."

"You can do your talking at headquarters, Mr. Prale," the officer said.
"I'll have to ask you to come along with us. I'll leave my partner here
to look through your rooms."

"The sooner I get to headquarters, the sooner this thing will be
straightened out," Prale said. "Murk, you will remain here in the rooms
until you hear from me. Let the officer look at anything he wishes to
inspect."

"Yes, sir," said Murk, glaring at the two detectives.

Prale faced the detective who had been speaking to him.

"Be with you as soon as I get my hat and coat," he said. "It'll not be
necessary, I hope, to put handcuffs on me."

"We can go to headquarters in a taxi, and I guess I can handle you if
you try any tricks," the detective replied.

"There are going to be no tricks tried," Prale said.

"Nevertheless, I think I'll keep a close eye on you."

"Do so, by all means!" Prale retorted.

"Ain't there anything I can do, sir?" Murk asked.

"Nothing except to remain in the rooms until you hear from me," Prale
told him. "If I should--er--be detained, I'll probably send for you."

"Very well, sir."

One of the detectives left the suite with Prale and walked down the hall
to the elevator. The second officer remained behind to go through
Prale's things in an effort to find evidence.

Prale said nothing regarding the crime as they journeyed in the taxicab
to police headquarters. His mind was busy, though. This appeared to be a
culmination of the annoyances to which he had been subjected.

At headquarters he was ushered into a room where a captain of detectives
awaited him.

"Don't have to talk unless you want to, Mr. Prale, but it probably will
be better for you to do so, and have an end of it," the captain said.
"Why did you kill Rufus Shepley?"

"That's a fool question. I didn't kill him. I had no idea he was dead
until the officer arrested me for his murder. I scarcely know the man,
captain. I made his acquaintance aboard a ship coming from Central
America, and I met him but once after leaving the ship. He told me his
business and gave me his card, and that is all. I'm ready to answer any
questions you may ask. This is some terrible mistake. I want to talk
about it--have an end of it, as you say."

"Very well, Prale," the captain said.

"Mr. Prale, if you please. I have not been convicted yet and am entitled
to some courtesy, it seems to me."

"All right, if you're going to be nasty about it," the captain said.
"But you won't gain anything by taking a high-and-mighty attitude with
me."

"I simply object to being addressed in the tone you used," Prale
replied. "I am no crook. Let's get down to business. Ask me any
questions you like, and I'd like to ask a few myself."

"That is fair enough," the captain said, a shrewd expression coming into
his face.

"Suppose you take it for granted, for a few minutes, that I am innocent,
and tell me when Rufus Shepley was killed, and where, and just how."

"Very well, Mr. Prale. A hotel attendant found the body at an early hour
this morning. It was in Mr. Shepley's room. The man was fully dressed.
The physicians say that he was killed about eleven o'clock last night."

"I understand; go on, please."

"He had been stabbed through the heart," said the captain. "Death had
been instantaneous."

"But why suspect me of the crime?" Prale asked.

"This was found beside the body," the captain replied.

From the desk before him he picked up a fountain pen. It was an
elaborate pen, chased with gold, and on one side of it was a tiny gold
plate, upon which Prale's name had been engraved.

"You recognize it?" the captain asked.

"Certainly; it is mine."

"Oh, you admit that, do you?"

"Naturally. But I fail to see how it came to be beside the body of Rufus
Shepley."

"A man who has committed a murder generally is in a hurry to get away,"
said the captain. "It is easy to drop a fountain pen from a pocket,
especially if a man is bending over."

"I don't even know where Shepley's rooms were located," Prale said. "I
didn't know the pen was missing until this minute----"

"Possibly not," replied the captain of detectives.

"And I am quite sure I do not know how it came to be beside the body,
but of one thing I am certain--I did not drop it there."

"Naturally, you would say that."

"And where is the motive?" Prale demanded. "Suppose you tell me what you
have against me, and then I'll proceed to tear your shabby evidence to
pieces."

"We have this particular case so well in hand that I can afford to do
that," the captain said. "Attend me closely and you'll see the futility
of denying your guilt."

"I am waiting to hear the evidence," Prale said.

"Very well. In the first place, you have recently spent some years in
Central America."

"Ten years in Honduras," said Prale.

"You made a fortune down there. We have communicated with the
authorities there and have learned many things about you. We have
learned that you have a hot temper and know how to handle men. You have
been known to beat natives terribly----"

"Rot! I was kinder than nine out of ten men of affairs. I have punished
a few natives caught stealing, for instance."

"Recently, Mr. Prale, you cashed in on all your properties down there
and announced that you were about to leave the country."

"That is correct," said Prale. "I made the million I went down there to
make. Honduras is all right in some ways, but a man likes to live with
his own kind. My home was in New York, and so, naturally, I decided to
return here."

"Did you not tell some of your friends and acquaintances, before you
left, that you were returning to New York for a certain purpose."

"I suppose that I did. My purpose was no secret. I had my pile and
wanted to enjoy life a bit and perhaps I wanted to show off a bit, too.
That was only natural, I suppose. I am proud of my success."

"Did you not hint that the purpose was something sinister--that you were
going to have revenge, or something like that?"

"Certainly not."

"Very well; let us get on," said the captain of detectives. "You say
that you first met Rufus Shepley aboard the _Manatee_?"

"Never saw him in my life until I met him in the smoking room on the
ship, and never had heard his name before."

"That is peculiar. Mr. Shepley was a man of large affairs."

"But I had been in Honduras for ten years, out of touch with men of
affairs in the United States," Prale replied. "I did the most of my
business with firms in South America."

"Just how did you happen to meet Mr. Shepley?"

"In the smoking room. We spoke, as passengers are liable to speak to
each other on a boat or a train. We talked of ordinary things and
exchanged cards."

"Did you happen to _play_ cards?"

"One evening, for a short time. But the game did not amount to anything,
and we quit early. Are you trying to insinuate that I killed the man as
the outcome of a gambling quarrel?"

"Nothing of the sort," said the captain, "Let us get on. You had no
trouble with Mr. Shepley on the ship--no trouble of any sort?"

"Not the slightest. We parted good friends just before the ship docked.
I went to my stateroom for my things and I suppose that he did the
same."

"When did you see him next?" the captain asked.

"Last evening, in the lobby of a hotel on Broadway," said Prale.

"What happened then?"

"Ah, I see where you are trying to get the motive," Prale said. "But I
think that you will agree with me, before we are done, that it is a slim
thing upon which to hang a serious charge of murder. I saw Mr. Shepley
sitting in the lobby and went up and spoke to him. We had been friendly
on the ship, I was feeling lonesome, and was glad to find somebody with
whom I could talk. Besides, he had expressed a desire to see me again."

"Well, what happened?"

"Something I am at a loss to understand. He berated me for daring to
address him. He acted like a maniac. I rebuked him for his manner, and
the hotel detective advised us to leave the place until we cooled off,
or something like that."

"Who left first?" the captain asked.

"I did. I was angry because there was a crowd around and I hated the
scene that had been caused. I went through the main entrance and stepped
to the curb."

"Shepley follow you?"

"Almost immediately."

"And you went up to him and threatened him, didn't you?"

Prale thought a moment. "I told him that I didn't know why he had
insulted me, but I didn't want him to do it again."

"What else?" the captain demanded.

"I believe I said that I ought to settle with him for what he had said
already."

"And then----"

"And then I went on down the street. The hotel detective, I think, heard
me speak to Mr. Shepley."

"Yes, I know that he did," said the captain. "And the hotel detective
also says that you were white with anger, and that you went off down
Broadway like a man with murder in his mind. Do you care to say anything
more?"

"Of course," said Prale. "I went down to Madison Square, and there I sat
down on a bench."

"Meet anybody there?"

"I did. I met an old friend, Jim Farland, who used to be on your
detective force, and who now runs a private agency."

"I know Farland well, and I'll send for him."

"I talked with Jim for some time," Prale went on. "I told him, I
believe, that I seemed to have enemies working in the dark. I told him
about the scene with Shepley."

"Um! What did Farland have to say?"

"Nothing, except that he couldn't understand why Shepley had acted so.
We talked the matter over for a while and then we separated."

"Very well. And where did you go next?"

"I walked up Fifth Avenue," said Prale. "It was after nine o'clock by
that time."

"Go straight to your hotel?"

"I did not," Prale said.

"Care to tell me where you went and what you did?"

"I have no objections. I walked up the Avenue, and met my cousin, George
Lerton, the broker."

"Meet him accidentally?"

"He overtook me--called to me."

"How long did you talk to him?"

"For only a few minutes," said Prale. "You must understand that, while
George Lerton is my cousin, we are not exceptionally friendly, and never
have been. We worked for the same firm ten years ago, and after I went
to Honduras, George made some money and got into business for himself;
at least he told me so last night."

"So you merely shook hands and renewed your acquaintance?" the captain
asked.

"There was something peculiar about the meeting," Prale replied.

"In what way?"

"Lerton urged me to leave New York and remain away. He said that I had
powerful enemies."

"What about that?"

"It is what has been puzzling me. So far as I know, I haven't a powerful
enemy on earth. I suppose I have a few business foes in Central America;
a man can't make a million without acquiring some enemies at the same
time. But I don't know of a single influential person who is my enemy."

"Didn't Lerton explain to you?"

"He refused to do so," said Prale, "and I told him to go his way and
that I'd go mine."

"Doesn't that story seem a bit weak to you, Mr. Prale?"

"It may, but it is a true story. Get Lerton and question him if you
wish. I couldn't make him talk--maybe you can. I'd like to know the
names of these enemies of mine, if I really have them."

"Anything else lead you to believe you might have enemies?"

"Yes. I have received several anonymous notes, some on board ship and
some since landing, that say something about retribution about to be
visited upon me."

"Why?"

"I don't know, captain. I never did anything in my life to merit such
retribution. I am sure of that."

"What time was it when you parted from Lerton?"

"It must have been about nine thirty or a quarter to ten."

"Go to your hotel then?"

"No; I turned east and went to the river."

"Wasn't that a peculiar thing to do at that hour of the night?"

"It may seem so to you," said Prale, "and I scarcely can tell why I did
it. I suppose it was because I wanted to think over what George Lerton
had told me, and down in Honduras I always used to walk along the beach
when I was thinking."

"Well?"

"I went out on a dock and sat down in the darkness to think."

"How long did you remain there?"

"For more than half an hour; and I had an experience. Another man came
on the dock. He was going to jump into the river, but I convinced him
that suicide was folly, and said I'd give him a job."

"Did you?"

"I did," said Prale. "I took him downtown and bought him some clothes,
and then took him to a barber shop, and afterward to the hotel. I
registered him as my valet. I call him Murk. I can prove by him that I
could not have killed Rufus Shepley about eleven o'clock, because I was
in Murk's company at that time."

"What time did you get back to your hotel with him?"

"It was a few minutes of midnight. We spent considerable time buying the
clothes and visiting the barber shop."

"Um!" the captain said. "We'll have to question a few of these people.
It seems peculiar to me that a millionaire would pick up a tramp and
turn him into a trusted servant."

"Perhaps it was peculiar. I can read men, I believe, and I decided that
Murk needed only a chance, and he would make good. He was broke and
friendless, and I was a millionaire and almost as friendless. That's the
only way I can explain it."

"I'm going to send you to another office under guard, Mr. Prale," the
captain said. "I'll have these people here in a short time, and we'll
question them. Just tell me where you bought the clothes for this man,
and what barber shop you visited."

Sidney Prale did so, and the captain of detectives made notes regarding
the addresses.

"That will be all for the present, Mr. Prale," he said. "I don't want to
cause any innocent man annoyance, but I can tell you this much--things
look very bad for you!"




CHAPTER VIII

LIES AND LIARS


Sidney Prale waited in an adjoining office, a detective sitting in one
corner of it and watching him closely. It was almost a prison room, for
there were steel bars at the windows, and only the one door. Prale
walked to one of the windows and looked down at the street, his arms
folded across his breast, trying to think it out.

The finding of that fountain pen in the room beside Rufus Shepley's body
was what puzzled and bothered him the most. How on earth could it have
come there? He tried to remember when he had used it last, when he had
last seen it. All that he could recall was that, the afternoon before,
he had used it to write a note in a memorandum book. How and where had
he lost it, and how had it come into Shepley's suite? Had he dropped it
in the hotel lobby during his short quarrel with Shepley, while he was
shaking the man? Had Shepley picked it up later and carried it home with
him? Prale did not think Shepley would have done that under the
circumstances.

Well, he'd be at liberty soon enough, he told himself. It was natural
for the police to learn of his quarrel with Shepley and to make an
arrest on the strength of that and of finding the fountain pen. His
alibi was perfect; they soon would know that he could not have committed
the crime.

It was almost an hour later when he was taken back into the other room
again. Prale had spent the time standing before the window, smoking and
trying to think things out. The captain of detectives was before his
desk when Prale was ushered into the office.

"I've been investigating your story, Mr. Prale," the captain said,
looking at him peculiarly. "It always has been a mystery to me why a man
keen in business and supposed to possess brains goes to pieces when he
commits a crime and tells a tale that is full of holes."

"I beg your pardon!" Prale said.

"Sit down, Mr. Prale, over there--and I'll have some of the witnesses
in. I have not questioned them yet, but my men have, and have reported
to me what they said. They have discovered several other things, too."

