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The Crevice

by William J. Burns · English · Gutenberg #29331 · 532,874 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Crevice

Author: William J. Burns
        Isabel Ostrander

Illustrator: Will Grefé


        
Release date: July 6, 2009 [eBook #29331]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29331

Credits: E-text prepared by Roger Frank, Darleen Dove, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)


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THE CREVICE

by


WILLIAM J. BURNS and ISABEL OSTRANDER

Illustrations by Will Grefé







[Illustration: "I supposed that father was working late over some papers
and I knew that I must not disturb him."]



New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers

Copyright, 1915, by
W. J. Watt & Company




CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                                         PAGE
        I PENNINGTON LAWTON AND THE GRIM REAPER                      1
       II REVELATIONS                                               16
      III HENRY BLAINE TAKES A HAND                                 29
       IV THE SEARCH                                                38
        V THE WILL                                                  53
       VI THE FIRST COUNTER-MOVE                                    66
      VII THE LETTER                                                78
     VIII GUY MORROW FACES A PROBLEM                                98
       IX GONE!                                                    104
        X MARGARET HEFFERMAN'S FAILURE                             116
       XI THE CONFIDENCE OF EMILY                                  134
      XII THE CIPHER                                               154
     XIII THE EMPTY HOUSE                                          171
      XIV IN THE OPEN                                              192
       XV CHECKMATE!                                               207
      XVI THE LIBRARY CHAIR                                        224
     XVII THE RESCUE                                               240
    XVIII THE TRAP                                                 255
      XIX THE UNSEEN LISTENER                                      272
       XX THE CREVICE                                              290
      XXI CLEARED SKIES                                            308




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

                                                                  PAGE

  "I supposed that father was working late over some
  papers and I knew that I must not disturb him."         Frontispiece

  With the cunning of a Jimmy Valentine he manipulated
  the tumblers. Ramon Hamilton, his discomfiture
  forgotten, watched with breathless interest.                      94

  Her head was thrown back, her eyes blazing: and as she
  faced him, she slowly raised her arm and pointed a
  steady finger at the recoiling figure.                           262




THE CREVICE




CHAPTER I

PENNINGTON LAWTON AND THE GRIM REAPER


Had New Illington been part of an empire instead of one of the most
important cities in the greatest republic in the world, the cry "The
King is dead! Long live the King!" might well have resounded through
its streets on that bleak November morning when Pennington Lawton was
found dead, seated quietly in his arm-chair by the hearth in the
library, where so many vast deals of national import had been first
conceived, and the details arranged which had carried them on and on
to brilliant consummation.

Lawton, the magnate, the supreme power in the financial world of the
whole country, had been suddenly cut down in his prime.

The news of his passing traveled more quickly than the extras which
rolled damp from the presses could convey it through the avenues and
alleys of the city, whose wealthiest citizen he had been, and through
the highways and byways of the country, which his marvelous mentality
and finesse had so manifestly strengthened in its position as a world
power.

At the banks and trust companies there were hurriedly-called
directors' meetings, where men sat about long mahogany tables, and
talked constrainedly about the immediate future and the vast changes
which the death of this great man would necessarily bring. In the
political clubs, his passing was discussed with bated breath.

At the hospitals and charitable institutions which he had so
generously helped to maintain, in the art clubs and museums, in the
Cosmopolitan Opera House--in the founding of which he had been leading
spirit and unfailingly thereafter, its most generous contributor--he
was mourned with a sincerity no less deep because of its admixture of
self-interest.

In aristocratic drawing-rooms, there were whispers over the tea-cups;
the luck of Ramon Hamilton, the rising young lawyer, whose engagement
to Anita Lawton, daughter and sole heiress of the dead financier, had
just been announced, was remarked upon with the frankness of envy,
left momentarily unguarded by the sudden shock.

For three days Pennington Lawton lay in simple, but veritable state.
Telegrams poured in from the highest representatives of State, clergy
and finance. Then, while the banks and charitable institutions
momentarily closed their doors, and flags throughout the city were
lowered in respect to the man who had gone, the funeral procession
wound its solemn way from the aristocratic church of St. James, to the
graveyard. The last extras were issued, detailing the service; the
last obituaries printed, the final pæans of praise were sung, and the
world went on its way.

During the two days thereafter, multitudinous affairs of more
imperative public import were brought to light; a celebrated murder
was committed; a notorious band of criminals was rounded up; a
political boss toppled and fell from his self-made pedestal; a
diplomatic scandal of far-reaching effect was unearthed, and in the
press of passing events, the fact that Lawton had been eliminated from
the scheme of things faded into comparative insignificance, from the
point of view of the general public.

In the great house on Belleair Avenue, which the man who was gone had
called home, a tall, slender young girl sat listlessly conversing with
a pompous little man, whose clerical garb proclaimed the reason for
his coming. The girl's sable garments pathetically betrayed her youth,
and in her soft eyes was the pained and wounded look of a child face
to face with its first comprehended sorrow.

The Rev. Dr. Franklin laid an obsequious hand upon her arm.

"The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of
the Lord."

Anita Lawton shivered slightly, and raised a trembling, protesting
hand.

"Please," she said, softly, "I know--I heard you say that at St.
James' two days ago. I try to believe, to think, that in some
inscrutable way, God meant it for the best when he took my father so
ruthlessly from me, with no premonition, no sign of warning. It is
hard, Dr. Franklin. I cannot coordinate my thoughts just yet. You must
give me a little time."

The minister bent his short body still lower before her.

"My dear child, do you remember, also, a later prayer in the same
service?"--unconsciously he assumed the full rich, rounded, pulpit
tones, which were habitual with him. "'Lord, Thou hast been our refuge
from one generation to another; before the mountains were brought
forth or ever the earth and world were made--'"

A low knocking upon the door interrupted him, and the butler
appeared.

"Mr. Rockamore and Mr. Mallowe," Anita Lawton read aloud from the
cards he presented. "Oh, I can't see them now. Tell them, Wilkes, that
my minister is with me, and they must forgive me for denying myself to
them."

The butler retired, and the Rev. Dr. Franklin, at the mention of two
of the most prominent and influential men in the city since the death
of Lawton, turned bulging, inquiring eyes upon the girl.

"My dear child, is it wise for you to refuse to see two of your
father's best friends? You will need their help, their kindness--a
woman alone in the world, no matter how exalted her position, needs
friends. Mr. Mallowe is not one of my parishioners, but I understand
that as president of the Street Railways, he was closely associated
with your dear father in many affairs of finance. Mr. Rockamore I know
to be a man of almost unlimited power in the world in which Mr. Lawton
moved. Should you not see them? Remember that you are under my
protection in every way, of course, but since our Heavenly Father has
seen fit to take unto Himself your dear one, I feel that it would be
advisable for you to place yourself under the temporal guidance of
those whom he trusted, at any rate for the time being."

"Oh, I feel that they were my father's friends, but not mine. Since
mother and my little sister and brother were lost at sea, so many
years ago, I have learned to depend wholly upon my father, who was
more comrade than parent. Then, as you know, I met Ramon--Mr.
Hamilton, and of course I trust him as implicitly as I must trust you.
But although, on many occasions, I assisted my father to receive his
financial confrères on a social basis, I cannot feel at a time like
this that I care to talk with any except those who are nearest and
dearest to me."

"But suppose they have come, not wholly to offer you consolation, but
to confer with you upon some business matters upon which it would be
advantageous for you to inform yourself? Your grief and desire for
seclusion are most natural, under the circumstances, but one must
sometimes consider earthly things also." The minister's evidently
eager desire to be present at an interview with the great men and to
place himself on a more familiar footing with them was so obvious that
Anita's gesture of dissent held also something of repugnance.

"I could not, Dr. Franklin. Perhaps later, when the first shock has
passed, but not yet. You understand that I like them both most
cordially. Those whom father trusted must be men of sterling worth,
but just now I feel as must an animal which has been beaten. I want to
creep off into a dark and silent place until my misery dulls a
little."

"You have borne up wonderfully well, dear child, under the severe
shock of this tragedy. Mrs. Franklin and I have remarked upon it. You
have exhibited the same self-mastery and strength of character which
made your father the man he was." Dr. Franklin arose from his chair
with a sigh which was not altogether perfunctory. "Think well over
what I have said. Try to realize that your only consolation and
strength in this hour of your deepest sorrow come from on High, and
believe that if you take your poor, crushed heart to the Throne of
Grace it shall be healed. That has been promised us. Think, also, of
what I have just said to you concerning your father's associates, and
when next they call, as they will, of course, do very shortly, try to
receive them with your usual gracious charms, and should they offer
you any advice upon worldly matters, which we must not permit
ourselves to neglect, send for me. I will leave you now. Mrs.
Franklin will call upon you to-morrow. Try to be brave and calm, and
pray for the guidance which will be vouchsafed you, should you ask it,
frankly and freely."

Anita Lawton gave him her hand and accompanied him in silence to the
door. There, with a few gentle words, she dismissed him, and when the
sound of his measured footsteps had diminished, she closed the door
with a little gasp of half relief, and turned to the window. It had
been an effort to her to see and talk with her spiritual adviser,
whose hypocrisy she had vaguely felt.

If only Ramon had come--Ramon, whose wife she would be in so short a
time, and who must now be father as well as husband to her. She
glanced at the little French clock on the mantel. He was late--he had
promised to be there at four. As she parted the heavy curtains, the
telephone upon her father's desk, in the corner, shrilled sharply.
When she took the receiver off the hook, the voice of her lover came
to the girl as clearly, tenderly, as if he, himself, stood beside
her.

"Anita, dear, may I come to you now?"

"Oh, please do, Ramon; I have been waiting for you. Dr. Franklin
called this afternoon, and while he was here with me Mr. Rockamore and
Mr. Mallowe came, but I could not see them. There is something I feel
I must talk over with you."