"I'm not afraid of anything they may have discovered," Prale told the
captain.

"Last night, you told Jim Farland that you had had trouble with a bank,
and at the hotel where you first registered after you came ashore, did
you not?"

"Yes; don't those things bear out my statement about the powerful
enemies?"

"We'll see presently," the captain said.

He spoke to the sergeant in attendance, who immediately left the room,
and presently returned with the president of the trust company. He
looked at Prale with interest, and took the chair the captain
designated.

"You know this man?" the captain asked.

"I do," said the banker. "He is Sidney Prale."

"Ever have any business with him?"

"Mr. Prale transferred a fortune to our institution from Honduras," the
banker said. "Yesterday he called at the bank, satisfied me as to his
identity, and made arrangements concerning the money."

"Mr. Prale has said that, for some reason unknown to him, you told him
you did not care to handle his business and didn't want his deposit,"
the captain said.

"I scarcely think that was the way of it," the banker replied. "We would
have been glad to take care of the deposit, which was practically one
million dollars. But Mr. Prale told me he had other plans and that he
would remove the deposit during the day, which he did."

Sidney Prale sat up straight in his chair. "Didn't you tell me that you
didn't want anything to do with me and my money?" he demanded.

"Certainly not," lied the banker. "You said that you wished to put your
funds in other institutions."

Prale gasped at the man's statement. It was a bare-faced lie if one ever
had been spoken.

"Why----" Prale began.

"I do not care to discuss the matter further," the banker interrupted.
"I am a man of standing and cannot afford to be mixed up in a case of
this sort."

"You'll not be mixed up in it," the captain said. "I just wanted to show
Mr. Prale that there were some holes in his story. That is all, thank
you!"

The banker left the room quickly, and Prale sprang to his feet, his face
livid.

"That man lied!" he exclaimed. "You could read it in his face! I don't
know why he lied, but he did!"

"Sit down, Mr. Prale, and let's have more witnesses in," the captain
said.

Once more he spoke to the sergeant, and again the latter went out, this
time to return with the manager of the first hotel at which Prale
registered.

"Know this man?" the captain asked.

"He registered at my place as Sidney Prale, of Honduras."

"Well, what about it?"

"We furnished him with a suite on the fifth floor," the hotel manager
said. "But he gave it up."

"Gave it up!" Prale cried. "Why, you called me into your office and told
me to get out, that the suite has been reserved and that there was none
vacant in the house. The bell boy can testify that he called me into the
office."

"Certainly he called you into my office, and at my request," the manager
said. "I wanted to know why you were leaving, whether any of the
employees had treated you with discourtesy. You told me that you had
been served poorly in the dining room the evening before, and that you
were done with the hotel!"

Prale sprang to his feet. "That's a lie, and you know it!" he cried.

"Captain," said the hotel man, "do I have to sit here and be insulted by
a man charged with a heinous crime?"

"That will be all, thank you," the captain said.

The hotel manager hurried from the room, and the captain grinned at
Prale.

"So he lied, too, did he?" the captain asked.

"He did!" Prale cried.

"There seems to be an epidemic of falsehood, to hear you tell it.
However, let us get on with the affair."

Once more he instructed the sergeant, and this time the man brought in
the hotel detective who had witnessed the trouble between Prale and
Shepley.

The hotel detective told the story much as Prale himself had told it,
except that he made it appear that Prale had threatened Rufus Shepley on
the walk in front of the hotel before they separated.

"Did you pick up a fountain pen of mine after I had gone?" Prale asked.

"I did not."

"See anybody else pick it up?"

"No, sir," said the hotel detective; and he went out of the room.

The sergeant next ushered in George Lerton. Prale sat up straight in his
chair again. Here was where his proper alibi began, with the exception
of Jim Farland. George Lerton's face was pale as he sat down at the end
of the desk.

"Know this man?" the captain asked.

"He is my cousin, Sidney Prale."

"How long has he been away from New York?"

"About ten years," Lerton said. "He returned day before yesterday, I
believe. I saw his name in the passenger list."

"Mr. Prale says that he met you last night on Fifth Avenue, and that you
told him he had some powerful enemies seeking to cause him trouble, and
advised him to leave New York and remain away."

"Why--why this is not so!" Lerton cried. "I haven't seen him until this
moment. I would have looked him up, but did not know at what hotel he
was stopping, and thought that he'd try to find me."

Prale was out of his chair again, his face flaming. "You mean to sit
there and tell me that you didn't talk to me on Fifth Avenue last
night?" he cried.

"Why, of course I never talked to you, Sid. I never saw you. What are
you trying to do, Sid? Why have you done this thing? We never were close
to each other, and yet we are cousins, and I hate to see you in
trouble."

"Stop your hypocritical sniveling!" Prale cried. "You are lying and you
know it! You saw me last night----"

"But I didn't!"

"You did--and tried to get me to run away, and wouldn't tell me your
reason for it."

George Lerton licked at his lips and looked appealingly at the captain
of detectives.

"I--I am a man of standing," he whimpered. "I am a broker--here is my
card. This man is my cousin, but I cannot lie to shield him. I never saw
him last night, and did not speak to him."

Lerton got up and started for the door, and Sidney Prale did not make a
move to stop him.

"It appears that your story is full of flaws," the captain said. "A
little of it is true, however; you did meet Jim Farland and talk to him
in Madison Square, and remained for the length of time you said. Jim has
told me that much. But he does not know where you went and what you did
after leaving him. What we are interested in is what you did in the
neighborhood of eleven o'clock last night. That is when Rufus Shepley
was killed. And now we'll have in that new valet of yours."

There was a snarl on Murk's face as he came into the room and sat down
in the chair at the end of the desk. Murk did not like policemen and
detectives, and did not care whether they knew of his dislike. He
flashed a glance at Sidney Prale and then faced the captain.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

"Tell us where and how you met Mr. Prale first, what happened, and bring
the story right up to date," the captain commanded.

"Well, I went down to the river to jump in," Murk said, as if stating a
simple fact. "I was tired of fightin' to live and had decided to end it
all. Mr. Prale grabbed me and hauled me back, and then he made me see
that suicide was foolish. He offered me a job, and I agreed to take it.
He was the first man who had treated me decent since I----"

"Never mind that; get down to cases."

"Well, we walked up the street and got a taxicab and drove downtown, and
Mr. Prale bought me some clothes."

"What time was it when you met him?"

"I guess it was about ten o'clock. We bought the clothes, as I said, and
then we went to a barber shop, and I got a hair cut and a shave. After
that we went to Mr. Prale's hotel and up to his rooms. We got to bed
pretty quick."

"What time did you reach the hotel?"

"About midnight."

"What happened after you went to bed?"

"Went to sleep," said Murk.

"Never mind the jokes," the captain rebuked sternly.

"Well, I stayed awake about an hour or so thinking how lucky I was, and
then I went to sleep. I woke up early in the mornin' and got up and
dressed. Mr. Prale got up later, and we ate breakfast in the suite. Then
the cops came. One of them took Mr. Prale away, and he told me to stay
in the rooms until sent for. The other cop rummaged around the rooms and
then left."

Prale bent forward. "There is one man who can speak the truth," he told
the captain. "His story corresponds with the one I told you, doesn't it?
And doesn't it show that I could not have murdered Rufus Shepley at
eleven o'clock last night?"

"The story is all right, and it certainly corresponds with yours,"
replied the captain. "Just a minute!" He faced Murk again. "Who are you
and where did you come from?" he demanded.

"I ain't anybody in particular. I've been hangin' around town a couple
of months doin' odd jobs. Before that I was bummin' around the country
workin' whenever I got a chance."

"You felt grateful to Mr. Prale for giving you a job and a home, didn't
you?"

"Sure!" said Murk. "He talked to me decent, like I was a man instead of
a dog."

"Well, you don't seem to have much standing in the world," the captain
said. "Your word, against that of several prominent citizens, does not
carry much weight. You must see that. And there happens to be something
else, too. I had the clothing merchant and the barber you mentioned look
you over while you were in the other room. The clothing merchant says he
sold some clothes a couple of days ago, the ones you are wearing now,
but that he certainly did not sell them last night, and the barber
swears that he never saw you before!"

"Why, the dirty liars!" Murk cried.

"Did they say that?" Prale demanded.

"They did," the captain replied. "And they said it in such a way that I
believe them. Prale, your alibi is shot full of holes. You told the
truth about meeting Jim Farland, and that much is in your favor. Aside
from that, we have only the testimony of a tramp you said you picked up
and gave a job. You had plenty of time to kill Rufus Shepley. You had
ample time to concoct the story and get this man to learn it, so he
could tell it and match yours. You are worth a million dollars, and this
man probably was ready to lie a little for a wad of money."

"He tells the truth----"

"It's too thin, Prale! And don't forget the fountain pen that was found
beside Shepley's body, either! As for you Murk, or whatever your right
name is, you are under suspicion yourself."

"What's that?" Murk snarled.

"You are under suspicion, I said. You might have assisted at the murder,
for all I know. I don't know when you met Mr. Prale, or where, but I do
know that you got back to the hotel with Mr. Prale about midnight--an
hour after the crime was committed."

"You can't hang anything like that on me!" Murk snarled. "All the cops
in the world can't do it! I met Mr. Prale just like I said, and he
bought me the clothes and took me to the barber shop, no matter what the
store man and the barber say! It's a black lie they're tellin'! Mr.
Prale is a gentleman----"

"That'll be enough!" the captain exclaimed. "I'm going to allow you to
go, Murk, but you are to remain in Mr. Prale's rooms and take care of
his things. And you can bet that you'll be watched, too."

"I don't care who watches me!"

"As for you, Mr. Prale, you'll have to go to a cell, I think. The
evidence against you is such that I cannot turn you loose. You must
realize that yourself."

Prale realized it. His face was white and his hands were shaking. He
looked across the room at Murk.

"You go back to the hotel, Murk, and do as the captain says," he
ordered. "I'll come out of this all right in time. There are a lot of
things I cannot understand, but we'll solve the puzzle before we're
done."

"Ain't there anything I can do, sir?" Murk asked.

"Perhaps, later. I'll engage a detective and a lawyer, and they may
visit you at the hotel. I'll send you money by the lawyer. That's all
now, Murk."

Murk started to speak, then thought better of it and went from the room
slowly, anger flushing his face. Sidney Prale faced the captain of
detectives again.

"No matter what you think, I am innocent, and know that my innocence can
be proved," Prale said. "You are only doing your duty, of course. I want
Jim Farland to attend to things for me. He is an old friend of mine and
he is an honest man. Will you send for him?"

"He's waiting in the other room now," the captain said. "I'll let you
have a conference with him before I order you into a cell!"




CHAPTER IX

PUZZLED


Once more Prale was taken to the room in which he had first waited--the
room with the barred windows. This time the watching detective was
missing. When Jim Farland entered, he found Prale pacing back and forth
from one corner to the other. He was trying to think out his problem,
wondering what it all meant, why the witnesses had lied, and what would
be the outcome.

Farland rushed into the room, grasped Prale by the hand, led him across
from the door, and forced him into a chair. This done, the loyal
detective sat down facing him.

"Now let us have it from beginning to end!" Farland commanded. "I don't
want you to leave out a thing. I want to get to the bottom of this as
soon as possible."

Sidney Prale started at the beginning and talked rapidly, setting forth
all the facts, while Jim Farland sat back in his chair and watched him.
Now and then he frowned as if displeased at the recital.

"Well, there is something rotten," he said, when Prale had concluded his
statement. "I want you to know, Sid, that I believe you. You're not the
sort of man to kill a fellow like Rufus Shepley over a little spat. I
believe your story about this Murk, too. But why should everybody have
it in for you?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," Prale answered. "I must, indeed, have
some powerful enemies, but I cannot imagine who they are, and I know of
no reason why they should be against me. I'm simply up in the air."

"You keep right on trying to figure it out," Farland advised him. "You
might think of something in time that will give me a start in my work."

"Why did the banker and hotel manager lie?" Prale asked. "Why did the
clothing-store man and the barber lie? Why did George Lerton declare
that he did not see me and speak to me last night? And how did my
fountain pen get into Shepley's room?"

"Huh! When we know a few of those things, we'll know enough to wipe this
charge away from your name," Jim Farland told him. "It's my job to
answer those little questions for you. And now--you want a lawyer, I
suppose?"

"Yes. Can you suggest one?"

"The greatest criminal lawyer in town is named Coadley. I'll send him
right up here after I explain about this case to him. Thank Heaven, you
have plenty of money! A poor man in a fix like this would be on his way
to the electric chair. Coadley can fix you up, if anybody can. He can
make a sinner look like a saint."

"But I'm not guilty!"

"I understand that, Sid, but it doesn't hurt an innocent man to have the
best attorney he can get. I'll send you Coadley. Give me a note to that
fellow Murk, for I may want him to help me. Sure he's loyal to you?"

"I never saw him until last night, but I'd bank on him," said Prale.
"He'll stand by us!"

"Fair enough! You write that note right now, and try to get out on bail.
Tell Coadley to get busy on that right away. Get out under police
supervision, under guard--any way--but get out!"