She hung up the receiver with a little sigh, and for the first time in
days a faint suspicion of a smile lightened her face. As she turned
away, however, her eyes fell upon the great leather chair by the
hearth, and her expression changed as she gave an uncontrollable
shudder. It was in that chair her father had been found on that
fateful morning, about a week ago, clad still in the dinner-clothes of
the previous evening, a faint, introspective smile upon his keen,
inscrutable face; his eyes wide, with a politely inquiring stare, as
if he had looked upon things which until then had been withheld from
his vision. She walked over to the chair, and laid her hand where his
head had rested. Then, all at once, the tension within her seemed to
snap and she flung herself within its capacious, wide-reaching arms,
in a torrent of tears--the first she had shed.

It was thus that Ramon Hamilton found her, on his arrival twenty
minutes later, and without ado, he gathered her up, carried her to the
window-seat, and made her cry out her heart upon his shoulder.

When she was somewhat quieted he said to her gently, "Dearest, why
will you insist upon coming to this room, of all others, at least
just for a little time? The memories here will only add to your
suffering."

"I don't know; I can't explain it. That chair there in which poor
father was found has a peculiar, dreadful fascination for me. I have
heard that murderers invariably return sooner or later to the scene of
their crime. May we not also have the same desire to stay close to the
place whence some one we love has departed?"

"You are morbid, dear. Bring your maid and come to my mother's house
for a little, as she has repeatedly asked you to do. It will make it
so much easier for you."

"Perhaps it would. Your mother has been so very kind, and yet I feel
that I must remain here, that there is something for me to do."

"I don't understand. What do you mean, dearest?"

She turned swiftly and placed her hands upon his broad shoulders. Her
childish eyes were steely with an intensity of purpose hitherto
foreign to them.

"Ramon, there is something I have not told you or any one; but I feel
that the time has come for me to speak. It is not nervousness, or
imagination; it is a fact which occurred on the night of my father's
death."

"Why speak of it, Anita?" He took her hands from his shoulders, and
pressed them gently, but with quiet strength. "It is all over now, you
know. We must not dwell too much upon what is past; I shall have to
help you to put it all from your mind--not to forget, but to make your
memories tender and beautiful."

"But I must speak of it. It will be on my mind day and night until I
have told you. Ramon, you dined with us that night--the night before.
Did my father seem ill to you?"

"Of course not. I had never known him to be in better health and
spirits." Ramon glanced at her in involuntary surprise.

"Are you sure?"

"Why do you ask me that? You know that heart-disease may attack one at
any time without warning."

Anita sank upon the window-seat again, and leaned forward pensively,
her hands clasped over her knees.

"You will remember that after you and father had your coffee and
cigars together in the dining-room, you both joined me?"

"Of course. You were playing the piano, ramblingly, as if your
thoughts were far away, and you seemed nervous, ill at ease. I
wondered about it at the time."

"It was because of father. To you he appeared in the best of spirits,
as you say, but I, who knew him better than any one else on earth,
realized that he was forcing himself to be genial, to take an interest
in what we were saying. For days he had been overwrought and
depressed. As you know, he has confided in me, absolutely, since I
have been old enough to be a real companion to him. I thought that I
knew all his business affairs--those of the last two or three years at
least--but latterly his manner has puzzled and distressed me. Then,
while you were in the dining-room, the telephone rang twice."

"Yes; the calls were for your father. When he was summoned to the wire
he immediately had the connection given to him on his private line,
here in the library. After he returned to the dining-room he did seem
slightly absent-minded, now that I think of it; but it did not occur
to me that there could have been any serious trouble. You know,
dearest, ever since the evening when he promised to give you to me, he
has consulted me, also, to a great extent about his financial
interests, and I think if any difficulty had arisen he would have
mentioned it."

"Still, I am convinced that something was on his mind. I tried to
approach him concerning it, but he was evasive, and put me off,
laughingly. You know that father was not the sort of man whose
confidence could be forced even by those dearest to him. I had been so
worried about him, though, that I had a nervous headache, and after
you left, Ramon, I retired at once. An hour or two later, father had a
visitor--that fact as you know, the coroner elicited from the
servants, but it had, of course, no bearing on his death, since the
caller was Mr. Rockamore. I heard his voice when I opened the door of
my room, after ringing for my maid to get some lavender salts. I could
not sleep, my headache grew worse; and while I was struggling against
it, I heard Mr. Rockamore depart, and my father's voice in the hall,
after the slamming of the front door, telling Wilkes to retire, that
he would need him no more that night. I heard the butler's footsteps
pass down the hall, and then I rose and opened my door again. I don't
know why, but I felt that I wanted to speak to father when he came up
on his way to bed."

Anita paused, and Ramon, in spite of himself, felt a thrill of puzzled
wonder at her expression, upon which a dawning look, almost of horror,
spread and grew.

"But he did not come, and after a while I stole to the head of the
stairs and looked down. There was a low light in the hall and a
brighter one from the library, the door of which was ajar. I supposed
that father was working late over some papers, and I knew that I must
not disturb him. I crept back to bed at last, with a sigh, but left my
own door slightly open, so that if I should happen to be awake when he
passed, I might call to him.

"Presently, however, I dozed off. I don't know how long I slept, but I
awakened to hear voices--angry voices, my father's and another, which
I did not recognize. I got up and by the night-light I saw that the
hands of the little clock on my dresser pointed to nearly three
o'clock. I could not imagine who would call on father so very late at
night, and I feared at first it might be a burglar, but my common
sense assured me that father would not stop to parley with a burglar.
While I stood wondering, father raised his voice slightly, and I
caught one word which he uttered. Ramon, that word sounded to me like
'blackmail!' Why, what is it? Why do you look at me so strangely?" she
added hastily, at his uncontrollable start.

"I? I am not looking at you strangely, dear; it is not possible that
you could have heard aright. It must have been simply a fancy of
yours, born of the state of your nerves. You could not really have
understood." But Ramon Hamilton looked away from her as he spoke, with
a peculiarly significant gleam in his candid eyes. After a slight
pause he went on: "No one in the world could have attempted to
blackmail your father. He was the soul of honor and integrity, as no
one knows better than you. Why, his opinion was sought on every public
question. You remember hearing of some of the political honors which
he repeatedly refused, but he could, had he wished, have held the
highest office at the disposal of the people. You must have been
mistaken, Anita. There has never been a reason for the word
'blackmail' to cross your father's lips."

"I know that I was not mistaken, for I heard more--enough to convince
me that I had been right in my surmise! Father was keeping something
from me!"

"Dear little girl, suppose he had been? Nothing, of course, that could
possibly reflect upon his integrity,--don't misunderstand me--but you
are only twenty, you know. It is not to be expected that you could
quite comprehend the details of all the varied business interests of a
man who had virtually led the finances of his country for more than
twenty years. Perhaps it was a purely business matter."

"I tell you, Ramon, that that man, whoever he was, actually dared to
threaten father. When I heard that word 'blackmail' in the angriest
tones which I had ever heard my father use, I did something mean,
despicable, which only my culminating anxiety could have induced me to
do. I slipped on my robe and slippers, stole half-way downstairs and
listened deliberately."

"Anita, you should not have done that! It was not like you to do so.
If your father had wished you to know of this interview, don't you
think he would have told you?"

"Perhaps he would have, but what opportunity was he given? A few hours
later, he was found dead in that chair over there; the chair in which
he sat while he was talking with his unknown visitor."

The young man sprang to his feet. "You can't realize what you are
saying; what you are hinting! It is unthinkable! If you let these
morbid fancies prey upon your mind, you will be really ill." His tones
were full of horror. "Your father died of heart-disease. The doctors
and the coroner established that beyond the shadow of a doubt, you
know. Any other supposition is beyond the bounds of possibility."

"Of heart-disease, yes. But might not the sudden attack have been
brought on by his altercation with this man? His sudden rage,
controlled as it was, at the insults hurled at him?"

"What insults, Anita? Tell me what you heard when you crept down the
stairs. You know you can trust me, dear--you must trust me."

"The man was saying: 'Come, Lawton, be sensible; half a loaf is better
than no bread. There is no blackmail about this, even if you choose to
call it so. It is an ordinary business proposition, as you have been
told a hundred times!'"

"'It's a damnable crooked scheme, as I have told you a hundred times,
and I shall have nothing to do with it! This is final!' Father's tones
rang out clearly and distinctly, quivering with suppressed fury. 'My
hands are clean, my financial operations have been open and
above-board; there is no stain upon my life or character, and I can
look every man in the face and tell him to go where you may go now!'

"'Oh, is that so!' sneered the other man loudly. Then his voice became
insinuatingly low. 'How about poor Herbert--' His tones were so
indistinct that I could not catch the name. Then he went on more
defiantly, 'His wife--' He didn't finish the sentence, Ramon, for
father groaned suddenly, terribly, as if he were in swift pain; the
man gave a little sneering laugh, and I could hear him moving about in
the library, whistling half under his breath in sheer bravado. I could
not bear to hear any more. I put my hands over my ears and fled back
to my room. What could it mean, Ramon? What is this about father and
some other man and his wife which the stranger dared to insinuate!
reflected upon father's integrity? Why should he have groaned as if
the very mention of these people hurt him inexpressibly?"

"I don't know, dear." Ramon Hamilton sat with his honest eyes still
turned from her. "You must have been mistaken; perhaps you even
dreamed it all." Anita Lawton gave an impatient gesture.

"I am not quite the child you think me, Ramon. Could that man have
meant to insinuate that father in his own advancement had trod upon
and ruined some one else, as financiers have always done? Could he
have meant that father had driven this man and his wife to despair? I
cannot bear to think of it. I try to thrust it from my thoughts a
dozen times a day, but that groan from father's lips sounded so much
like one of remorse that hideous ideas come beating in on my brain.
Was my father like other rich men, Ramon? He did not live for money,
although the successful manipulation of it was almost a passion with
him. He lived for me, always for me, and the good that he would be
able to do in this world."