Jim Farland hurried away, and Sidney Prale was conducted through dark
corridors to a cell, where he had the experience of hearing a door clang
shut behind him and the bolts shot. Prale never had expected to get into
jail when he was worth a million dollars, and most certainly he never
had expected to face a charge of murder.

He was allowed to send out for some luncheon, and it was more than an
hour before Coadley, the attorney, arrived. Prale was taken into the
consultation room.

He liked Coadley, and he liked the way in which Coadley regarded him
before he spoke.

"I believe that you are innocent," the lawyer said.

"The job will be to make other people think that way," Prale said, with
a laugh. The attorney's words had been like a ray of hope to him. "Did
Jim Farland tell you the story?"

"Yes. I'll try to get you out on bail, or get you out in some manner,"
Coadley said. "This appears to be a peculiar case. It is not only the
charge of murder; it is the fact that several men told falsehoods about
you. You haven't an idea who your enemies are?"

"Not the slightest."

"I'm glad that Jim Farland is working on this case for you, Mr. Prale.
He is a good man, and I may need a lot of help. I'll get my own
investigators busy right away, too, and we'll coöperate with Jim
Farland. You go back to your cell and take it easy. I'll get you out
before night, if I can."

Lawyer Coadley was a shrewd man, and his methods were the delight of
other attorneys and jurists. He lost no time when he was confronted with
a case that held unusual interest. Within an hour he was in court,
acting as if fighting mad.

Had a reputable citizen any rights, he demanded? Were the police to be
allowed to throw an innocent man into jail simply because there had been
a crime committed and somebody had to be accused? His client did not
care for an examination at this time, he said. Arraignment and a plea of
not guilty were all right, however.

Sidney Prale was arraigned, and the plea of not guilty was made and
entered. Then Coadley began his fight to have Prale admitted to bail.

The district attorney opposed it, of course, since that was his
business. The judge listened to the statement of the captain of
detectives. He heard Coadley say that his client could put up cash bail
in any amount, and was willing to abide by any provisions. Finally the
judge freed Prale on cash bail of fifty thousand dollars, but designated
that the bail could be recalled at any time, and that he was to be in
the custody of a member of the police department continually.

Coadley agreed, and left the jail with his client, a detective going
with them to stand guard. The detective had explicit orders. He was not
to annoy Sidney Prale. He was to withdraw out of earshot when Prale
talked with his attorney or anybody else with whom he wished to converse
privately. He was to allow Prale to come and go as he wished, except
that Prale was not to be allowed to leave the limits of the city. If he
attempted that, he was to be put under arrest immediately and taken to
the nearest police station.

Prale read the newspapers as he rode to the hotel with Coadley and the
detective. The story of the crime was in all of them, the tale of his
quarrel with Rufus Shepley and of the finding of the fountain pen, and
the inevitable statement that the police were on the track of more and
better evidence.

Prale expected to be ordered out of the hotel, but he was not, the
management stipulating only that he should not use the public dining
room. He went up to the suite, to find Murk there, sitting in front of a
window and glaring down at the street.

A cot was moved in for the use of the detective. Coadley held another
conference with Prale, and then left to get busy on the case. Murk
regarded the detective with scorn, until Prale explained the situation
to him. After that, there was a sort of armed neutrality between them.
Murk had no special liking for detectives, and he was the sort of man
detectives do not like.

Presently Jim Farland arrived.

"Well, Sid, Coadley got you out of jail and home before I could get
here, did he?" Farland said. "I suppose I'll not need that note of yours
now. Is this Mr. Murk?"

"It is," Prale said. "Murk, meet Jim Farland. He's a detective friend of
mine."

"Gosh, Mr. Prale, ain't there anybody but cops in this town?" Murk
asked.

"Jim is a private cop, and he has a job now to get me out of this
scrape," said Prale. "He's a friend of mine, I said."

"I guess that makes it different," was Murk's only comment.

"Oh, we'll get along all right," Farland put in. "I'm going to need you
in my business, Murk. I've told the folks at police headquarters that
I'd be responsible for you, so we can work together without being
pestered. Understand?"

Murk grinned at him. "You just show me how to help get Mr. Prale out of
this mess, and I'll sure help," he said.

Farland turned toward the police detective. "Go out into the hall and
take a walk," he suggested. "Mr. Prale will give you a couple of
cigars."

The detective took the cigars and went out into the hall, smiling. He
had no fear of Sidney Prale slipping down a fire escape, or anything
like that. Jim Farland was responsible, and Jim Farland was known to the
force as a man who felt his responsibilities.

"Now we'll get busy and dig to the bottom of this mess," Farland said.
"Been thinking it over, Sid? Know any reason why anybody should be out
after you?"

"I can't think of a thing," Prale replied. "I suppose I made a few
business enemies down in Honduras, but none powerful enough to cause me
all this trouble. I can't understand it, Jim. It must be something big
to cause all those men to lie as they did."

"Maybe it is, and maybe it is very simple when we get right down to it,"
Farland said. "I've started right in to work it out. Let me see those
notes and messages you received."

Prale got them from the dresser drawer and handed them to Farland. The
detective looked them over, even going as far as to use a magnifying
glass.

"Don't laugh!" Farland said. "A lot of folks make fun of the fiction
detective who goes around with a magnifying glass in one hand, but,
believe me, a good glass shows up a lot of things. It isn't showing up
anything here, though. Where do you suppose these things came from?"

"I don't know," said Prale.

"Got the first one on the ship, did you?"

"The first two. One was pinned to the pillow in my stateroom, and the
second was pasted on the end of my suit case as I was landing. The
mucilage was still wet."

"Didn't suspect anybody?"

"I didn't think much about it at first," said Prale. "I thought it was a
joke, or that somebody was making a mistake."

"Sid, have you told me everything?"

Prale remembered Kate Gilbert and flushed.

"I see that you haven't," Farland said. "Out with it! Some little thing
may give me the start I am looking for."

Prale told about Kate Gilbert, about the piece of paper she had dropped
as she got into the limousine, about the peculiar way she acted toward
him, and the attitude of Marie, the misnamed maid.

"Um!" Farland grunted. "We had one thing lacking in this case--and we
have that. The woman!"

"But I only met her down there and danced with her twice."

"Don't know anything about her, I suppose?"

"Not a thing. It was understood that she belonged to a wealthy New York
family and was traveling for the benefit of her health. At least, that
was the rumor."

"I know of a lot of wealthy families in this town, but I never heard of
a Kate Gilbert," Farland said. "I think I'll make a little
investigation."

"But why on earth should she be taking a hand in my affairs?" Prale
wanted to know.

"Why should you be accused of murder? Why should men tell lies about
you?" Farland asked. "Excuse me for a time; I'm going down to the hotel
office to find out a few things."

Farland hurried away, and the police detective entered the suite again
and made himself comfortable. Jim Farland went directly to the office of
the hotel and looked at a city directory. He found no Kate Gilbert
listed, except a seamstress who resided in Brooklyn. The telephone
directory gave him no help.

But that was not conclusive, of course. A thousand Kate Gilberts might
be living in New York, in apartments or at hotels, without having a
private telephone.

"Have to get a line on that girl!" Farland told himself. "She's got
something to do with this. I'll bet my reputation on it."

Jim Farland went to the smoking room and sat down in a corner. He tried
to think it out, groped for a starting point. He considered all the
persons connected with the case, one at a time.

Farland knew that Sidney Prale had told the truth. Why, then, had George
Lerton told a falsehood about meeting Prale and talking to him, when the
truth would have helped to establish an alibi? Why had the clothing
merchant and the barber lied?

"I suppose I'll have to use stern methods," Farland told himself. "Old
police stuff, I suppose. Well, I'm the man that can do it, take it from
me!"

He went up to Prale's suite again.

"Can't find out anything about that woman," he reported. "And I want to
get in touch with her. Keep your eyes peeled for her, Sid, and arrange
for me to catch sight of her, if you can. Now you'd better take a little
rest. You've been through an experience to-day. I'm going out to get
busy, and I'm going to take Murk with me."

"What for?" Murk demanded.

"You're going to help me, old boy."

"Me work with a cop?" Murk exclaimed.

"To help Mr. Prale."

"Well, that's different," Murk said. "Wait until I get my hat."




CHAPTER X

ON THE TRAIL


Farland engaged a taxicab, bade Murk get into it, got in himself, and
they started downtown. The detective leaned back against the cushions
and regarded Murk closely. He knew that Sidney Prale had guessed
correctly, that Murk was the sort of man who would prove loyal to a
friend.

"This is a bad business," Farland said.

"It's tough," said Murk.

"If it was anybody but Sid Prale, I'd say he was guilty. It sure looks
bad. And there is that fountain pen!"

"Somebody's tryin' to do him dirt," Murk said.

"There's no question about that, Murk, old boy. Well, we are going to
get him out of it, aren't we?"

"I'll do anything I can."

"Like him, do you?"

"Met him less than twenty-four hours ago, but I wish I'd met him or
somebody like him ten years ago," Murk replied. "If it hadn't been for
Mr. Prale, I'd be a stiff up in the morgue this minute."

"Strong for him, are you?"

"Yes, sir, I am!"

"Um!" said Jim Farland. "We're going to get along fine together. I was
strong for Sid Prale ten years ago, before he went away. And I'll bet
that, when we get to the bottom of this, we'll find something mighty
interesting."

The taxicab stopped at a corner, and Farland and Murk got out. Farland
paid the chauffeur and watched him drive away, and then he led Murk
around the corner.

"Know where you are?" he asked.

"Sure. Right over there is the little shop where Mr. Prale bought me my
new clothes," Murk said.

"Fine! That goes to show that Prale told the truth. Well, Murk, you
stand right here by the curb and watch the front door of that shop. And
when you see me beckon to you, you come running."

"Yes, sir."

Jim Farland hurried across the street, opened the door of the little
shop, and entered. The proprietor came from the rear room when he heard
the door slammed.

He knew Jim Farland and had known him for years. There were few
old-timers in that section of the city who did not know Jim Farland. The
man who faced the detective now was small, stoop-shouldered, a sort of a
rat of a man who had considerably more money to his credit than his
appearance indicated, and who was not eager to have the world in general
know how he had acquired some of it.

"Evenin', Mr. Farland," he said. "Anything I can do for you, sir?"

"Maybe you can and maybe you can't," Farland told him. "You been
behaving yourself lately?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Farland? I've been trying to get along, but
business ain't been any too good the last year."

"Save that song for somebody who doesn't know better!" Farland advised
him. "Change the record when you play me a tune."

"Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Farland?"

"Remember a little deal a couple of years ago?" Farland demanded
suddenly.

"I--I----"

"I see that you do. One little word from me in the proper quarter, old
man, and you'll be doing time. You've sailed pretty close to the edge of
the law a lot of times, and once, I know, you slipped over the edge a
bit."

"I--I hope, sir----"

"You'd better hope that you can keep on the good side of me," Jim
Farland told him.

"If there is anything I can do, Mr. Farland----"

"Do you suppose you could tell the truth?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going to give you a chance. If you tell the truth, I may forget
something I know, for the time being. But, if you shouldn't tell the
truth--well, my memory is excellent when I want to exercise it."

Farland stepped to the door and beckoned, and Murk hurried across the
street and entered the shop.

"Ever see this man before?" Farland demanded.

The storekeeper licked his lips, and a sudden gleam came into his eyes.

"I--he seems to look familiar, but I can't say."

"You'd better say!" Farland exclaimed. "I want the truth out of you, or
something will drop. And when it drops, it is liable to hit you on the
toes. Get me?"

"I--I don't know what to do," wailed the merchant.

"Tell the truth!"

"But--there is something peculiar about----"

"Out with it! Know this man?"

"I've seen him before," the merchant replied.

"When?"

"La-last night, sir."

"Now we are getting at it!" Jim Farland exclaimed. "When did you see him
last night, and where, and what happened?"

"He was in the store, Mr. Farland, about half past ten or a quarter of
eleven o'clock. He--he bought those clothes he's got on."

"Pay for them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who paid for them?" Farland demanded.

"A gentleman who was with him," said the merchant.

"Ah! Know the gentleman?"

"I saw him to-day--at police headquarters."

"And you said that you never had seen him before--that he was not here
last night with this man. Why did you lie?"

Jim Farland roared the question and smashed a fist down upon the
counter. The little merchant flinched.

"Out with it!" Farland cried. "Tell the truth, you little crook! I want
to know why you lied, who told you to lie. I want to know all about it,
and mighty quick!"

"I--I don't understand this," the merchant whimpered. "I was afraid of
making a mistake."

"You'll make a mistake right now if you don't tell the truth!" Jim
Farland told him.

"I--I got a letter, sir, by messenger. I got it early this morning,
sir."

"Well, what about it?"

"The letter was typewritten, sir, and was not signed. There was a
thousand dollars in bills in the letter, sir, and it said that a Mr.
Prale had just been arrested for murder, and that he probably would try
to make an alibi by saying that he was here last night and bought some
clothes for another man. The letter said that I was to take the money
and ask no questions, and that, if I was called to police headquarters,
I was to say the man had not been here and that I never had seen him in
my life before."

"And you fell for it? You wanted that thousand, I suppose."

"I'll show you the letter, Mr. Farland. There was no signature at all,
and the paper was just common paper. I--I thought it was politics, sir."

"You did, eh?"

"Thought it had something to do with politics, sir. I thought the letter
and money might have come from political headquarters. I was afraid to
tell the truth at the police station."

"You mean you have been so crooked for years that you're afraid of
everybody who has a little influence," Farland told him.

"I thought it was orders, sir, from somebody who had better be obeyed."

"Oh, I understand, all right. Well, I scarcely think it was politics.
You've been played, that's all. Get me that letter!"

"Yes, sir."

The merchant got it and handed it over, together with the envelope. He
had told the truth. The letter was typewritten on an ordinary piece of
paper, and the envelope was of the sort anybody could purchase at a
corner drug store. Farland put the letter in his pocket.

"Here between ten thirty and a quarter of eleven, was he?"

"Yes, sir," said the merchant.

"All right! You remember that, and don't change your mind again, if you
know what is good for you. You'll hear from me in the morning. That's
all!"

Jim Farland went from the store with a grinning Murk at his heels,
leaving a badly frightened small merchant behind him.

"I know that bird," he told Murk. "He's a fence, or I miss my guess.
It's no job at all to run a bluff on a small-time crook like that. And
now we'll run down and see that barber."

They engaged another taxicab and made a trip. Once more Murk remained
outside, and Jim Farland entered and beckoned the barber to him.

"Step outside the door where nobody will overhear," he said. "I want to
ask you something."

The barber stepped outside, wondering what was coming. This man knew Jim
Farland, too, and he knew that a call from him might mean trouble.

"Trying to see how far you can go and keep out of jail?" Farland
demanded.

"I--I don't know what you mean, sir."

"Trying to run a bluff on me? On me?" Farland gasped. "You'd better talk
straight. Do you expect to run a barber shop by day and a gambling joint
by night all your life?"

"Why, I----"

"Don't lie!" Farland interrupted. "I know all about that little back
room. Maybe I'm not on the city police force now, but you know me! I've
got a bunch of friends on the force, and if I told a certain sergeant
about your little game and said that I wanted to have you run in he
wouldn't hesitate a minute."

"But what have I done, Mr. Farland?" the barber gasped. "I've always
been friendly to you."

"I know it. But are you going to keep right on being friendly?"

"Of course, sir."

"Willing to help me out in a little matter if I forget about that
gambling?"

"I'll do the best I can, Mr. Farland."

"Then answer a few questions. Did you get a typewritten letter this
morning, with a wad of money in it?"

The barber's face turned white.

"Answer me!" Farland commanded.

"Yes, I--I got such a letter and I don't know what to make of it," the
barber said. "I've got the letter and money in my desk right now. There
wasn't any signature, and I didn't know where the letter came from, or
what it meant."

"Then why did you do what the letter told you to do?" Farland asked.

"I--I don't understand."

Farland motioned, and Murk now stepped around the corner.

"Know this man?" Farland demanded.

"I--I've seen him before."

"That letter told you to go to police headquarters, if requested to do
so, and deny you knew this man, didn't it? It told you not to help a man
named Sidney Prale, arrested for murder, to make his alibi by telling
that he was here with this man last night about eleven o'clock, didn't
it?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"And you did just what the letter told you?"

"I was afraid not to do it, sir. I didn't know where that letter came
from, you see."

"Had an idea it came from some boss, didn't you?"

"I didn't know and I didn't dare take a chance, Mr. Farland. You know
how it is?"

"I know how it is with a man who has busted a few laws and knows he
ought to be pinched!"

"Did I make some sort of a mistake, sir? What should I do now?"

"Something you don't do very often--tell the truth," Jim Farland
replied. "How about this man?"

"He came here with the other gentleman last night about eleven o'clock,
sir. He got a hair cut and a shave, and the other gentleman paid the
bill."

"Thanks. Sure about the time?"

"I know that it was almost a quarter after eleven when they left the
shop."

"Well, I'm glad you can speak the truth. Get on your hat and coat!"

"I--what do you mean, sir? Am I arrested?"

"No. Get that letter and come with me. I want you to tell the truth to
somebody else, that's all."

The frightened barber got his hat and coat and the letter, and followed
Jim Farland and Murk to the corner. There Farland engaged another
taxicab, and ordered the chauffeur to drive back to the little clothing
store.

"Running up a nice expense bill for Prale, but he won't care," Jim
Farland said to Murk.

He compelled the merchant to shut up his shop and get into the cab, and
then the chauffeur drove to police headquarters. Farland had telephoned
from the clothing store, and the captain of detectives was waiting for
him. He ushered the merchant and the barber into the office, looked down
at the captain, and grinned.

"What's all this?" the captain demanded.

"It's Sid Prale's alibi," Jim Farland said. "These two gents want to
tell you how they lied to-day, and why they lied. It is an interesting
story."

The captain sat up straight in his chair, while Jim Farland removed his
hat, sat down, motioned for Murk to do the same, and made himself
comfortable.

"About that alibi," Farland said. "I know that George Lerton lied about
meeting Sid Prale on Fifth Avenue, but you don't, and so we'll let that
pass for the time being and get to it later. I just want to show you now
that Prale's story about meeting this man Murk was a true tale. This
clothing merchant is ready to say now that Prale and Murk were in his
place last night about half past ten, and that Murk got his clothes
there. And this barber is ready to swear that Prale and Murk arrived at
his shop about a quarter of eleven or eleven, and did not leave until a
quarter after eleven. Prale and Murk got to the hotel, as you know, at
midnight. Prale couldn't have gone to that other hotel, murdered Rufus
Shepley, and got to his suite by twelve o'clock, not if he left that
barber shop far downtown at a quarter after eleven, could he?"

"Scarcely," said the captain.

"Very well. Ask these two gents some questions."

The captain did. He read the two typewritten letters and he understood
how the fear of a political power might have been in the hearts of the
two men. He rebuked them and allowed them to go.

"Well, it looks a little better for Mr. Prale," the captain said, "but
this isn't the end, by any means. Remember that fountain pen of his that
was found beside the body of Rufus Shepley!"

"I didn't say that it was the end," Jim Farland declared. "I don't want
it given out that any evidence has been found that is in Prale's favor.
I just want you to whisper in the ear of the court that the alibi looks
good, and let it go at that. There's something behind this case, and we
want to find out what it is. Prale is out on bail--and let it go at
that, as far as the public is concerned."

"I grasp you," said the captain. "You want these enemies of his to think
he is in deep water, so they'll be off guard and you can do your work."

"Exactly," said Jim Farland.

"Good enough. I'll do my part."

"Know anything about a woman calling herself Kate Gilbert?"

"Never heard of her."

Farland explained what Prale had told him. The captain fingered his
mustache.

"Several thousand women in this town answer that general description,"
he said. "I'm afraid I can't help you, unless you can pick her up."

"That's what I'll do as soon as I can," Farland replied. "If I can get
my eyes on her once, I'll trail her and find out a few things. She may
have nothing to do with this, and she may have a great deal to do with
it. What do you know about George Lerton?"

"Shady broker," the captain replied. "Never done anything outside the
law, as far as I know, but he's come pretty close to it. I'd hate to
have him handling my money."

"Well, he lied about meeting Prale. He did his best to get Prale to run
away from town. That was a couple of hours before the murder, of course,
so it probably had nothing to do with that. But why should he try to get
Prale out of town? And, being a man of that sort, why did he say that he
wouldn't handle Prale's funds? You'd think a man of his sort would like
nothing better than to get his fingers tangled up in that million."

"I'll have a man take a look at George Lerton."

"Don't strain yourself," said Jim Farland. "I'm going to take a look at
him myself, the first thing to-morrow morning."

He left headquarters with Murk, and this time he did not engage a
taxicab. He walked up the street, Murk at his side, and puffed at a
cigar furiously.

"Well, Murk, we've made a good start," Farland said, after a time.

"Yes, sir."

"How do you like working with a detective now?"

"Aw, you ain't a regular detective," Murk said.

"What's that?"

"I mean you ain't an ordinary dick. You got some sense."

"Thanks for the compliment. I know men who would dispute the statement,"
Farland told him.

They walked and walked, and after a time were on Fifth Avenue and going
toward the hotel where Prale had his suite. Suddenly, just ahead of
them, they saw Sidney Prale and the man from headquarters. They hurried
to catch up with them.

"What's the idea?" Farland asked.

"Needed a walk," Prale replied. "Didn't feel like going to bed, and a
walk would do me good, I knew."

"I'll have some things to tell you in the morning," Farland said. "But
I'm not going to tell you to-night, except to say that it is good news,
and I'm issuing orders to Murk not to tell you, either. I want you to
forget the thing and get some rest."

"All right," Prale said, laughing; and then he stopped still and gasped.

"What is it?" Farland asked.

"Kate Gilbert!"

"Where?"

"There--just getting into that limousine. See her? The girl with the red
hat!"

"I see her," Farland replied, signaling the chauffeur of a passing
taxicab. "This is what I was hoping for, Sid. Go on to the hotel with
Murk and guard. I'm going to find out a few things about Miss Kate
Gilbert!"

He gave the chauffeur of the taxicab whispered directions, and then
sprang into the machine.




CHAPTER XI

CONCERNING KATE GILBERT


Given a definite trail to follow, Jim Farland was one of the best
trackers in the business. He liked to know his quarry by sight, and
conduct the hunt in a proper manner. And so he rejoiced, that now he was
following a person he believed to be interested in some way in the
Shepley case.

The limousine went up Fifth Avenue toward Central Park, and the taxicab
with Jim Farland inside followed half a block behind. Farland did
nothing except look ahead continually and make sure that his chauffeur
did not lose the other machine. He wanted to discover, first, where Miss
Kate Gilbert was going, and after that he wanted to acquire all the
information he could concerning her.

There was little traffic on the Avenue at this hour, and the limousine
made good progress. It curved around the Circle and went up Central Park
West. In the Eighties it turned off into a side street, and finally drew
up to the curb and stopped. The taxicab came to a halt a hundred feet
behind it. "Wait," Jim Farland instructed the chauffeur, showing his
shield. "Wait until I come back, even if I don't come back until
morning. You will get good pay, all right."

The chauffeur settled back behind his wheel, and Farland stepped to one
side in the darkness and watched. He saw an elderly gentleman emerge
from the limousine and turn to help Kate Gilbert out. Then the elderly
gentleman got into the car again and was driven away, and Kate Gilbert
went into the apartment house before which the limousine had stopped.

Detective Jim Farland hurried forward, but when he came opposite the
apartment house he slowed down and walked slowly, glancing in. It was
not an apartment house of the better sort. The lobby was small, there
was an automatic elevator, and no hall boy was on duty, that Farland
could see. There was a row of mail boxes against a wall, with name
plates over them.

Farland went up the steps, opened the door, and stepped inside the
lobby. He walked across to the mail boxes and began looking at the
names. He found some one named Gilbert had an apartment on the third
floor, front.

The stairs were before him, and Farland was about to start up them when
a door leading to the basement was opened, and a janitor appeared. He
was an old man, bent and withered, and he looked at Farland with sudden
suspicion.

"You want to see somebody in the house?" he asked, in a voice that
quavered.

"I want to see you," Jim Farland answered.

"What about, sir?"

Farland exhibited his shield, and the old janitor recoiled, fright
depicted in his face.

"I ain't done anything wrong, mister," he said hoarsely. "I obey all the
regulations about ashes and garbage and everything like that."

"Don't be afraid of me," Farland said. "I'm not accusing you of doing
anything wrong, am I? I can see that you're a law-abiding man. You
haven't nerve enough to be anything else. Suppose you step outside with
me for a few minutes. I just want to ask you a few questions about
something."

"All right, sir, if that's it," the old janitor said.

He opened the front door and led the way outside, and Farland forced him
to walk a short distance down the street, and there they stopped in a
doorway to talk.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions, and you are going to answer them,
and then you are going to forget that you ever saw me or that I ever
asked you a thing," Farland said.

"I understand, sir. I won't give away any police business," the old
janitor replied. "I know all about such things. I had a nephew once who
was a policeman."

"There's a party living in your place who goes by the name of Gilbert,
isn't there?"

"Yes, sir."

"How many are there in the family, and who are they, and what do you
know about them?"

"There is an old man, sir," the janitor answered. "He's a sort of
cripple, I guess. He always sits in one of them invalid chairs, and when
he goes out somebody has to wheel him. If he ain't exactly a cripple,
then he's mighty sick and weak."

"Who else is in the family?"

"He's got a daughter, whose name is Miss Kate," the janitor said. "She's
a mighty fine-lookin' girl, too. She's a nice woman, I reckon. 'Pears to
be, anyway."

"Do you know anything in particular about her?" Jim Farland asked him.

"Well, she's been away for about three months, and she just got back,"
the janitor replied. "I don't know where she was--didn't hear. While she
was gone, there was a man nurse 'tended to her father--cooked the meals
and kept the apartment clean and took him out in his wheel chair. Miss
Kate has a maid they call Marie--a big, ugly woman. She takes care of
things generally when she is here, but she was away with Miss Kate."

"How long have they lived here?" Farland asked.

"About three years, sir. But I don't know much about them. They ain't
the kind of folks a man can find out a lot about. They act peculiar
sometimes."

"Are they rich?"