"Of course he did, darling. No one who knew him could imagine
otherwise for a moment." He hesitated, and then added, "No one else
discovered this man's presence in the house that night? You have told
no one? Not the doctor, or the coroner, or Dr. Franklin?"

"Oh, no; if I had it would have been necessary for me to have told
what I overheard. Besides, it could have had no direct bearing on
daddy's death; that was caused by heart-disease, as you say. But I
believe, and I always will believe, that that man killed father, as
surely, as inevitably, as if he had stabbed or shot or poisoned him!
Why did he come like a thief in the night? Father's integrity, his
honor, were known to all the world. Why did that reference to this
Herbert and his wife cause him such pain?"

"I don't know, dear; I have no more idea than you. If you really,
really overheard that conversation, as you seem convinced you did, you
did well in keeping it to yourself. Let that hour remain buried in
your thoughts, as in your father's grave. Only rest assured that
whatever it is, it casts no stain upon your father's good name or his
memory." He rose and gathered her into his arms. "I must go now,
Anita; I'll come again to-morrow. You are quite sure that you will not
accept my mother's invitation? I really think it would be better for
you."

She looked deeply into his eyes, then drew herself gently from his
clasp. "Not yet. Thank her for me, Ramon, with all my heart, but I
will not leave my father's house just yet, even for a few days. I am
sure that I shall be happier here." He kissed her, and left the room.
She stood where he had left her until she heard the heavy thud of the
front door. Then, turning to the window, she thrust her slim little
hand between the sedately drawn curtains, and waved him a tender
good-by; then with a little sigh, she dropped among the pillows of the
couch, lost in thought.

"Whatever was meant by that conversation which I overheard," she
murmured to herself, "Ramon knows. I read it in his eyes."

The young man, as he made his way down the crowded avenue, was turning
over in his mind the extraordinary story which the girl he loved had
told him.

"What could it mean? Who could the man have been? Surely not Herbert
himself, and yet--oh! why will they not let sleeping dogs lie; why
must that old scandal, that one stain on Pennington Lawton's past have
been brought again to light, and at such a time? I pray God that Anita
never mentions it to anyone else, never learns the truth. By Jove, if
any complications arise from this, there will be only one thing for me
to do. I must call upon the Master Mind."




CHAPTER II

REVELATIONS


For two days Anita wandered wraithlike about the great darkened house.
The thought that Ramon was keeping something from her--that he and her
dead father together had kept a secret which, for some reason, must
not be revealed to her, weighed upon her spirits. Conjectures as to
the unknown intruder on the night of her father's death, and his
possible purpose, flooded her mind to the exclusion of all else.

In the dusk of the winter afternoon she was lying on the couch in her
dressing-room, lost in thought, when Ellen, tapping lightly at the
door, interrupted her reverie.

"The minister, Miss Anita--the Rev. Dr. Franklin--he is in the
drawing-room."

"Oh!" Anita gave a little movement of dismay. "Tell him that I am
suffering from a very severe headache, and gave orders that I was not
to be disturbed by anyone. He means well, Ellen, of course, but he
always depresses me horribly, lately. I don't feel like talking to him
this afternoon."

The maid retired, but returned again almost immediately with a
surprised, half-frightened expression on her usually stolid face.

"Please, Miss Anita, Dr. Franklin says he must see you and at once. He
seems to be excited and he won't take no for an answer."

"Ramon!" Anita cried, springing from the couch with swift apprehension.
"Something has happened to Ramon, and Dr. Franklin has come to tell me.
He may be injured, dead! Ah, God would not do that; He would not take
him from me, too!"

"Don't take on so, Miss Anita, dear," the faithful Ellen murmured, as
she deftly smoothed the girl's hair and rearranged her gown; "the
little man acts more as if he had a fine piece of gossip to pass
on--fidgeting about like an old woman, he is. Begging your pardon,
Miss, I know he is the minister, of course, and I ought to show him
more respect, but he forever reminds me of a fat black pigeon."

The remarks of the privileged old servant fell upon deaf, unheeding
ears. Anita, sobbing softly beneath her breath, flew down to the
drawing-room, where the pompous black-cloaked figure rose at her
entrance. But--was it purely Anita's fancy or had some indefinable
change actually taken place in the manner of her spiritual adviser?
The rather close-set eyes seemed to the girl to gleam somewhat coldly
upon her, and although he took both her hands in his in quick,
fatherly greeting, his hand-clasp appeared all at once to be lacking
in warmth.

"My poor child, my poor Anita!" he began unctuously, but she
interrupted him.

"What is it, Dr. Franklin? Has something happened to Ramon?" she asked
swiftly. "Please tell me! Now, without delay! Don't keep me in
suspense. I can tell by your face, your manner, that a new misfortune
has come to me! Does it concern Ramon?"

"Oh, no; it is not Mr. Hamilton. You need have no fears for him,
Anita. I have come upon a business matter--a matter connected with
your dear father's estate."

Anita motioned him to a chair. Seating herself opposite, she gazed at
him inquiringly.

"The settlement of the estate? Oh, the lawyers are attending to that,
I believe." Anita spoke a little coldly. Had Dr. Franklin come already
to inquire about a possible legacy for St. James'?

She was ashamed of the thought the next moment, when he said gently,
"Yes, but there is something which I must tell you. It has been
requested that I do so. It is a delicate matter to discuss with you,
but surely no one is more fitted to speak to you than I."

"Certainly, Doctor, I understand." She leaned forward eagerly.

"My dear, you know the whole country, the whole world at large, has
always considered your father to have been a man of great wealth."

"Yes. My father's charities alone, as you are aware, unostentatiously
as they were conducted, would have tended to give that impression.
Then his tremendous business interests--"

"Anita, at the moment of your father's death he was far from being the
King of Finance, which the world judged him to be. It is hard for me
to tell you this, but you must know, and you must try to believe that
your Heavenly Father is sending you this added trial for some sure
purpose of His own. Your father died a poor man, Anita. In fact, a
bankrupt." The girl looked up with an incredulous smile.

"Dr. Franklin, who could ever have asked you to come to me with such
an incredible assertion? Surely, you must know how preposterous the
very idea is! I do not boast or brag, but it is common knowledge that
my father was the richest man in the city, in this entire part of the
country, in fact. The thought of such a thing is absurd. Who could
have attempted to perpetrate such a senseless hoax, a ridiculous
insult to your intelligence and mine?"

The minister shook his head slowly.

"'Common knowledge' is, alas, not always trustworthy. It is only too
true that your father stood on the verge of bankruptcy. His entire
fortune has been swept away."

"Impossible!"

Anita started from her chair, impressed in spite of herself. "How
could that be? Who has told you this terrible thing?"

"The unfortunate news was disclosed to me confidentially by your late
father's truest friends and closest associates. Having your best
interests at heart, they feel that you should know the state of
affairs at once, and came to me as the one best fitted to inform
you."

"I cannot believe it!" Anita Lawton sank back with white, strained
face. "I cannot believe that it is true. How could such a thing have
happened? They must be mistaken--those who gave you such information.
Father was worth millions, at least. That I know, for he told me much
of his business affairs and up to the last day of his life he was
engaged in tremendous deals of almost national importance."

"Might he not have become so deeply involved in one of them that he
could not extricate himself, and ruin came?" Dr. Franklin insinuated.
"I know little of finance, of course; and those who wished you to know
gave me none of the details beyond the one paramount fact."

"I know, of course, who were your informants," Anita said. "No one
except my father's three closest associates had any possible
conception of how much he possessed, even approximately, for he was
always secretive and conservative in his dealings. Only to Mr.
Mallowe, Mr. Rockamore and Mr. Carlis did he ever divulge his plans to
the slightest extent. A bankrupt! My father a bankrupt? The very words
seem meaningless to me. Dr. Franklin, there must be some hideous
mistake."

"Unfortunately, it is no mistake, my poor child. These gentlemen you
mention, I may admit to you in confidence, were my informants."

"You say they gave you no details beyond the paramount fact of my
father's ruin? But surely they must have told you something more. I
have a right to know, Dr. Franklin, and I shall not rest until I do.
How did such a catastrophe come to him? There have been no gigantic
failures lately, no panics which could have swept him down. What
terrible mistake could he have made, he whose judgment was almost
infallible?"

The minister hesitated visibly, and when he spoke at last, it was as
if with a conscious effort he chose his words.

"I do not think it was any sudden collapse of some project in which he
was engaged, Anita, but a--a general series of misfortunes which
culminated by forcing him, just before his death, to the brink of
bankruptcy. You are a mere child, my dear, and could not be supposed
to understand matters of finance. If you will be guided by me you will
accept the assurance of your friends who truly have your best
interests at heart. Their statements will be confirmed, I know, by the
lawyers who are engaged in settling up the estate of your father. Do
not, I beg of you, inquire too closely into the details of your
father's insolvency."

Anita rose slowly, her eyes fixed upon the face of the minister, and
with her hands resting upon the chair-back, as if to steady herself,
she asked quietly:

"Why should I not? What is there which I, his daughter, should not
know? Dr. Franklin, there is something behind all this which you are
trying to conceal from me. I knew my father to be a multi-millionaire.
You come and tell me he was a pauper instead, a bankrupt; and I am not
to ask how this state of affairs came about? You have known me since I
was a little girl--surely you understand me well enough to realize
that I shall not rest under such a condition until the whole truth is
revealed to me!"

"I am your friend." The resonance in the minister's voice deepened.
"You will believe me when I tell you that it would be best for your
future, for the honor of your father's memory, to place yourself
without question in the hands of your true friends, and to ask no
details which are not voluntarily given you."