"My gracious, no!" said the old janitor. "They pay their rent on time,
and they always seem to have plenty to eat, and I guess they can afford
to keep that maid and hire a nurse once in a while, but they ain't what
you'd call rich. But Miss Kate comes home in a big automobile now and
then, and she seems to have a lot of clothes. There's something funny
about it, at that."

"Think she isn't a decent woman?" Farland asked.

"Oh, I don't think she's a bad sort, sir, if that is what you mean. She
doesn't seem to be, at all. I guess she gets her swell clothes honest
enough. I think that she works for somebody and has to dress that way."

"Do they get much mail and have many visitors?"

"They get a few letters, and some newspapers and magazines," the janitor
replied. "And they don't seem to have many visitors. I've seen a man
come here once or twice to see them, and once he brought Miss Kate home
in an auto. He looks like a rich man."

"Is he old or young?" Farland asked.

"Oh, he has gray hair, sir, and looks like a distinguished gentleman,
like a lawyer or something. I guess he's rich. I think maybe he is an
old friend of Mr. Gilbert's, or something like that."

"They live on the third floor, don't they?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any vacant apartments up there?"

"Why, the apartment adjoining theirs happens to be vacant just now,
sir."

"You take me up to that vacant apartment," Jim Farland directed. "Let me
in without making any noise, and then forget all about me until I speak
to you again. Here is a nice little bill, and there will be more if you
attend to business. I'm an officer, so you'll not get in trouble with
the landlord."

The old janitor accepted the bill gladly, and led the way back to the
house. Jim Farland refused to use the elevator; he insisted on walking
up the stairs, and on going up noiselessly. When they reached the third
floor, he was doubly alert.

The old janitor pointed out the door of the vacant apartment, and handed
Farland a key. Then he pattered back down the stairs. Farland slipped
along the hall, unlocked the door of the vacant apartment, darted
inside, and locked the door again, putting the key in his pocket. And
then he moved noiselessly through the apartment until he had reached the
front.

He could hear voices in the apartment adjoining, and could make out the
conversation. A woman was speaking--Farland decided that she was Kate
Gilbert--and the weak voice of a sick man was answering her now and
then.

"Let's not talk about it any more to-night, father," the girl was
saying. "You'll not sleep well, if you get to thinking about it. You
must go to bed now, and we'll have a real talk about things when I have
something of importance to tell you. Get a good sleep, and in the
morning Marie can take you out in the Park."

Jim Farland could hear the old man mutter some reply, and then there
reached his ears the squeaking of a wheel chair being rolled across the
floor. He remained for a time standing against the wall, listening. He
decided that those in the Gilbert apartment were preparing to retire.
Half an hour later, Farland slipped from the room and went to the
basement to find the janitor.

"Here's your key," he said. "I'll be back here in the morning, and I'll
want to see you. And remember--you're not to say a word about all this."

"Not a single word, sir."

Farland went back to the taxicab and drove to his own modest home, where
he tumbled into bed and slept the sleep of the just. When Jim Farland
slept, he slept--and when he worked, he worked. Farland did not mix
labor and rest.

He arose early, hurried through his breakfast, got another taxicab and
went up into the Eighties again. The old janitor was sweeping off the
walk in front of the apartment house. The curtains at the windows of the
Gilbert apartment were still down.

"Give me that key again and give me a pass key, too," Farland told the
old janitor. "If the maid takes Mr. Gilbert out, and Miss Gilbert is
gone at the same time, I want to get into their apartment and take a
look around. Understand? And I'll want you to watch, so I'll not be
caught in there."

"I understand, sir. Here are the keys."

Farland reached the vacant apartment without being seen. The Gilberts
were up now and eating breakfast. He could hear Kate Gilbert trying to
cheer her father, but not a word she said had anything to do with Sidney
Prale, or Rufus Shepley, or anybody connected in any way with the
Shepley murder case.

"Now you must let Marie take you to the Park, father," he heard the girl
say. "It is a splendid day, and you must get a lot of fresh air. You can
go down and watch the animals. I'm going out now, but I'll be back some
time during the afternoon, and then we'll talk about things."

Jim Farland waited in the vacant apartment until he heard Kate Gilbert
depart. A quarter of an hour later, he opened the front door a crack and
saw the gigantic Marie wheel out the chair with Mr. Gilbert in it. They
went down in the elevator.

Farland waited for another quarter of an hour, until the old janitor
came up and told that he had watched the maid wheel Mr. Gilbert into the
Park.

"I'll just leave the elevator up here until somebody rings," the old
janitor said, "and I'll watch the floor below from the top of the
stairs. Then, if any of them come back, I'll tell you so you can get
out."

He took his station at the head of the stairs, leaving the elevator door
open so that the contrivance could not be operated from below. Jim
Farland unlocked the door of the Gilbert apartment and stepped inside.

The first glance told him that it was an ordinary apartment furnished in
quite an ordinary manner. It certainly did not look like a home of
wealth, and Sidney Prale had said that it had been understood in
Honduras that Kate Gilbert was of a rich family and traveling for her
health.

Many tourists claim to have money when they are away from home, of
course, but the part about traveling for her health seemed to Jim
Farland to be going a bit too far. Would such a woman be traveling for
her health and leave behind her at home an old father who was an
invalid?

"There's something behind that little trip of hers," Farland told
himself. "It looks to me as if she had gone down to Honduras to look up
Sid Prale for some reason. And Honduras isn't exactly on the health-trip
list, either."

He began a close inspection of the apartment, leaving no trace of his
search behind him, disarranging nothing that he did not replace. Jim
Farland was an expert at such things.

He ransacked a small desk that stood in one corner of the living room
and found a tablet of writing paper similar to that upon which had been
written the anonymous messages Sidney Prale had received. He found
scraps of writing in the wastebasket, too, and inspected them carefully.

"Somebody in this apartment wrote those notes, all right," Farland
mused. "But why? That's the question I want answered, and I'll have to
be careful how I start in to find out. You can't bluff that girl; one
look is enough to tell me that. If I jump her about those notes, she'll
probably get wise and cover her tracks, and then I'll be strictly up
against it."

He found nothing else of importance in the apartment. There were some
letters, but they seemed to be from relatives scattered throughout the
country, ordinary letters dealing with family affairs of no particular
consequence, and they told Jim Farland nothing that he wished to know.

But Kate Gilbert was only one angle of the case, he reminded himself,
and so he decided that he was done for the present as far as she was
concerned. It would be only a waste of valuable time, he thought, to
remain longer in the Gilbert apartment; and there were plenty of other
things for him to be doing.

Farland went all over the apartment once more, making sure that he was
leaving everything in its proper place, that there would be nothing to
show that anybody had been making an investigation there. Then he
hurried out and locked the door, returned the keys to the old janitor,
gave him another bill and instructed him to forget the visit, lighted a
black cigar, and started walking rapidly southward.

When the proper time arrived, Jim Farland would tell Miss Kate Gilbert
that he knew she had written the anonymous notes to Sidney Prale--or
that her maid had--and he would ask her why.

He reached Columbus Circle, made his way over to Fifth Avenue, and
continued his walk down that broad thoroughfare. Farland had decided to
go to the hotel and have a talk with Sidney Prale and Murk. He told
himself that he was going to like Murk, the human hulk who suddenly had
become of some use in the world.

But he did not get a chance to go to the hotel just then. He came to a
busy corner, and stopped to wait for a chance to cross the street
congested with traffic. Suddenly, a few feet to his right, he saw Kate
Gilbert, who had left her apartment only a short time before.

There was nothing startling in that fact alone, for this was a district
where there were fashionable shops and beauty parlors, and well-dressed
women were on every side.

What interested Detective Jim Farland the most was that Kate Gilbert was
standing before the show window of a fashionable shop in intimate
conversation with George Lerton, Sidney Prale's cousin!




CHAPTER XII

BATTERED KEYS


Farland started moving slowly toward them, making his way through the
crowd in such fashion that he did not attract too much attention to
himself. He was feeling a sudden interest in this case. There were great
possibilities in the fact that two persons connected with it from
different angles were in conversation.

As he made his way toward the show window, he remembered how this George
Lerton had tried to induce Sidney Prale to leave the city and remain
away, and how, afterward, he had denied that he had seen Prale on Fifth
Avenue and had spoken to him.

"He's connected with this thing in some way," Farland told himself.
"It's my job to discover exactly how."

But he was doomed to be disappointed. Before he could get near enough to
make an attempt to overhear what they were saying, they suddenly parted.
Kate Gilbert went into the shop, and George Lerton crossed the street
and hurried down the Avenue.

It was no use wasting time on Kate Gilbert. Farland knew where to find
her if he wanted her, and he knew there would be no use in shadowing her
now, since she probably had gone into the shop to purchase a hat. But
George Lerton was quite another matter.

The detective did not hesitate. He swung off down Fifth Avenue in the
wake of George Lerton.

Farland was a rough and ready man, and he had little liking for male
humans of the George Lerton type. Lerton always dressed in the acme of
fashion, running considerably to fads in clothes, appearing almost
effeminate at times. And yet it was said in financial circles that
Lerton was far from being effeminate when it came to a business deal.
There had been whispers about his dark methods, and it was well known
that a business foe got small sympathy or consideration from him. He was
a fashionable cut-throat without any of the milk of human kindness in
his system.

It was a surprise to Jim Farland to see Lerton walking. He was the sort
of man who likes to advertise his success, and he had a couple of
imposing motor cars that he generally used. But he was walking this
morning, and the fact gave Farland food for thought.

Lerton continued down the Avenue, and Jim Farland followed him closely.
He expected to see Lerton meet some one else and engage in another
whispered conversation, but Lerton did not.

"That boy is worried," Farland told himself. "He's one of those birds
who like to walk when they want to think something out. If I could only
know what was going on in that mind of his----"

Lerton had reached Madison Square, and there he did something foreign to
his nature. He crossed the Square, proceeded to Fourth Avenue, and
descended into the subway.

Farland was a few feet behind him, and got into the same car when Lerton
caught a downtown train. He followed when Lerton got off and went up to
the street level again, and now the broker made his way through the
throngs and along the narrow streets until he finally came to the
financial district. After a time he turned into the entrance of an
office building--the building where his own offices were located.

The detective watched him go up in the elevator, and then he turned back
to the cigar stand in the lobby and purchased more of the black cigars
he loved. For a time he stood out at the curb, puffing and thinking. He
watched the building entrance closely, but George Lerton did not come
down again.

As a matter of fact, Farland scarcely had expected that he would. He
believed that Lerton had kept an appointment with Kate Gilbert, and then
had continued to his office to take up the work of the day. Farland
decided that he would give Lerton a chance to attend to the morning mail
and pressing matters of business, before seeking an interview.

Finally, Farland threw the stub of the cigar away, turned into the
entrance of the building once more, and walked briskly to the elevator.
He shot up to the tenth floor, went down the hall, and entered the
reception room of the Lerton offices. An imp of an office boy took in
his card.

"Mr. Lerton will see you in ten minutes, sir," the returning boy
announced.

Farland touched match to another cigar. He was a little surprised that
Lerton had sent out that message. Lerton knew Farland, as Sidney Prale
had known him in the old days. He knew Farland's business, and he knew
that the detective and Prale were firm friends. He could guess that
Prale had engaged Jim Farland to work on this case and clear him of the
charge of having murdered Rufus Shepley.

After a time the boy ushered him into the private office. George Lerton
was sitting behind a gigantic mahogany desk, looking very much the
prosperous man of business.

"Well, Farland, this is a pleasure!" Lerton exclaimed. "Haven't seen you
for ages. How's business?"

"It could be better," Jim Farland replied, "and it could be a lot worse.
I'm making a good living, and so have no kick coming."

"If I ever need a man in your line, I'll call you in," George Lerton
said. "And the pay will be all right, too."

"Don't doubt it," Farland replied.

"Want to see me about something special this morning?"

"Yes, if you can give me a few minutes."

"All the time you like," Lerton replied.

That was not like the man, Jim Farland knew. Lerton was the sort to try
to make himself important, the always-busy man who had no time for
anybody less than a millionaire.

Farland smiled and sat down in a chair at one end of the desk. He
twisted his hat in his hands, looked across at George Lerton, cleared
his throat, and spoke.

"You know about Sidney Prale being in a bit of trouble, of course?"

"Yes. Can't understand it," Lerton replied, frowning. "Sidney always had
a temper, of course, but I never thought he would resort to murder
during a fit of it. You know, I never got along with him any too well.
He had a quarrel with his sweetheart in the old days and left for
Honduras twenty-four hours later and remained there for ten years."

"I know all about that, of course," Farland said. "You perhaps have
guessed that he sent for me--engaged me to get him out of this little
scrape."

"Murder, a little scrape?" Lerton gasped. "I should call it a very
serious matter."

"Let us hope that it will not be a serious matter for Sid," Farland said
with feeling. "I believe that the boy is innocent, and I hope to be able
to clear him. Will you help me?"

"I never had any particular love for Sidney, and neither did he for me,"
George Lerton said. "However, he is my cousin, and I hate to see him in
trouble. But how can I help you? I don't know anything about the
affair."

"An alibi is an important thing in a case like this," Farland said. "We
want to prove an alibi, if we can, of course. Sidney says that you met
him on Fifth Avenue----"

"And I cannot understand that," Lerton interrupted. "Why should he say
such a thing?"

"You didn't meet him?"

"I certainly did not! I cannot lie about such a thing, even to save my
cousin. Why, it would make me a sort of accessory, wouldn't it? I cannot
afford to be mixed up in anything of the sort. You must understand
that!"

"And you didn't urge him to leave New York and remain away for the rest
of his life?"

"I didn't see him at all," George Lerton persisted. "Why on earth should
I care whether he remains in New York or takes his million dollars
elsewhere?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," Farland said. "But it seems peculiar to me
that Sid would tell a rotten falsehood like that. Doesn't it look
peculiar to you?"

"I must confess that it does not," George Lerton replied. "I suppose it
was the first thing that came into his head. He was trying to establish
an alibi, of course, and he probably thought he would get a chance to
telephone to me and ask me to stand by the story he had told, thinking
that I would do it because of our relationship."

"I was hoping that you would tell me you had met him on Fifth Avenue,"
Farland said. "It would have made his alibi stronger, of course, and
every little bit helps."

"Stronger? You mean to say that he has any sort of an alibi at all?"

"A dandy!" Farland exclaimed. "In fact, we have an alibi that tells us
that Sid was quite a distance from Rufus Shepley's suite when Shepley
was slain."

"Why, how is that?"

"Sid picked up a bum and tried to make a man of him. He bought the
fellow some clothes and took him to a barber shop. The clothing merchant
and the barber furnish the alibi."

An expression of consternation was in George Lerton's face, and Jim
Farland was quick to notice it.

"Of course, I am glad for Sidney's sake," Lerton said. "But I had really
believed that he had killed Shepley. It caused me a bit of trouble,
too."

"How do you mean?" Farland asked.

"Shepley was a sort of client of mine," Lerton said. "I handled a deal
for him now and then. He has been traveling on business for some time,
as you perhaps know. I had hopes that he would give me a certain large
commission and that I would make a handsome profit. He was about
convinced, I am sure, that I was the man to handle it for him. His small
deals with me had always been to his profit and my credit."

"Oh, I understand!"

"And a possible good customer is removed," Lerton went on. "So you have
an alibi for Sidney, have you? In that case--if he did not kill Rufus
Shepley--he must have told that story about meeting me when he was in a
panic immediately following his arrest. Sid always was panicky, you
know."

"I didn't know that a panicky man could pick up a million dollars in ten
years."

"Oh, I suppose Sidney was fortunate. There are wonderful opportunities
at times in Central America, and I suppose he happened to just strike
one of them right. He was very fortunate, indeed. Not every man can have
good luck like that."

"Well, I'm sorry that I troubled you," Farland said. "And now, I'll get
out--if you'll do me a small favor."

"Anything, Farland."

"I see you have a typewriter in the corner, and I'd like to write a
short note to leave uptown."

"Just step outside and dictate it to one of my stenographers," said
George Lerton.

"That'd be too much trouble," Farland replied. "It's only a few lines,
and I can pound a typewriter pretty good. Besides, this is a little
confidential report that I would not care to have your stenographer know
anything about."

"Oh, I see! Help yourself!"

Farland got up and hurried over to the typewriter. He put a sheet of
paper in the machine, wrote a few lines, folded the sheet and put it
into his coat pocket.

"Well, I'm much obliged," he said. "I think we'll have Sid out of
trouble before long."

"Let us hope so!" George Lerton said.

There was something in the tone of his voice, however, that belied the
words he spoke. Farland gave him a single, rapid glance, but the
expression of Lerton's face told him nothing. Lerton was a broker and
used to big business deals. He was a master of the art of the blank
countenance, and Jim Farland knew it well.

Farland had said nothing concerning Kate Gilbert, for he was not ready
to let George Lerton know that he suspected any connection of Miss
Gilbert with the Rufus Shepley case. Farland was not certain himself
what that connection would be, and he knew it would be foolish to say
anything that would put Lerton on guard and make the mystery more
difficult of solution.

He thanked Lerton once more and departed. Out in the corridor and some
distance from the Lerton office, he took from his pocket the note he had
written on Lerton's private typewriter and glanced at it quickly.
Farland was merely verifying what he had noticed as he had typed the
note.

"That was a lucky hunch about that typewriter," he told himself. "This
case is going to be interesting, all right--and for several persons."

Farland had noticed particularly the typewritten notes that had been
received by the clothing merchant and the barber. There were two certain
keys that were battered in a peculiar manner, and another key that was
out of alignment.

He knew now, by glancing at the lines he had written himself, that those
other notes had been typed on the same machine. He guessed that it had
been George Lerton, the broker, who had sent those notes and the money
to the barber and the merchant.

Why had George Lerton been so eager to destroy his cousin's alibi?

Why was George Lerton trying to have Sidney Prale sent to the electric
chair for murder?




CHAPTER XIII

A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN


Naturally, a man facing prosecution on a murder charge is liable to be
nervous, whether he is innocent or not. If an attempt is being made to
gather evidence that will clear him, he wishes for frequent reports,
always hoping that there will be some ray of hope. And so it was with
Sidney Prale this morning, as he paced the floor in the living room of
his suite in the hotel.

Murk had done everything possible to make Sidney Prale comfortable. Now
he merely stood to one side and watched the man who had saved him from a
self-inflicted death, and tried to think of something that he could say
or do to make Prale easier in his mind.

They had not seen or heard from Jim Farland since the evening before,
when he had engaged the taxicab and had started in pursuit of the
limousine Kate Gilbert had entered. Prale wondered what Farland had been
doing, whether he had discovered anything concerning Kate Gilbert,
whether he had found a clew that would lead to an unraveling of the
mystery.

"Are you sure about that Farland man, Mr. Prale?" Murk asked, after a
time.

"What do you mean by that, Murk?"

"Well, he's a kind of cop, and I never had much faith in cops," said
Murk.

"Farland is an old friend of mine, Murk, and he is on the square--if
that is what you mean."

"He sure started out like a house afire, sir, but he seems to be fallin'
down now," Murk declared. "He sure did handle that barber and the
clothin' merchant, but he ain't showed us any speed since he left us
last night."

"He is busy somewhere--you may be sure of that," Sidney Prale declared.

"Well, boss, I ain't got any education, and I ain't an expert in any
particular line, but I've often been accused of havin' common sense, and
I'm strong for you!"

"Meaning what, Murk?"

"Nothin', boss, except that I'd like to be busy gettin' you out of this
mess. Seems to me I know just as much about it as you do, and if we'd
talk matters over, maybe I'd get some sort of an idea, or somethin' like
that."

Prale sat down before the window, lighted a cigar, and looked up at
Murk.

"Go ahead," he said. "It won't hurt anything, and it will serve to kill
time until we hear from Jim Farland. What do you want to talk about
first?"

"It seems to me," said Murk, clearing his throat and attempting to speak
in an impressive manner, "that this is a double-barreled affair."

"What do you mean?" Prale asked.

"Well, there's the murder thing, and then there's this thing about you
havin' some powerful and secret enemies that are tryin' to do you dirt
without even comin' out in the open about it. Maybe them two things are
mixed together, and maybe again they ain't. If they ain't, we've got two
jobs on our hands."

"And, if they are?" Prale asked.

"Then it looks to me, boss, like the gang that's after you is tryin' to
hang this murder on you after havin' had somebody croak that Shepley
guy."

"I've thought of that, Murk. But it doesn't look possible," Prale said.
"If my enemies merely wanted to hang a murder charge on me, as you have
suggested, I think they would have planned better and would have made
the evidence against me more conclusive. It would mean that there would
be a lot of persons in the secret; the men who plan murder do not like
to take the entire town into confidence about it."

"Well, that sounds reasonable," Murk admitted.

"And why Rufus Shepley?"

"Because you had that spat with him in the lobby of the hotel, and it
could be shown that you had a reason for knifin' him," Murk said, with
evident satisfaction.

"Nobody could have known I was going to have that quarrel with Shepley,
because I had no idea of it myself when I entered the hotel lobby,"
Prale said. "After I left the hotel, I met Farland and then walked down
to the river and met you--and you know the rest. How could they have
contemplated hanging that crime on me when they did not know but that I
had a perfect alibi? I think we're on the wrong track, Murk."

"Well, boss, how about your fountain pen?" Murk asked. "How come it was
found beside the body?"

"That is one of the biggest puzzles in the whole thing, Murk. I cannot
remember exactly when I had the pen last. I cannot imagine how it got
into Shepley's room and on the floor beside his body. That fountain pen
of mine is an important factor in this case, Murk, and it has me
worried."

"It seems to me," Murk said, "that if I had any powerful enemies after
my scalp, I'd know the birds and be watchin' out for them all the time,
to see that they didn't start anything when I was lookin' in the other
direction."

"But, Murk, I haven't the slightest idea who they are," Sidney Prale
declared. "I don't know why I should have enemies that amount to
anything, and that is what makes it so puzzling. How can I work this
thing out when I don't even know where to start? I wish Jim Farland
would come."

Jim Farland did, at that moment. Murk let him in, and the detective
tossed his hat on a chair, sat down in another, lighted one of his own
black cigars, and looked at Sidney Prale through narrowed eyes.

"Well, Jim?" Prale asked.

"I talk when I've really got something to say, but I'm not going to make
general conversation and muddle your brains with a lot of scattered
junk," Jim Farland replied. "I'll say this much--things are looking much
better for you."

"That sounds good, Jim. Can't you tell me anything?" Prale asked,
sitting forward on his chair.

"The barber and the clothing merchant have fixed up a part of your
alibi, Sid, as perhaps Murk has told you. That is the first point. It
makes it look impossible for you to have slain Rufus Shepley, and I
think Lawyer Coadley could get the charge against you dismissed on that
alone."

"But I want to be entirely cleared."

"Exactly. You don't want to leave the slightest doubt in the mind of a
single person. There is but one way to clear you absolutely, Sid. We've
got to show conclusively that you could not have killed Shepley, and the
best way to do that is to find the person who did."

"I understand, Jim."

"There seems to be some sort of a mysterious alliance against you, Sid.
You say that you can't understand why you should have enemies that hate
you so, and I know you're telling the truth. Whether that business has
anything to do with the murder, or not, I am not prepared to say now.
But we want to find out about this enemy business, too, don't we?"

"Certainly," Prale said.

"I followed Kate Gilbert. I know where she lives. She does not belong to
a rich family and does not live in splendor. But she wears expensive
gowns and has plenty of spending money, and has mysterious dealings with
a distinguished-looking man. Her father is mixed up in it in some way,
too. I went through their apartment, Sid. Somebody in that apartment
wrote the anonymous notes you received."

"What?" Prale gasped.

"I found a tablet of the same sort of paper, and scraps of writing in
the wastebasket that were in the same hand. Think, Sid! On the ship----"

"By George!" Prale exclaimed. "She could have slipped into my stateroom
and pinned that note to my pillow, and she could have stuck the second
one on my suit case as I walked past her on the deck."

"And could have sent the others," Farland added.

"But, why?" Prale demanded. "I never saw the woman until I met her at a
social affair in Honduras. What could she or any of her people have
against me?"

"Perhaps it was the maid," Farland said.

"She could have done it, of course, the same as Kate Gilbert," Prale
said. "But the same difficulty holds good--why? Kate Gilbert did seem to
avoid me, and I caught her big maid glaring at me once or twice as if
she hated the sight of me. But why on earth----"

Farland cleared his throat. "Here is another thought for you to digest,"
he said. "This Kate Gilbert knows your cousin, George Lerton."

Sidney Prale suddenly sat up straight in his chair again, his eyes
blinking rapidly.

"Doesn't that open up possibilities?" Jim Farland asked him. "The woman
seems to be working against you for some reason, and we know that George
Lerton lied about meeting you on Fifth Avenue that night. It appears
that he is working against you, too, for some mysterious motive."

A dangerous gleam came into Sidney Prale's eyes. "That simplifies
matters," he said. "I'll watch for Kate Gilbert, and when I see her I'll
ask why she sent me those notes. Then I'll get George Lerton alone and
choke out of him why he lied about meeting me on the Avenue. I've
trimmed worse men than George Lerton."

"You'll be a good little boy and do nothing of the sort," Farland told
him. "We are playing a double game, remember--trying to solve this enemy
business, and at the same time trying to clear you of a murder charge.
If any of those persons get the idea that we are unduly interested in
them, we may not have such an easy time of it."

"I understand that, of course."

"Let me tell you a few more things, Sid. I saw Lerton talking to Miss
Gilbert on the street. They were speaking in very low tones. When they
parted, I followed Lerton to his office, and went in and talked to him.
I did it just to size him up. He still declares that he never met you on
Fifth Avenue. He acts like a man afraid of something; and I discovered
an interesting thing, Sid. He has a typewriter in his private office,
one for his personal use. I managed to type a short note on it."

"What of that?"

"That typewriter has a few bad keys, Sid. And I discovered this--that
the notes sent to the barber and merchant, that caused them to lie and
try to smash your alibi, were written on the typewriter in George
Lerton's office!"

Prale sprang to his feet. "Then Lerton has something to do with this!"
he cried. "He tried to get me to leave town, and he tried to break down
my alibi. How did he know I was going to make an alibi like that?"

"My guess is that your cousin has been having you watched since you got
off the ship."