"'Best for my future!'" she repeated, aghast. "'For the honor of my
father's memory.' What do you mean, Dr. Franklin? You have gone too
far not to speak plainly. Do you dare--are you insinuating, that there
was something disgraceful, dishonorable about my father's insolvency?
You have been my spiritual adviser nearly all my life, and when you
tell me that my father was a bankrupt, that the knowledge comes to you
from his best friends and will be corroborated by his attorneys, I am
forced to believe you. But if you attempt to convince me that my
father's honor--his good name--is involved, then I tell you that it is
not true! Either a terrible mistake has been made or a deliberate
conspiracy is on foot--the blackest sort of conspiracy, to defame the
dead!"

"My dear!" The minister raised his hands in shocked amazement. "You
are beside yourself, you don't know what you are saying! I have
repeated to you only that which was told to me, and in practically the
same words. As to the possibility of a conspiracy, you will realize
the absurdity of such an idea when I deliver to you the message with
which I was charged. Your father's partner in many enterprises, the
Honorable Bertie Rockamore, together with President Mallowe, of the
Street Railways, and Mr. Carlis, the great politician, promised some
little time ago that they would stand in _loco parentis_ toward you
should your natural protector be removed. They desire me to tell you
that you need have no anxiety for the immediate future. You will be
cared for and provided with all that you have been accustomed to, just
as if your father were alive."

"Indeed? They are most kind--" Anita spoke quietly enough, but with a
curiously dry, controlled note in her voice which reminded the
minister of her father's tones, and for some inexplicable reason he
felt vaguely uncomfortable. "Please say to them that I do sincerely
appreciate their magnanimity, their charity, toward one who has no
right, legal or moral, to claim protection or care from them. But now,
Dr. Franklin, may I beg that you will forgive me if I retire? The news
you have brought me of course has been a terrible shock. I must have
time to collect my thoughts, to realize the sudden, terrible change
this revelation has made in my whole life. I am deeply grateful to
you, to my father's three associates, but I can say no more now."

"Of course, dear child." Dr. Franklin patted her hand perfunctorily
and arose with ill-concealed relief that the interview was at an end.
He could not understand her attitude of the last few moments and it
troubled him vaguely. She had received the news of her father's
bankruptcy with a girlish horror and incredulousness--which had been
only natural under the circumstances; but when it was borne in upon
her, in as delicate a way as he could convey it, that dishonor was
involved in the matter, she had, after the first outburst, maintained
a stony, ashen self-poise and control that were far from what he had
expected. It was the most disagreeable task he had performed in many a
day and he was heartily glad that it was over. Only his very great
desire to ingratiate himself with these kings of finance, who had
commissioned him to do their bidding, as well as the inclination to be
of real service to his young and orphaned parishioner, had induced him
to undertake the mission.

"You must rest and have an opportunity to adjust yourself to this new,
unfortunate state of affairs," he continued. "I will call again
to-morrow. If I can be of the slightest service to you, do not
hesitate to let me know. It is a sad trial, but our Heavenly Father
has tempered the wind to the shorn lamb; He has provided you with a
protector in young Mr. Hamilton, and with kind, true friends who will
see that no harm or deprivation comes to you. Try to feel that this
added grief and trouble will, in the end, be for the best."

The alacrity with which he took his departure was painfully obvious,
but Anita scarcely noticed it. Her mind was busy with the new, hideous
thought, which had assailed her at that first hint of dishonesty on
the part of her father--the thought that she was being made the victim
of a gigantic conspiracy.

As soon as she found herself alone, she flew to the telephone. "Main,
2785," she demanded.... "Mr. Hamilton, please.... Is that you,
Ramon?... Can you come to me at once? I need your advice and help.
Something has happened--something terrible! No, I cannot tell you over
the 'phone. You will come at once? Yes, good-by, Ramon dear."

She hung up the receiver and paced the floor restlessly. Almost
inconceivable as it had appeared to her consciousness under the first
shock of the announcement, she might in time have come to accept the
astounding fact of her father's insolvency, but that disgrace,
dishonor, could have attached itself to his name--that he, the model
of uprightness, of integrity could have been guilty of crooked
dealing, of something which must for the honor of his memory be kept
secret from the ears of his fellow-men, she could never bring herself
to believe. Every instinct of her nature revolted, and underlying all
her girlish unsophistication, a native shrewdness, inherited perhaps
from her father, bade her distrust alike the worldly, self-interested
pastor of the Church of St. James and the three so-called friends,
who, although her father's associates, had been his rivals, and who
had offered with such astounding magnanimity to stand by her.

Why had they offered to help her? Was it really through tenderness and
affection for her father's daughter, or was it to stay her hand and
close her mouth to all queries?

Why did not Ramon come? Surely he should have been there before this.
What could be detaining him? She tried to be patient, to calm her
seething brain while she waited, but it was no use. Hours passed while
she paced the floor, restlessly, and the dusk settled into the
darkness of early winter. Wilkes came to turn on the lights, but she
refused them--she could think better in the dark. The dinner-hour came
and went and twice Ellen knocked anxiously upon the door, but Anita,
torn with anxiety, would pay no heed. She had telephoned to Ramon's
office, only to find that he had left there immediately upon receiving
her message; to his home--he had not returned.

Nine o'clock sounded in silvery chimes from the clock upon the mantel;
then ten and eleven and at length, just when she felt that she could
endure no more, the front door-bell rang. A well-known step sounded
upon the stairs, and Ramon entered.

With a little gasp of joy and relief she flung herself upon him in the
darkness, but at an involuntary groan from him she recoiled.

"What is it, Ramon? What has happened to you?"

Without waiting for a reply she switched on the light.

Ramon stood before her, his face pale, his eyes dark with pain. One
arm was in a sling and the thick hair upon his forehead barely
concealed a long strip of plaster.

"Nothing really serious, dear. I had a slight accident--run down by a
motor-car, just after leaving the office. My head was cut and I was
rather knocked out, so they took me to a hospital. I would have come
before, but they would not allow me to leave. I knew that you would be
anxious because of my delay in coming, but I feared to add to your
apprehension by telephoning to you from the hospital."

"But your arm--is it sprained?"

"Broken. I had a nasty crash--can't imagine how it was that I didn't
see the car coming in time to avoid it. It was a big limousine with
several men inside, all singing and shouting riotously, and the
chauffeur, I think, must have been drunk, for he swerved the car
directly across the road in my path. They never stopped after they
had bowled me over, and no one seemed to know where they went."

"Then the police did not get their number?"

"No, but they will, of course. Not that I care, particularly; I'm
lucky to have got off as lightly as I did. I might have been killed."

"It was a miracle that you were not, Ramon. Do you know what I
believe? I don't think it was any accident, but a deliberate attempt
to assassinate you; to keep you from coming to me."

"What nonsense, dear! They were a wild, hilarious party, careless and
irresponsible. Such accidents happen every day."

"I am convinced that it was no accident. Ramon, I feel that I am to be
the victim of a conspiracy; that you are the only human being who
stands in the way of my being absolutely in the power of those who
would defraud me and defame father's name."

"Anita, what do you mean?"

"Dr. Franklin called upon me this afternoon; he left just before I
telephoned to you. He told me an astonishing piece of news. Ramon,
would you have considered my father a rich man?"

"What an absurd question, dear! Of course. One of the richest men in
the whole country, as you know."

"You say that he consulted you about his business affairs, and that
you knew of no trouble or difficulty which could have caused him
anxiety? His securities in stocks and bonds, his assets were all
sound?"

"Certainly. What do you mean?"

"I mean that my father died a pauper! That on the word of Mr.
Rockamore, Mr. Mallowe, Mr. Carlis and Dr. Franklin, he was on the
verge of dishonorable bankruptcy, into which I may not inquire."

"Good Heavens, they must be mad! I am sure that your father was at the
zenith of his successful career, and as for dishonor, surely, Anita,
no one who knew him could credit that!"

"Mr. Rockamore and the other two who were so closely associated with
him made a solemn promise to my father shortly before his death, it
seems, that they would care for and provide for me. They sent Dr.
Franklin to me this afternoon to explain the circumstances to me, and
to assure me of their protection. Save for you, they consider me
absolutely in their hands; and when I sent for you, you were almost
killed in the attempt to come to me. Ramon, don't you see, don't you
understand, there is some mystery on foot, some terrible conspiracy?
That unknown visitor, my father's death so soon after, and now this
sudden revelation of his bankruptcy, together with this accident to
you? Ramon, we must have advice and help. I do not believe that my
father was a pauper. I know that he has done nothing dishonorable; I
am convinced that the accident to you was a premeditated attempt at
murder."

"My God! I can't believe it, Anita; I don't know what to think. If it
turns out that there really is something crooked about it all, and
Rockamore and the others are concerned in it, it will be the biggest
conspiracy that was ever hatched in the world of high finance. You
were right, dear, bless your woman's intuition; we must have help.
This matter must be thoroughly investigated. There is only one man in
America to-day, who is capable of carrying it through, successfully. I
shall send at once for the Master Mind."

"The Master Mind?"

"Yes, dear--Henry Blaine, the most eminent detective the English-speaking
world has produced."

"I have heard of him, of course. I think father knew him, did he
not?"

"Yes, on one occasion he was of inestimable service to your father. I
will summon him at once."

Ramon went to the telephone and by good luck found the detective free
for the moment and at his service.

He returned to the girl. She noticed that he reeled slightly in his
walk; that his lips were white and set with pain.

"Ramon, you are ill, suffering. That cut on your head and your poor
arm--"

"It is nothing. I don't mind, Anita darling; it will soon pass. Thank
Heavens, I found Mr. Blaine free. He will get to the truth of this
matter for us even if no one else on earth could. He has brought more
notorious malefactors to justice than any detective of modern times;
fearlessly, he has unearthed political scandals which lay dangerously
close to the highest executives of the land. He cannot be cajoled,
bribed or intimidated; you will be safe in his hands from the
machinations of every scoundrel who ever lived."