"But, why?" Prale cried. "It is true that he married the girl who had
jilted me a few years before, but I do not hold that against him. I know
of no reason why he should work against me so."

"Know anything about him that might cause him serious trouble if you
talked?"

"No," Prale replied. "As much as I dislike him, as much as I suspect
that he is crooked in business, all that I really could say would be
that he had a mean disposition and was not to be trusted too far."

"I thought maybe you had something on him, and he was trying to get you
out of the way so you'd not talk," Farland said. "That would explain a
lot, of course."

"It can't be that."

"Then we are up in the air again."

"Why not ask him?" Prale demanded. "Believe me, I'll wait for him to
come from his office--and he'll answer me, and tell the truth!"

"Put that hot head of yours under the nearest cold-water faucet!"
Farland commanded. "You make a move that I don't sanction, and I'll quit
the case! You'll spoil things, Sid, if you're not careful. Just digest
what I have told you."

"You're in command, Jim!"

"Very well. You leave George Lerton to me, Sid. There are many angles to
this case, and I can't attend to all of them at once. I don't want to
call in other detectives, because they may be in the pay of these
mysterious enemies of yours, and I haven't an assistant with an ounce of
brains. Sid, you've got to turn detective yourself--you and Murk."

"I was just wonderin' if I was goin' to get a chance to do anything,"
Murk said.

"Plenty of chances," Farland replied. "Sid, you pick up this Kate
Gilbert, if you can. Act as if you did not suspect a thing. Try to talk
to her--you were introduced to her in Honduras, and all that. Don't let
her get nervous about you, but watch her as much as you can, and let me
know everything you see and hear. Take a look at that big maid, Marie,
when you get a chance. If you can do so, and think it advisable, put
Murk on Marie's trail. I'll want to use Murk later myself."

Sidney Prale was quick to agree. And thus, without being aware of it, he
started on a short career of adventure and romance.

Had Murk been a crystal gazer or something of the sort, and could he
have looked into the future in that manner, he would have said that the
crystal lied.




CHAPTER XIV

MORE MYSTERY


Jim Farland went from the hotel to Coadley's office, to ascertain
whether the attorney's private investigators, who were working
independently of him, had unearthed anything of importance in connection
with the case.

Sidney Prale stated that he would go for a walk, and the police
detective, now thoroughly convinced that he would not try to run away,
raised no objection. It was Prale's intention to make an attempt to meet
Kate Gilbert. Murk hurried around getting his coat and hat and gloves
and stick.

"Fool idea!" Prale told himself. "Kate Gilbert has given me the cold
shoulder already, and she certainly will do it now, since I stand
accused of murder. Not a chance in the world of getting better
acquainted with her now."

"What do you want me to do, boss?" Murk asked. "I don't seem to be
amountin' to much in this game. I'd like to be in action, I would! Can't
I take a hand?"

"As soon as possible," Prale told him. "Remember, Farland said he wanted
you to help him later."

"I'd rather help you or work alone," Murk said. "I reckon he is pretty
decent for a detective, but I don't put much stock in any of 'em."

Prale laughed as he finished dressing, put on his hat and gloves, and
reached for his stick.

"Suppose you just shadow me this fine day," he told Murk. "Get a little
practice in that line. Don't bother me, but just follow and watch."

"I getcha, boss. You want me to be within hailin' distance in case you
need help?"

"Exactly, Murk. We never can tell what is going to happen, you know. I
may need you in a hurry."

"I'll be on hand," Murk promised.

Sidney Prale went down in the elevator, Murk going down in the same car.
Prale lounged about the lobby for a time, and Murk made himself as
inconspicuous as possible in a corner. Prale believed, as Farland had
intimated, that he was being followed and watched, possibly by the
orders of George Lerton, his cousin. He did not know why Lerton should
have done it, but it angered him, and he wanted to discover the man
following him.

He saw nobody in the lobby who appeared at all conspicuous, and after a
short time he left and started walking briskly down the Avenue, like any
gentleman taking a constitutional. The midday throngs were on the
streets. Prale was forced to walk slower, and now and then he stopped to
look in at a shop window. Once in a while he stepped to the curb and
glanced behind. But if there was a "shadow" Prale did not see him.

He did see Murk, however, and he smiled at Murk's methods. Murk remained
a short distance behind him, moving up closer whenever Prale was forced
to cross the street, so he would not lose him in the throng. Murk was
ordinary-looking and had a happy faculty of effacing himself in a crowd.
He was on the job every minute, watching Sidney Prale, glancing at every
man or woman who approached Prale or as much as looked at him.

Prale reached Forty-second Street, crossed it, and came opposite the
library. He glanced aside--and saw Miss Kate Gilbert walking down the
wide steps.

It was a ticklish moment for Sidney Prale, but he remembered that he was
fighting to protect himself. If Kate Gilbert ignored him, he could not
help it. At least, he would give her the chance.

She could not avoid seeing him, for they met face to face at the bottom
of the steps. Prale lifted his hat.

"Good morning, Miss Gilbert," he said.

She turned and met his eyes squarely, and he could see that she
hesitated for a moment. Then her face brightened, and she stepped toward
him.

"Good morning," she replied. "Although it is a little after noon, I am
afraid."

Her words might have been for the benefit of any who heard. They were
light enough and cordial enough, but she did not offer him her hand, and
the expression on her face was scarcely one of welcome.

"I am glad to see you again," Prale said.

"You are settled and feeling at home?"

"In a measure," he said.

She had not mentioned the crime of which he was accused, and he did not
wish to be the first to speak of it. She stepped still closer.

"I want to talk to you, Mr. Prale," she said. "Kindly get a taxi and
have the chauffeur drive us through the Park."

Prale scarcely could believe his good fortune. He had doubted whether he
would have a chance to talk to her, and here she was asking him to
engage a taxicab so that they could enjoy a conversation.

He hailed a passing taxi, put her in, gave the chauffeur his directions,
and sprang in himself. The machine turned at the first corner and
started back up the Avenue in the heavy traffic.

"You wished to speak to me about something in particular?" Prale asked.

"Yes. I have read of the crime of which you are accused. I am sure that
you are not guilty."

"Thank you, Miss Gilbert. I assure you that I am not. It is an
unfortunate affair, which we hope to have cleared up within a short
time."

"I hope that you will be free soon," she said. "And then you will be
able to enjoy yourself, I suppose."

"I hope to have my vacation yet," Prale said.

"You are going to remain in New York?"

"Certainly; it is my home."

"Sometimes a man does better away from home."

"But I have been away from home for ten years. I have made my pile, as
the saying is, and have come home to show off and lord it over my
neighbors," Prale replied, laughing.

They had reached the lower end of Central Park now, and the taxi turned
into a driveway, and made its way around the curves toward the upper
end. The chauffeur was busy nodding to others of his craft and paying no
attention to his fares. Sweethearts, he supposed, talking silly nothings
as they were driven through the Park. The chauffeur was used to such; he
hauled many of them.

Kate Gilbert leaned a bit closer to Prale, and when she spoke it was in
a low, tense voice.

"Go away from New York, Mr. Prale!"

"Why should I do that?" he asked.

"It would be better for you, I feel sure."

"Because of the absurd charge against me? I intend to have my innocence
proved, and I'd hate to run away and let people think that perhaps I was
guilty after all."

"You have the right to prove your innocence of such a charge to all the
world," she said. "But, after you have done it conclusively, you should
go away."

"Why?" he asked, again.

"Because--you have enemies, Mr. Prale!"

"I have discovered that; but I do not know why I should have enemies."

"Perhaps you did something, some time, to create them."

"But I haven't," Prale declared.

"Retribution comes when we least expect it, Mr. Prale."

"Yes. I believe that you wrote that in one of your notes."

He had said it! And Jim Farland had told him not to let her suspect that
they knew. Well, he couldn't help it now.

Kate Gilbert gasped and sat back from him.

"In my note?" she said.

"The notes interested me greatly, Miss Gilbert. I have saved them. But
why should you send them to me?"

"You can ask me that!" she exclaimed. "So you know that I wrote them, do
you? In that case, Mr. Prale, you know why I spoke of retribution, you
probably know my identity and intentions, and you know why you have
enemies!"

"But I do not!" he protested.

"Please do not attempt to tell a falsehood, Mr. Prale. You know I wrote
the notes, do you? Then you know everything else. So you are going to
fight."

"I fail to understand all this."

"Another falsehood!" she cried. "I have asked you to leave New York
and----"

"And I fail to see why I should."

"Then remain--and receive the retribution!" she said. "You will deserve
all you get, Sidney Prale! When I think of what you have done----"

She ceased speaking, and turned to glance through the window.

"You were kind enough to say that you believed me innocent of the murder
charge----"

"I do. I hate to have you facing a thing like that when you are
innocent. But this other thing is----"

"Can't you explain? I give you my word of honor that I do not understand
this."

"Your word of honor!" she sneered, facing him again. "You speak of
honor--you? That is the best jest of all!"

Sidney Prale's face flushed.

"I had hoped that I was a man of honor," he said. "I always have tried
to be honorable in my dealings with men and women, all my life. Please
understand that, Miss Gilbert."

"If you have tried, you have failed miserably. Why do you persist in
telling falsehoods, Mr. Prale. Do you think that I am a weak, silly
woman ready to be hoodwinked by lies?"

"But I assure you----"

"I do not care for any of your assurances," she interrupted. "I wish it
understood that we are strangers hereafter. You are going to fight, are
you? Fight, Sidney Prale--and lose! What I said was correct--you cannot
dodge retribution. It will take more than a million dollars to be able
to do that."

"My dear young lady----"

"I am done, Mr. Prale. I have said all that I intend saying to you."

"Then it is my turn to talk!" Prale said. "This thing is getting to be
so serious that I demand an explanation. Why should you, and others, be
so eager to run me out of New York?"

"Others?"

"Yes--particularly one man we both know."

"His name, please?"

"Why ask, Miss Gilbert?"

"Very well."

"Why do you want me to run away?"

"I did not know that others were trying to get you to leave," she said.
"I suggested it because--well, because I am a woman, I suppose. You
deserve the worst that can happen to you. But a woman, has a kind
thought now and then. I hate to see any man ground down and down, no
matter how much he deserves it--and that is what is to happen to you if
you do not go away. If you leave, your enemies will not use such harsh
measures, perhaps. But when you are here before their very eyes, they
will lift their hands against you!"

"Who are these enemies, and why are they after my scalp?"

"You know, Sidney Prale, as well as I. I can see that it is useless to
talk to you. I am sorry that I had a moment's compassion and made the
attempt. Please stop the cab and let me out here."

"But I demand to know----"

"Do as I say, or I shall make a scene!"

Prale gave the signal, and the taxi stopped. He helped her out, and she
started briskly down the nearest path. Sidney Prale paid the chauffeur,
and started to follow.

He glanced back, and saw Murk getting out of another taxicab. He had
forgotten Murk in his interest in the conversation with Kate Gilbert.
But Murk had not forgotten. Murk had his orders, and he was carrying
them out; he was keeping in sight, to be on hand if he was needed.

Murk had a little money Prale had given him, enough to pay the taxi
chauffeur. Prale motioned for him to approach.

"Here's a roll of bills," he said. "Keep up the game, Murk. Don't get
too far away."

"I'll be right at your heels, boss."

"And keep your eyes open."

"Yes, sir."

"That woman was Kate Gilbert."

"Then I'll know her whenever I see her again, sir."

Prale hurried on down the path. Murk kept pace with him, a short
distance behind.

Kate Gilbert had been walking swiftly. She had reached the street, and,
as Prale watched, she crossed it. Prale followed.

The girl did not look behind. She came to the middle of the block and
ran up the steps of an apartment house. Prale passed the entrance,
glanced at the number, and continued down the street. At the corner he
allowed Murk to catch up with him.

"She turned in at the address Jim Farland gave us," Prale said. "She has
gone home, Murk. I fancy that we are done with her for to-day!"

A lot he knew about it!




CHAPTER XV

A MOMENT OF VIOLENCE


Sidney Prale turned around and walked back along the street to the Park,
Murk once more following at a short distance, as he had been ordered to
do.

Because he wanted to think of his predicament, Prale crossed into the
Park and began following one of the paths toward the south, making his
way along it slowly, paying little attention to the persons he passed
now and then.

He crossed a drive and followed another path; and now he came to a
secluded spot where the path was hidden from passers-by on the other
walks and drives. Here the way ran through a tiny gulch, the sides of
which were banked with bushes. Squirrels scampered and birds chattered
at him, but Prale saw none of them.

He was trying to explain to himself why Kate Gilbert had warned him to
leave New York, why she had interested herself in his affairs at all,
asking himself for the thousandth time what species of net it was in
which he suddenly had found himself enmeshed without knowing the reason
for it.

He had demanded information and it had not been given him. She had said
nothing at all that gave him an inkling as to the nature of what seemed
to be a plot against him. He had been as firm as he dared, he told
himself. A man could not threaten a woman, could not use violence in an
attempt to make her speak and reveal secrets.

"We'll have to work from another corner," Sidney Prale told himself. "I
can't threaten a woman, but I can pummel a man; and if I meet George
Lerton again, I am liable to forget what Jim Farland told me and use my
own methods."