"I have read of some of his marvelous exploits, but; what service was
it that he rendered to my father?"

"I--I cannot tell you, dearest. It was very long ago, and a matter
which affected your father solely. Perhaps some time you may learn the
truth of it."

"I may not know! I may not know! Why must I be so hedged in? Why must
everything be kept from me? I feel as if I were living in a maze of
mystery. I must know the truth."

She wrung her hands hysterically, but he soothed her and they talked
in low tones until Wilkes suddenly appeared in the doorway and
announced:

"Mr. Henry Blaine!"




CHAPTER III

HENRY BLAINE TAKES A HAND


A man stood upon the threshold: a man of medium height, with sandy
hair and mustache slightly tinged with gray. His face was alert and
keenly intelligent. His eyes shrewd, but kindly, the brows sloping
downward toward the nose, with the peculiar look of concentration of
one given to quick decisions and instant, fearless action.

His eyes traveled quickly from the young girl's face to Ramon
Hamilton, as the latter advanced with outstretched hand.

"Mr. Blaine, it was fortunate that we found you at liberty and able to
assist us in a matter which is of vital importance to us both. This is
Miss Anita Lawton, daughter of the late Pennington Lawton, who desires
your aid on a most urgent matter."

"Miss Lawton." Mr. Elaine bowed over her hand.

When they were seated she said, shyly: "I understand from Ramon--Mr.
Hamilton--that you were at one time of great service to my father. I
trust that you will be able to help me now, for I feel that I am in
the meshes of a conspiracy. You know that my father died suddenly,
almost a week ago."

"Yes, of course. His death was a great loss to the whole country, Miss
Lawton."

"Something occurred a few hours before his death, of which even the
coroner is unaware, Mr. Blaine. I told Mr. Hamilton what I knew, but
he advised me to say nothing of it, unless further developments
ensued."

"And they have ensued?" the detective asked quietly.

"Yes."

Anita then detailed to Mr. Blaine the incident of her father's
nocturnal visitor. As she told him the conversation she had overheard,
it seemed to her that the eyes of the detective narrowed slightly, but
no other change of expression betrayed the fact that the incident
might have held a significance in his mind.

"The voice was entirely strange to you?" he asked.

"Yes; I have never heard it before, but it made such an impression
upon me that I think I would recognize it instantly whenever or
wherever I might happen to hear it."

"You caught no glimpse of the man through the half-opened door?"

"No, I was not far enough downstairs to see into the room."

"And when you fled, after hearing your father groan, you returned
immediately to your room?"

"Yes. I closed my door and buried my face deeply in the pillows on my
bed. I did not want to hear or know any more. I was frightened; I did
not know what to think. After a time I must have drifted off into an
uneasy sort of sleep, for I knew nothing more until my maid came to
tell me that Wilkes, the butler, wished to speak to me. My father had
been found dead in his chair. No one in the household seemed to know
of my father's late visitor, for they made no mention of his coming. I
would have told no one, except Ramon, but for the fact that this
afternoon my minister informed me that my father, instead of being the
multi-millionaire we had all supposed him, had in reality died a
bankrupt."

The detective received this information with inscrutable calm. Only by
a thoughtful pursing of his lips did he give indication that the news
had any visible effect upon him.

Anita continued, giving him all the details of the minister's visit,
and the magnanimous promise of her father's three associates to stand
in _loco parentis_ toward her.

It was only when she told of summoning her lover, and the accident
which befell him on his way to her, that that peculiar gleam returned
again to the eyes of Mr. Blaine, and they glanced narrowly at the
young man opposite him.

"As I told Ramon, I cannot help but feel that it is not true. My
father could not have become a pauper, much less could he, the soul of
honor, have been guilty of anything derogatory to his good name. Until
a few days prior to his death, he had been in his usual excellent
spirits, and surely had there been any financial difficulties in his
path he would have retrenched, in some measure. He made no effort to
do so, however, and in the last few weeks has given even more
generously than usual to the various philanthropic projects in which
he was so interested. Does that look as if he was on the verge of
bankruptcy? He bought me a string of pearls on my birthday, two months
ago, which for their size are considered by experts to be the most
perfectly matched in America. A fortnight ago, he presented me with a
new car. Only three days before his death he spoke of an ancient
château in France which he had desired to purchase. Oh, the whole
affair is utterly inexplicable to me!"

"We will take the matter up at once, Miss Lawton. The main thing that
I must impress upon you for the present is to acquiesce with the
utmost docility and unsuspicion in every proposition made to you by
the three men, Carlis, Mallowe and Rockamore; in other words, place
yourself absolutely in their hands, but keep me informed of every move
they make. You understand that the most important factor in this case
is to keep them absolutely unsuspecting of your distrust, or that you
have called me to your assistance. I must not be seen coming here or
to Mr. Hamilton's office, nor must you come to mine. I will have a
private wire installed for you to-morrow morning, by means of which
you can communicate with me, or one of my operatives, at any hour of
the day or night, in the presence of anyone. This telephone will
connect only with my office, but the number will be, supposedly, that
of your dressmaker, and if you require aid, advice, or the presence of
one of my operatives, you have merely to call up the number and say:
'Is my gown ready? If it is, please send it around immediately.' Let
me know through this medium whatever occurs, and take absolutely no
one into your confidence."

"I understand, Mr. Blaine; and I will try to follow your instructions
to the letter. Oh, by the way, there is something I wish to tell you,
which no one, not even Mr. Hamilton, knows, much less my father's
friends, or my minister. Four years ago, my father financed a
philanthropic venture of mine, the Anita Lawton Club for Working
Girls. It is not a purely charitable institution, but a home club,
where worthy young women could live by paying a nominal sum--merely to
preserve their self-respect--and be aided in obtaining positions.
Stenographers, telephone and telegraph operators, clerks, all find
homes there. No one knew, however, that under my management, the club
grew in less than a year not only to have paid for itself, but to have
yielded a small income, over and above expenses. I did not tell my
father--I don't know why, perhaps it was because I inherited a little
of his business acumen, but I manipulated the net income in various
minor undertakings, even in time buying small plots of unimproved
real-estate, meaning after a year or two more to surprise my father
with the result of my venture, but his death intervened before I could
tell him about it."

"Your father's associates, then, believe you to be without funds or
private income of your own?" the detective asked.

"Yes, Mr. Blaine. And whatever money is necessary for the investigation,
will, of course, be forthcoming from this source."

"Let me strongly advise you to make no mention of it to anyone
else; let these men believe you to be utterly within their power
financially. And now, Miss Lawton, I will leave you, for I have work
to do." The detective rose. "The private wire will be installed
to-morrow morning. Remember to be absolutely unsuspicious, to appear
deeply grateful for the kindness offered you; receive these men
and your spiritual adviser whenever they call, and above all, keep me
informed of everything that occurs, no matter how insignificant or
irrelevant it may seem to you to be. Keep me advised on even the
smallest details--anything, everything concerning you and them."

Thus it was, that when two days later, President Mallowe of the
Street Railways, called upon his new ward, she received him with
downcast eyes, and a charmingly deferential manner. His long-nosed,
heavy-jowled face, with the bristling gray side-whiskers, flushed
darkly when she placed her trembling little hand in his and shyly
voiced her gratitude for his great kindness to her.

"My dear young lady, this has been a most sad and unfortunate affair,
but I have come to assure you again of the sentiments of myself and my
associates toward you. We come, your self-appointed guardians; we will
see that no financial worriments shall come to you. Remember, my dear,
that I have three married daughters of my own, and I could not permit
the child of my old friend to want for anything. You may remain on
here in this house, which has been your home, indefinitely, and it
will be maintained for you in the manner to which you have always been
accustomed."

"Remain here in my home?" Anita stammered. "Why it--it is my home,
isn't it?"

"You must consider it as such. I do not like to tell you this, but it
is necessary that you should know. I hold a mortgage of eighty
thousand dollars on the house, but I have never recorded it, because
of my friendship and close affiliation with your father. I shall not
have it recorded now, of course, but there is a slight condition,
purely a matter of business, which in view of the fact that through
your coming marriage you will have a home of your own, Mr. Rockamore,
Mr. Carlis and myself, feel that we should agree upon. Your father has
a shadowy interest in some old bonds which have for years been
unremunerative. Should they prove of ultimate value, we feel that they
should be transferred to us as our reimbursement for the present large
sum which we shall lay out for you."

"Of course, Mr. Mallowe. That would only be just. I am glad that I may
perhaps have an opportunity to repay some of the kindness which in
your great-hearted charity, you are now bestowing upon me. I will see
that my father's attorneys attend to the matter, as soon as possible.
It may be some little time before the estate is settled, as of course
it must be horribly complicated and involved, but I will bring this to
their immediate attention."

"You are a very brave young woman, Miss Lawton, and I am glad that you
are taking such a clear-sighted view of this double catastrophe which
has come upon you. Ah, I had almost forgotten; here is a duplicate of
the mortgage which I hold upon this house, which your father made out
to me some months ago."

Anita scarcely glanced at it, but laid it quietly by upon the table,
as though it were of small interest to her.

"Mr. Mallowe, although I understand that Mr. Rockamore, being a
promoter, was more closely associated with my father in various
projects than you, I believe that he always considered you his best
friend. Can you tell me what it was which brought my father's affairs
to such a pass as this?"

"Dear young lady, do not ask me. It is a painful subject to discuss,
and as you are a mere child, you cannot be supposed to understand the
financial manoeuvres of a man of your father's passion for gigantic
operations. Years of success had possibly made him overconfident; and
then you know, we are none of us infallible; we are liable to make
mistakes, at one time or another. Your father interested himself
daringly in many schemes which we more conservative ones would have
hesitated to enter; indeed, we not only hesitated, but repeatedly
declined when your father placed the propositions before us. As you
know, unfortunately, he was a man who would have resented any attempt
at advice, and although for a long time we have seen his approaching
financial downfall, and have helped him in every way we could to avert
it, he would not relinquish his plans while there was yet time. Do not
ask me to go into any further details. It is really most distressing.
Your father's attorneys will understand the matter fully when the
estate is finally settled."

"I cannot understand it," Anita murmured. "I thought my father's
judgment almost infallible. However, Mr. Mallowe, I cannot express my
gratitude to you and my father's other associates for your great
kindness toward me. Believe me, I am deeply affected by it. I shall
never forget what you have done."

"Do not speak of it, dear Miss Lawton. I only wish for your sake that
your poor father had heeded poorer heads than his, but it is too late
to speak of that now. We will do all in our power to aid you, rest
assured of that. Should you require anything, you have only to call
upon Mr. Rockamore, Mr. Carlis or myself."

When he had bowed himself out, Anita flew to the table, seized the
duplicate of the mortgage which he had given her, and slipped it
between the pages of a book lying there. Then she went directly to her
dressing-room where on a little stand near her bed reposed a telephone
instrument which had not been there three days previously.

"Grosvenor 0760," she demanded, and when a voice replied to her at the
other end of the wire, she asked querulously, "Is not my new gown
ready yet? If it is, will you kindly send it over at once? I have also
found your last quarterly bill, and I think there is something wrong
with it. I will send it back by the messenger, who brings my gown.
Thank you; good-by."

She took an envelope from the desk and returning to the drawing-room
slipped the duplicate mortgage within it and sealed it carefully.

When, a few minutes later, a tall, dark, stolid-faced young man
appeared, with a large dressmaker's box, she placed the envelope in
his hand.

"For Mr. Blaine," she whispered. "See that it reaches him immediately."

A half hour afterward, Ramon Hamilton went to the telephone in his
office, and heard the detective's voice over the wire.

"Mr. Hamilton, have you among the letters and documents at your office
the signature of the person we were discussing the other day?"

"Why, yes, I think so. I will look and see. If I have do you wish me
to send it around to you?"

"No, thank you. A messenger boy will call for it in a few minutes."

Wondering, Ramon Hamilton shuffled hastily through the paper in the
pigeon-holes of his desk until he came to a letter from Pennington
Lawton. He carefully tore off the signature, and when the messenger
boy appeared, gave it to him. He would not have been so puzzled, had
he seen the great Henry Blaine, when a few minutes had elapsed, seated
before the desk in his office, comparing the signature of the torn
slip which he had sent with that affixed to the duplicate mortgage.

A long, close, breathless scrutiny, with the most powerful magnifying
glasses, and the detective jumped to his feet.

"That's no signature of Pennington Lawton," he exulted to himself. "I
thought I knew that fine hand, perfectly as the forgery has been done.
That's the work of James Brunell, by the Lord!"




CHAPTER IV

THE SEARCH


Henry Blaine, the man of decision, wasted no time in vain thought.
Instantly, upon his discovery that the signature of Pennington Lawton
had been forged, and that it had been done by an old and well-known
offender, he touched the bell on his desk, which brought his
confidential secretary.

"Has Guy Morrow returned yet from that blackmail case in Denver?"

"Yes, sir. He's in his private office now, making out his report to
you."

A moment later, there entered a tall, dark young man, strong and
muscular in build, but not apparently heavy, with a smooth face and
firm-set jaw.

"I haven't finished my report yet, sir--"

"The report can wait. You remember James Brunell, the forger?"

"James Brunell?" Morrow repeated. "He was before my time, of course,
but I've heard of him and his exploits. Pretty slick article, wasn't
he! I understand he has been dead for years--at least nothing has been
heard of his activities since I have been in the sleuth game."

"Did you ever hear of any of his associates?"

"I can't say that I have, sir, except Crimmins and Dolan; Crimmins
died in San Quentin before his time was up; Dolan after his release
went to Japan."

"I want to find Brunell. His closest associate was Walter Pennold. I
think Pennold is living somewhere in Brooklyn, and through him you may
be able to locate Brunell--"

Morrow shrugged his shoulders.

"A retired crook in the suburbs. That's going to take time."

"Not the way we'll work it. Listen."

The next morning, a tall, dark young man, strong and muscular in
build, with a smooth face and firm-set jaw, appeared at the Bank of
Brooklyn & Queens, and was immediately installed as a clerk, after a
private interview with the vice-president.

His fellow clerks looked at him askance at first, for they knew there
had been no vacancy, and there was a long waiting list ahead of him,
but the young man bore himself with such a quiet, modest air of
_camaraderie_ about him that by the noon hour they had quite accepted
him as one of themselves.

During the morning a package came to the bank and a letter which read
in part:

    ... I am returning these securities to you in the hope that
    you may be able to place them in the possession of Jimmy
    Brunell. They belong to him, and my conscience is responsible
    for their return. I don't know where to find him. I do know
    that at one time he did some banking at the Brooklyn & Queens
    Institution. If he does not do so now, kindly hold these
    securities for Jimmy Brunell until called for, and in the
    meantime see Walter Pennold of Brooklyn.

With the package and letter came a request from Henry Blaine which
those in power at the Brooklyn & Queens Bank were only too glad to
accede to, in order to ingratiate themselves with the great
investigator.

In accordance with this request, therefore, the affair was made known
by the bank-officials to the clerks as a matter of long standing
which had only just been rediscovered in an old vault, and the
subordinates discussed it among themselves with the gusto of those
whose lives were bounded by gilt cages, and circumscribed by rules of
silence. It was not unusual, therefore, that the new clerk, Alfred
Hicks, should have heard of it, but it was unusual that he should find
it expedient to make a detour on his way to work the next morning
which would take him to the gate of Walter Pennold's modest home.
Perhaps the fact that Alfred Hicks' real name was Guy Morrow and that
a letter received early that morning from Henry Blaine's office,
giving Pennold's address and a single line of instruction may have had
much to do with his matutinal visit.

Be that as it may, Morrow, the dapper young bank-clerk, found in the
Pennold household a grizzled, middle-aged man, with shifty,
suspicious eyes and a moist hand-clasp; behind him appeared a
shrewish, thin-haired wife who eyed the intruder from the first
with ill-concealed animosity.

He smiled--that frank, winning smile which had helped to land more men
behind the bars than the astuteness of many of his seniors--and said:
"I'm a clerk in the Brooklyn & Queens Bank, Mr. Pennold, and we have a
box of securities there evidently belonging to one Jimmy Brunell. No
one knows anything about it and no note came with it except a line
which read: 'Hold for Jim Brunell. See Walter Pennold of Brooklyn.'
Now you're the only Walter Pennold who banks with the B. & Q. and I
thought you might like to know about it. There are over two hundred
thousand dollars in securities and they have evidently been left there
by somebody as conscience-money. You can go to the bank and see the
people about it, of course. In fact, I understand they are going to
write you a letter concerning it, but I thought you might like to know
of it in advance. In case this Mr. Brunell is alive, they will pay him
the money on demand, or if dead, to his heirs after him."

The middle-aged man with the shifty eyes spat cautiously, and then,
rubbing his stubby chin with a hairy, freckled hand, observed:

"Well, young man, I'm Pennold, all right. I do some business with the
Brooklyn & Queens people--small business, of course, for we poor
honest folk haven't the money to put in finance that the big
stock-holders have. I don't know where you can find this man Brunell,
haven't heard of him in years, but I understand he went wrong. Ain't
that so, Mame?"

The hatchet-faced woman nodded her head in slow and non-committal
thought.

Pennold edged a little nearer his unknown guest and asked in a tone of
would-be heartiness. "And what might your name be? You're a
bright-looking feller to be a bank-clerk--not the stolid, plodding
kind."

Morrow chuckled again.

"My name is Hicks. I live at 46 Jefferson Place. It's only a little
way from here, you know." He swung his lunch-box nonchalantly. "Of
course, bank-clerking don't get you anywhere, but it's steady, such as
it is, and I go out with the boys a lot." He added confidentially:
"The ponies are still running, you know, even if the betting-ring is
closed--and there are other ways--" He paused significantly.

"I see, a sport, eh?" Pennold darted a quick glance at his wife.
"Well, don't let it get the best of you, young feller. Remember what I
told you about Jimmy Brunell--at least, what the report of him was. If
I hear anything of where he is, I'll let the bank know."

"I'll be getting on; I'm late now--" Morrow paused on the bottom step
of the little porch and turned. "See you again, Mr. Pennold, and your
wife, if you'll let me. I pass by here often--I've been boarding with
Mrs. Lindsay, on Jefferson Place, for some time now. By the way, have
you seen the sporting page of the _Gazette_ this morning? Al Goetz
edits it, you know, and he gives you the straight dope. There'll be
nothing to that fight they're pulling off Saturday night at the Zucker
Athletic Club--Hennessey'll put it all over Schnabel in the first
round. Good-by! If you hear anything of this Brunell, be sure you let
me or the bank know!"

For a long moment after his buoyant stride had carried him out of
sight around the corner, Walter Pennold and his wife sat in thoughtful
silence. Then the woman spoke.

"What d'ye think of it all, Wally?"

"Dunno." The gentleman addressed drew from his pocket a blackened,
odoriferous pipe and sucked upon it. "Must be some lay, of course.
I'll go up to the bank and find out what I can, but I don't think that
young feller, Hicks, is in on it. I've been in the game for forty
years, and if I'm a judge, he's no 'tec. Fool kid spendin' more'n he
earns and out for what coin he can grab. I'll look up that landlady of
his, too, Mame; and if he's on the level there, and at the bank--"

"And if those securities are at the bank, he ought to be willin' to
come in with us on a share," the wife supplemented shrewdly. "But it
seems like some kind of a gag to me. You knew all Jimmy Brunell's jobs
till he got religion or somethin', and turned honest--I can't think of
any old crook who'd turn over that money to him, two hundred thousand
cold, because his conscience hurt him, can you? You know, too, how
decent and respectable Jimmy's been livin' all these years, putting up
a front for the sake of that daughter of his; suppose this was a
put-up game to catch him--what do the bulls want him for?"