He walked on through the tiny ravine. He came to a cross path, and a man
lurched down it and against him.

"Beg pardon!" Prale murmured.

"Wonder you wouldn't look where you're going!" the other exclaimed. "Got
an idea you own the whole Park, or something like that? Men like you
shouldn't be running around loose!"

"You ran into me, not I into you," Prale reminded him.

As he spoke, he looked at the other closely. He saw a gigantic man who
had the general appearance of a thug, whose chin was thrust forward
aggressively, and whose hands were opening and closing as if he wished
they were around Sidney Prale's throat.

"I've a notion to smash you one!" the fellow said, advancing toward
Prale a bit.

Prale's temper flamed at once. His own chin was shot forward, and his
own hands closed.

"If that is the way you feel about it, start in!" Prale said. "Perhaps I
can teach you to act decently and keep a civil tongue in your head!"

The man before him made no comment--he simply launched himself forward
like a thunderbolt. Sidney Prale darted quickly to one side, and tossed
his hat and stick on the ground. He did not have time to get off his
coat; he could not even remove his gloves.

The other, missing him in that first rush, turned and came back,
swinging his fists. Prale did not dart aside now. He put himself on
guard, braced himself against the side of the little gulch, and waited
for the attack.

They clashed, and Prale knew that he had a real fight on his hands, for
the man who had attacked him was no mean antagonist. But, after the
first real clash, Prale had no fear of the outcome. The man was brutal,
but he had no skill. He delivered blows that would have felled any
one--but they did not reach their objective.

Then a second man crashed down through the brush and joined in the
attack. Sidney Prale realized in that moment that the attack had been
premeditated and the fight forced upon him purposely. It fed fuel to the
flames of his wrath. He did not know whether this was the work of some
of his unknown enemies or whether these thugs were mere robbers intent
upon getting his wallet and watch. It made little difference to him
which they were.

With his back against the side of the gulch, he fought with what skill
he could, trying to stand off both of them. The attack had come with a
rush, and all this had occupied but a few seconds.

Presently a human whirlwind appeared and took part in the battle. There
was an angry roar from a human throat, a raucous curse, a rushing body,
the thuds of swift, hard blows. Mr. Murk had reached the scene!

The battle immediately became two-fold. Murk fought as these thugs
fought, disregarding the finer rules of combat, seeking only to put his
opponent out, no matter by what means. Murk was not unaccustomed to
fighting of that character, and he was doubly formidable now, for he was
angry at the attack on Sidney Prale. Murk had been too far away to hear
what had been said when the trouble started, but he had seen, and he
guessed immediately that some of Sidney Prale's enemies were engaged in
the attempt.

Murk went after his opponent with determination if not with skill. He
fought him down the path, and there the fellow rallied from the surprise
and rushed back. But Murk was not the sort to give ground. In a fight, a
man should stand up to another until one of them was whipped, Murk
thought.

He knew how to give blows, but not how to guard against them. He was
marked, and marked well, before the battle was a minute old, but he had
the satisfaction of seeing blood on the face of his antagonist. Foot to
foot they stood and hammered each other, and gradually Murk began
wearing the other man down.

As for Sidney Prale, now that he had but the one thug against him, he
fought with skill and cunning, knowing that the other was a bit the
stronger, but realizing that he would be victor if he used reasonable
care.

His flare of anger had passed, and now he was fighting like a clever
pugilist. He warded off the other's powerful blows, and now and then he
slipped beneath a guard, or smashed his way through one, and sent home a
blow of his own.

At the end of three minutes, the thugs were getting much the worst of
it. Gradually they were being fought back toward the nearest driveway.
Back and back they went, but did not turn and run. Sidney Prale sensed
that they were fighting for money, that they were being paid for this
attack, and he realized that, but for the presence of Murk, he would
have had no chance whatever, and probably would be a senseless, bleeding
thing now.

None of them knew that the fight had attracted attention, but it had.
Two women, coming around a curve in the path, had seen it, and had run
back toward the nearest driveway, screeching. Two mounted policemen
hurried toward them, heard the story, and charged down the path.

The two thugs made no effort to escape. They stopped fighting, and Prale
and Murk ceased also, though the latter was eager to continue until a
decision had been rendered. Murk had fought often where there was no
interference and he disliked to be bothered now, but he desisted at
Prale's command.

"Well, what's all this about?" one of the officers demanded. He did not
address any of them particularly. "I was walking along the path, and
these men attacked me," Sidney Prale said. "My valet was a short
distance behind and he came to my assistance. I never saw these fellows
before."

"Nothin' like it!" one of the thugs snarled. "Me and my pal were walkin'
along this path and met these men, and the one with the stick ordered us
out of the way as if we were dogs. When we didn't move quick enough,
they jumped into us."

"That's a lie----" Murk began.

"You can settle this at the station," the officer replied. "All of you
come along with us!"

Prale picked up his hat and stick, took off his torn gloves and threw
them away, and motioned for Murk to walk at his side and to keep quiet.
They went to the driveway and along it, the policemen watching the four
of them closely, the thugs growling to each other and remarking that it
was a fine day when honest workingmen could not stroll in Central Park
without a dude and his valet trying to beat them up.

There was a short wait when the station was reached, and then, at the
lieutenant's command, one of the thugs poured forth his story. He gave
his name and address, as did the other, and both made the statement that
they were out of work at present.

Prale stepped forward and gave his name. The lieutenant stared at him in
surprise.

"Why, it's the guy who croaked that man Shepley!" one of the thugs
cried. "There ought to be a way of stoppin' him runnin' around and
assaultin' and killin' folks. If it hadn't been for the cops----"

"Shut up!" Sidney Prale commanded loudly, ignoring the presence of the
officers. "You fellows made a deliberate attack on me and you know it.
And I want to know who paid you to do it--understand?"

"You're crazy!" said one of the thugs.

Prale turned to the lieutenant. "I'd like to have Jim Farland sent for,"
he said. "He has been handling things for me. I want him to investigate
these men. I have an idea that the names and addresses they gave are
fictitious. Recently enemies of mine have caused me considerable
trouble, and I feel sure that these men were hired to attack me.
Fortunately, my valet was walking a short distance behind me, and rushed
up and helped me hold them off."

"I'm ready to put up bail, and so is my pal!" said one of the thugs
angrily.

"In that case, I'll have to let you go for the present," the lieutenant
said. "The charge is fighting and disorderly conduct, and bail will be
one hundred dollars in each case. You may use the telephone if you wish,
Mr. Prale."

Prale hurried to the telephone, called Jim Farland's office, and was
informed that Farland had not been there, and that the girl in charge
did not know where he was, or what he was doing, or when he would
return. Prale left instructions for Farland and went back to the desk.

"This is a serious business, though it may not look like it on the
face," he said. "I'd like to have these men held until we can make sure
they have given correct names and addresses."

"No use holding them if they have given bail," the lieutenant replied.
"I think it's nothing but a regular scrap. You can talk to the judge
later, all of you."

Prale took a roll of bills from his pocket and put up cash bail for both
Murk and himself. One of the thugs followed suit and pulling out a roll
of bills, stripped off two hundred dollars, and arranged for the release
of himself and his partner.

"You seem to have a lot of money for men who are out of work," Prale
said.

"Been savin' it, and it's none of your business anyway," growled the
other.

They started toward the door, and Prale and Murk followed them, watched
them until they started away, and then turned back to bathe their faces
and hands. Then Prale got a taxicab, and drove to the office of a
physician, who did his best to make the countenances of Prale and Murk
presentable.

It was an hour later when Jim Farland called Prale by telephone at the
hotel.

"I've investigated that little matter, Sid," he reported. "Those fellows
gave fictitious addresses, as you supposed they had done, and it is an
even bet that the names they gave were fictitious, too. No doubt about
it, Sid--they were hired to get you. You'd better be on guard and a bit
careful."




CHAPTER XVI

MURK RECEIVES A BLOW


An hour before dinner, Detective Jim Farland suddenly appeared in Sidney
Prale's suite at the hotel.

"They are working on me now, Sid," he said. "I got a telephone message
when I was in the office, and the gent at the other end of the line
informed me that it would be beneficial to my health if I immediately
ceased having anything to do with the Rufus Shepley murder case and
stopped working for you."

"Any idea where the message came from?" Prale asked.

"It came from a public pay station in the subway. I had the call traced
immediately, of course. No chance of finding out who sent it, naturally.
I doubt whether I'd recognize the voice if I heard it again--could tell
by the way the fellow talked that he was trying to disguise his tones. I
told him to go to blazes, and he informed me that I was up against
something too big for a man to face, or something like that."

"Jim, if there is any danger, I don't want you to work for me," Sidney
Prale said. "You're married and a father and----"

"And that will be about all from you, Sid!" Farland interrupted. "Think
I'm going to let some man who doesn't tell me his name throw a scare
into me?"

"But, if there is danger----"

"I thrive on danger," said Jim Farland. "Think I'm going to desert you
at this stage of the game? That is what they want, of course. If I did,
you'd probably hire another detective, and it might be one of their own
men--whoever they are. I'm in this game to stay, Sid, first because you
are an old friend of mine and I think you are being made the victim of
some sort of a dirty deal, and also because I'm not the kind of man to
be bluffed out of a job. We are going right ahead. I got a note at the
office, too."

"A note!" Prale gasped.

"Typewritten, but not on George Lerton's battered typewriter this time.
It remarked that unless I gave up this case, somebody would make things
hard for me, or words to that effect. Old stuff! If they are so scared
that they send threatening letters, they're whipped right now--and they
know it!"

"I had an interesting experience this afternoon," said Prale.

"The fight?"

"I don't mean that. I met Kate Gilbert in front of the library. She
asked me to get a taxicab and drive her through the Park. I did it. She
begged me to leave New York and remain away, and said that my enemies
might not be so harsh if I did. I tried to get her to explain, and she
insisted that I knew all there was to know. She left the taxicab and
walked to her home."

"I'll have to investigate that girl more thoroughly," Farland said.

"She is on guard now, as far as I am concerned."

"Does she know Murk by sight?"

"I think not."

"Then here is where Murk gets a steady job for a time," Jim Farland
declared. "Murk, you go up to Kate Gilbert's home and watch a bit. Give
him plenty of money, Sid, for expenses. Just see if she leaves the
place, Murk, and if so, where she goes, and to whom she talks. Get any
general information you can. Try to keep her from knowing that you are
watching her, but if she finds it out drop the chase and get back here,
and we'll put another shadow on the job. When you are sure that she has
decided to remain in her apartment for the night, report back here to
Mr. Prale."

"You watch me," Murk said. "I never expected to be caught doin'
detective work and I reckon it's somethin' like a disgrace, but this is
a sort of special occasion."

Prale gave Murk more money, in case he would have to engage taxicabs or
follow Kate Gilbert where money would be necessary for tips and bribes.

"Your face looks pretty good, but you want to remember that there are
some marks on it," Prale told him.

"It's looked worse, boss," Murk replied, grinning. "I'll try to do this
thing right."

Murk hurried down in the elevator and went from the hotel. He got a cab
immediately, and promised that dire things would happen to the chauffeur
if he did not get to a certain corner up beside the Park in record time.
Jim Farland had given him a badge to be used if he was questioned by a
police officer, and he was to say that he was an operative attached to
Farland's office.

Murk discharged the taxi at the proper corner, touched match to
cigarette, and walked slowly down the street toward the apartment house
where Kate Gilbert lived with her father and her maid.

Jim Farland had told him the location of the Gilbert apartment, and Murk
saw that the lights in it were burning. It was about time for dinner, he
knew.

He went to a drug store on the nearest corner and hurried into a
telephone booth. He called the apartment house and asked to be connected
with the Gilberts. A woman's hoarse voice answered his call, and he
guessed that it was the maid speaking.

"Miss Kate Gilbert there?" Murk asked.

"Who is calling, please?"

"Tell her it is about that Prale affair," Murk replied.

"One moment. I'll call her."

Kate Gilbert's voice came to him over the wire almost immediately.

"Miss Gilbert?" Murk asked. "I was to tell you that----"

And then Murk jerked down the receiver hook, and grinned as he put the
receiver on it. Kate Gilbert would believe that a careless central girl
had cut them off and put an end to the conversation.

He had learned what he had wished to learn--that Kate Gilbert was at
home. He walked back up the street. All he had to do now was to watch,
and if Kate Gilbert left the place follow her. If she did not, Murk
would wait half an hour or so after the lights in the apartment were
turned out, to be sure that she had retired, and then would hurry back
to the hotel.

Murk watched from a distance at first, and then went slowly forward, for
he did not wish to attract attention by remaining in one position too
long. There were few persons on the block; and now and then some
automobile or taxicab would discharge a passenger and go on. Murk made
his way slowly to the end of the block, always watching the entrance of
the apartment house, crossed the street, and started back on the other
side.

He came in front of a dark passageway between two buildings, and went
on. And out of the mouth of that dark passageway came a blow that caused
Murk to groan once and topple forward. Hands gripped his unconscious
body and drew him back into the darkness.




CHAPTER XVII

MURK IS TEMPTED


The next thing that impressed itself upon Murk's consciousness was the
fact that he had a terrific pain in the back of his head. Many times
during his career Murk had experienced similar pains. And he knew that
the best thing to do was to remain quiet for a short 

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