"I ain't no mind-reader. I'll look up this business of securities, and
then if the young feller's talked straight, we'll try to work it
through him, if we can get to him, and I guess we can, so long as I
ain't lost the gift of the gab in twenty years. We'll be as good,
sorrowing heirs as ever Jimmy Brunell could find anywheres."

Before Walter Pennold could reach the bank, however, an unimpeachably
official letter arrived from that institution, confirming the news
imparted by the bank-clerk concerning the securities left for James
Brunell. Pennold, going to the bank ostensibly to assure those in
authority there of his cordial willingness to assist in the search for
the heir, incidentally assured himself of Alfred Hicks' seemingly
legitimate occupation. A later visit to Mrs. Lindsay of 46 Jefferson
Place convinced him that the young man had lived there for some months
and was as generous, open-handed, easy-going a boarder as that
excellent woman had ever taken into her house. Just what price was
paid by Henry Blaine to Mrs. Lindsay for that statement is immaterial
to this narrative, but it suffices that Walter Pennold returned to the
sharp-tongued wife of his bosom with only one obstacle in his thoughts
between himself and a goodly share of the coveted two hundred thousand
dollars.

That obstacle was an extremely healthy fear of Jimmy Brunell. It was
true that there had been no connection between them in years, but he
remembered Jimmy's attitude toward the "snitcher," as well as toward
the man who "held out" on his pals; and behind his cupidity was a
lurking caution which was made manifest when he walked into the
kitchen and found Mrs. Pennold with her shriveled arms immersed in the
washtub.

"Say, Mame, the young feller, Hicks, is all right, and so is the bank;
but how about Jimmy himself? If I can fix the young feller, and we can
pull it off with the bank, that's all well and good. But s'pose Jimmy
should hear of it? Know what would happen to us, don't you?"

"If he ain't heard of them securities all this time they've been lyin'
forgotten in the bank, it's safe he won't hear of 'em now unless you
tell him," retorted his shrewder half, dryly. "Of course, if he's
lived straight, as he has for near twenty years as far as we know, and
he finds it out, he'll grab everything for himself. Why shouldn't he?
But s'pose the bulls are after him for somethin', and the bank's
hood-winked as well as us, where are we if we mix up in this? Tell me
that!"

"There's another side of it, too, Mame."

Pennold walked to the window, and regarded the sordid lines of washed
clothes contemplatively. "What if Jimmy has been up to somethin' on
the quiet, that the bulls ain't on to, and this bunch of securities is
on the level? If I went to him on the square, and offered him a
percentage to play dead, wouldn't he be ready and willin' to divide?"

"Of course he would; he's no fool," returned Mrs. Pennold shortly.
"But let me tell you, Wally, I don't like the look of that 'See Walter
Pennold of Brooklyn,' on the note in the bank. S'pose they was trying
to trace him through us?"

"You're talkin' like a blame' fool, Mame. Them securities has been
there for years, forgotten. Everybody knows that me and Brunell was
pals in the old days, but no one's got nothin' on us now, and he give
up the game years ago."

"How d'you know he did?" persisted his wife doggedly. "That's what you
better find out, but you've gotter be careful about it, in case this
whole thing should be a plant."

"You don't have to tell me!" Pennold grumbled. "I'll write him first
and then wait a few days, and if anyone's tailing me in the meantime,
they'll have a run for their money."

"Write him!"

"Of course. You may have forgotten the old cipher, but I haven't. You
know yourself we invented it, Jimmy and me, and the police tried their
level best to get on to it, but failed."

"You can't address it in cipher, and if you're tailed you won't get a
chance to mail it, Wally. Better wait and try to see him without
writing."

For answer Pennold opened a drawer in the table, drew forth a grimy
sheet of paper and an envelope, and bent laboriously to his task. It
was long past dusk when he had finished, and tossed the paper across
the table for his wife's perusal. This is what she saw:

[Illustration: An image of a coded message is shown here in the text.]

When she had gazed long at the characters, she shook her head at him,
and a slow smile came over her face.

"You've forgotten a little yourself, Wally. You made a mistake in the
_k_."

He glanced half-incredulously at it, and then laid his huge, rough
hand on her thin hair in the first caress he had given her in years.

"By God, old girl, you're a smart one! You're right. Now listen.
You've got to do the rest for me, the hardest part. Mail it."

"How? If we're tailed--"

"There'll be only one on the job, if we are, and I'll keep him busy
to-morrow morning. You go to the market as usual, then go into that
big department store, Ahearn & McManus'. There's a mail chute there,
next the notion counter on the ground floor. Buy a spool of thread or
somethin', and while you're waitin' for change, drop the letter in the
box. You used to be pretty slick in department stores, Mame--"

"Smoothest shoplifter in New York until I got palsy!" she interrupted
proudly, an unaccustomed glow on her sallow face. "I'll do it, Wally;
I know I can!"

The next morning Alfred Hicks was a little late in getting to his work
at the bank--so late, in fact, that he had only time to wave a cordial
greeting to his new friends in their cages as he passed. He paused,
however, that evening, with a pot of flowering bloom for Mrs.
Pennold's dingy, not over-clean window-sill, and a packet of tobacco
which he shared generously with his host. He talked much, with the
garrulous self-confidence of youth, but did not mention the matter of
the securities, and left the crafty couple completely disarmed.

Neither on entering nor leaving did Hicks appear to notice a short,
swarthy figure loitering in the shadow of a dejected-looking ailanthus
tree near the corner. It would have appeared curious, therefore, that
the lurking figure followed the bank-clerk almost to his lodgings, had
it not been for the fact that just before Jefferson Place was reached
the figure sidled up to Hicks' side and whispered:

"No news yet, Morrow. Pennold went this morning to old Loui the
Grabber and tried to borrow money from him, but didn't get it. I heard
the whole talk. Then he went to Tanbark Pete's and got a ten-spot.
After that, he divided his time between two saloons, where he played
dominoes and pinochle, and his own house. I've got to report to H. B.
when I'm sure the subject is safe for the night. Have you found
anything yet?"

"Only that I've got him on the run. If he knows where our man is,
Suraci, he'll go after him in a day or two. Meantime, tell H. B., in
case I don't get a chance to let him know, that the securities stunt
went, all right, and my end of it is O. K."

The next day, and the following, Pennold did indeed set for the young
Italian detective a swift pace. He departed upon long rambles, which
started briskly and ended aimlessly; he called upon harmless and
tedious acquaintances, from Jamaica to Fordham; he went--apparently
and ostentatiously to look for a position as janitor--to many
office-buildings in lower Manhattan, which he invariably entered and
left by different doors. In the evenings he sat blandly upon his own
stoop, smoking and chatting amiably if monosyllabically with his wife
and their new-found friend, Alfred Hicks, while his indefatigable
shadow glowered apparently unnoticed from the gloom of the ailanthus
tree.

On Thursday morning, however, Pennold betook himself leisurely to the
nearest subway station, and there the real trial of strength between
him and his unseen antagonist began. From the Brooklyn Bridge station
he rode to the Grand Central; then with a speed which belied his
physical appearance, he raced across the bridge to the downtown
platform, and caught a train for Fourteenth Street. There he swiftly
turned north to Seventy-second Street--then to the Grand Central,
again to Ninety-sixth, and so on, doubling from station to station
until finally he felt that he must be entirely secure from pursuit.

He alighted at length at a station far up in the Bronx, and after
looking carefully about he started off toward the west, where the
mushroom growth of the new city sprang up in rows of rococo brick and
stone houses with oases of green fields and open lots between. He
turned up a little lane of tiny frame houses, each set in its trim
garden, and stopped at the fourth cottage.

With a last furtive backward glance, Pennold mounted the steps and
rang the bell nervously. The door was opened from within so suddenly
that it seemed as if the man who faced his visitor on the threshold
must have been awaiting the summons. He stepped quickly out, shutting
the door behind him, and for a short space the two stood talking in
low tones--Pennold eagerly, insistently, the other man evasively,
slowly, as if choosing his words with care. He was as erect as Pennold
was shambling and stoop-shouldered, and although gray and lined of
features, his eyes were clear and more steady, his chin more firm, his
whole bearing more elastic and forceful.

He did not invite his visitor to enter, and the colloquy between them
was brief. It was significant that they did not shake hands, but
parted with a brief though not unfriendly nod. The tall man turned and
re-entered his house, closing the door again behind him, while
Pennold scuttled away, without a farewell glance. It might have been
well had he looked once more over his shoulder, for there, crouching
against the veranda rail where he had managed to overhear the last of
the conversation, was that short, swarthy figure which had followed so
indefatigably on his trail for three days--which had clung to him,
closely but unseen, through all his devious journey of that morning.
Suraci had not failed.

He tailed Pennold to his home, then went in person with his report to
the great Blaine himself, who heard him through in silence, and then
brought his mighty fist down upon his desk with a blow which made the
massive bronze ink-well quiver.

"That's our man! You've got him, Suraci. Good work! Now wait a little;
I want you to take some instructions yourself over to Morrow."

The next day the Pennolds missed the cheery greeting of their new
friend, the bank-clerk. Since the acquaintanceship had been so
recently formed, it was odd that they should have been as deeply
concerned over his defection as they were. They said little that
evening, but when his absence continued the second day, Pennold
himself ambled down to the Brooklyn & Queens Bank and reluctantly
deposited twenty dollars, merely for the pleasure of a chat with young
Hicks. The latter's cheery face failed to greet him, however, within
its portals, and a craftily worded inquiry merely elicited the
information that he was no longer connected with that institution.

"What do you make of it, Mame?" he asked anxiously of his wife when he
reached home. His step was more shambling than ever, and his hands,
clutching his hat-brim, trembled more than her gnarled, palsied ones.

"I'll tell you what I think when I've been around to Mrs. Lindsay's
this afternoon--to 46 Jefferson Place."

"What're you goin' to do there? You can't ask for him, very well,"
objected her spouse.

"Do?" she retorted tartly. "What would I do in a boarding-house? Look
for rooms for us, of course, and inquire about the other lodgers to be
sure it's respectable for a decent, middle-aged, married couple. Do
you think I'm goin' lookin' for a long-lost son? The life must be
gettin' you at last, Wally! Your head ain't what it used to be."

But Mrs. Pennold's vaunted astuteness gained her little knowledge
which could be of value to her in their late acquaintance. Mrs.
Lindsay was a beetle-browed, enormously stout old lady, with a stern
eye and commanding presence, who looked as if in her younger days she
might well have been a police-matron--as indeed she had been. She had
two double rooms and a single hall bedroom to show for inspection, and
she waxed surprisingly voluble concerning the vacancy of the latter,
at the first tentative mention of her other lodgers, by her visitor.

"As nice a young man as ever you'd wish to see, ma'am. I don't have
none but the most refined people in my house. Lived with me a year and
a half, Mr. Hicks did, except for his vacation--regular as clockwork
in his bills, and free and open-handed with his tips to Delia. Of
course, he wasn't just what you might call steady in his goings-out
and comings-in, but there never was nothin' objectionable in his
habits. You know what young men is! He had a fine position in a bank
here in Brooklyn, but I don't think the company he kep' was all that
it might have been. Kind of flashy and sporty, his friends was, and I
guess that's what got him into trouble. For trouble he was in, ma'am,
when he paid me yesterday in full even to the shavin' mug which I'd
bought for his dresser, and meant him to keep for a present--and
picked up bag and baggage and left. I always did think Friday was an
unlucky day! He stood in the vestibule and shook both my hands, and
there wasn't a dry eye in his head or mine!

"'Mis' Lindsay!' he says to me, just like I'm tellin' it to you. 'Mis'
Lindsay, I can't stay here no longer. I wisht to heavings I could, for
you've given me a real home,' he says, 'but I'm not at the bank no
more, and I'm going away. I'm in trouble!' he says. 'I needn't tell
you where I'm goin' for I ain't got a friend who'll ask after me or
care, but I just want to thank you for all your kindness to me, an' to
ask you to accept this present, and give this dollar-bill to Delia,
when she comes in from the fish-store.'

"This is what he give me as a present, ma'am!" Mrs. Lindsay pointed
dramatically to a German silver brooch set with a doubtful garnet, at
her throat. "And I was so broke up over it all, that I forgot and give
Delia the whole dollar, instead of just a quarter, like I should've
done. I s'pose I'd ought to write to his folks, but I don't know where
they are. He comes from up-State somewheres, and I never was one to
pry in a boarder's letters or bureau-drawers. I'm just worried sick
about it all!"

Mrs. Lindsay would have made a superb actress.

When the interview was at an end and Mrs. Pennold had rejoined her
husband, they discussed the disappearance of Alfred Hicks from every
standpoint and came finally to the conclusion that the young
bank-clerk's sporting proclivities had brought him to ruin.

Meanwhile, in a modest cottage in Meadow Lane, in the Bronx, a small
card reading "Room to Let" had been removed from the bay window, and
just behind its curtains a young man sat, his eyes fastened upon the
house across the way--the fourth from the end of the line. He was a
tall, dark young man with a smooth face and firm-set jaw, and his new
land-lady knew him as Guy Morrow.

All at once, as he sat watching, the door of the cottage opened, and a
girl came out. There was nothing remarkable about her; she was quite a
common type of girl: slender, not too tall, with a wealth of red-brown
hair and soft hazel eyes; yet there was something about her which made
Guy Morrow catch his breath; and throwing caution to the winds, he
parted the curtains and leaned forward, looking down upon her. As she
reached the gate, his gaze drew hers, and she lifted her gentle eyes
and looked into his.

Then her lids drooped swiftly; a faint flush tinged her delicate face,
and with lowered head she walked quickly on.

Guy Morrow sank back in his chair, and after the warm glow which had
surged up so suddenly within him, a chill crept about his heart. What
could that slender, brown-haired, clear-eyed girl be to the man he had
been sent to spy upon--to Jimmy Brunell, the forger?




CHAPTER V

THE WILL


Henry Blaine sat in his office, leisurely turning over the pages of a
morning newspaper; his attitude was one of apparent idleness, but the
occasional swift glances he darted at the clock and a slight lifting
of his eyebrows at the least sound from without betokened the fact
that he was waiting for some one or something.

His eyes scanned the columns of each page with seeming carelessness,
yet their keen glances missed not one significant phrase. And suddenly
his gaze was transfixed by a paragraph tucked away in a corner of the
second page.

It was merely an account of trouble between capital and labor in a
distant manufacturing city, and a hint of an organized strike which
threatened for the immediate future. The great detective was not at
all a politician, and the social and economic conditions of the day
held no greater import for him than for any other conscientious,
far-seeing citizen of the country, yet he sat for a long moment with
wrinkled brow and pursed lips, musing, while the newspaper dropped
unheeded upon the desk.

His reverie was suddenly interrupted by the sharp, insistent tinkling
of the telephone; a clear, girlish voice came to him over the wire:

"Is this Grosvenor 0760? This is Miss Lawton speaking. An alteration
must be made at once in that last gown you sent me, and it is
imperative that I see you in person concerning it. It will be
inconvenient for me to have you come here this morning. Where shall I
see you? At your establishment or--"

She paused suggestively, and he replied with a hurried question.

"It is absolutely necessary, Miss Lawton, that you see me in person?
You are quite sure?"

"Absolutely." Her voice held a ring of earnestness and something more
which caused him to jump to a lightning-like decision.

"Very well. I will meet you in twenty minutes at your Working Girls'
Club. I am an architect, remember, and you wish to build a new and
more improved institution of the same order on another site.
Therefore, you have met me there to show me over the old building and
suggest changes in its plans for the new one. You understand, Miss
Lawton? My name is Banks, remember, and--be a few minutes late."

"I understand perfectly. Thank you. Good-by."

The receiver at the other end of the line clicked abruptly, and the
detective sprang to his feet.

A quarter of an hour later Blaine presented himself at the Anita
Lawton Club, where a trim maid ushered him into a tiny office. There,
behind the desk, sat a girl, and at sight of her, the detective,
master of himself as he was, gave an imperceptible start.

There was nothing remarkable about her; she was quite a common type of
girl: slender, not too tall, with a wealth of red-brown hair, and soft
hazel eyes; yet she reminded Blaine vaguely but insistently of some
one else--some one whom he had encountered in the past.

He recovered himself at once, and presented the card which announced
him as the senior member of the firm of Banks and Frost, architects.

"Whom did you wish to see, sir?" The girl turned slowly about in her
swivel chair and regarded him respectfully but coolly. Her voice was
low and gentle and distinctly feminine, yet it brought to him again
that haunting sense of resemblance which the first vision of her had
caused.

"Miss Lawton," he replied, quietly.

"But Miss Lawton is not here." The girl's surprise was unfeigned.

"I have an appointment to meet her here at this time. She may perhaps
have been detained. She has arranged to go over the club building with
me. As you see by my card, I am an architect and she is planning more
extensive work, I believe, along the lines instituted here--at least
that is the impression she has given my firm. I will wait a short
time, if I may. You are connected with the official work of the
club?"

"I am the secretary." The girl paused and then added, "I understand
perfectly, sir. Will you be seated, please? Miss Lawton had not told
me of her appointment here with you. She will without doubt arrive
shortly."

Henry Blaine seated himself, and as she started to turn back to her
desk, he asked quickly:

"You must find the work here very interesting, do you not? We--our
firm--have erected several philanthropic institutions of learning and
recreation, but none precisely on this order. Miss Lawton has shown us
the plans of this present club and we consider the arrangement of the
dormitories particularly ingenious, with regard to economy of space
and the requisite sunlight and air."

"Oh, yes!" The girl turned toward him swiftly, her face suffused with
interest. "Miss Lawton drew all the plans herself, and they were not
changed in the least. I don't see how they could possibly be improved
upon. Miss Lawton has done splendid work here, sir; the club has been
a wonderful success since it was first opened."

"It must have been." The detective paused, then added easily, "I know
that her late father was very proud of her executive ability.
You--er--you educate young women here, do you not, and train them for
positions?"

"We not only train the members of the club, but obtain positions for
them, with reputable business firms," the girl answered.

"Indeed?" Blaine asked, with apparent surprise. "What sort of
positions do the members of your club fill?"

"Whatever they are capable of acquiring a working knowledge of.
Filing clerks, stenographers, secretaries, switchboard operators,
telegraphers, even governesses. We have never had a failure, and I
think it is because Miss Lawton gives not only her personal
attention, but real love and faith to each girl. She is--wonderful."

The face of the young woman was rapt as she spoke, and Blaine could
guess without further explanation that she herself was a protégée of
Miss Lawton's, and a grateful one--unless she were playing a part. If
so, she was an actress of transcendent ability.

"You say that you have never had a failure. That must, indeed, be
encouraging," Blaine remarked, tentatively. "Perhaps we might arrange
later with you or Miss Lawton to place one or two of your clerks or
stenographers. We are enlarging our offices--"

"Good morning!" a fresh young voice interrupted him, and Anita Lawton
stood upon the threshold. "Did Mr. Banks come yet?--ah, yes, I see.
How do you do?"

Blaine arose, and Anita gave him her hand cordially. His quick eyes
observed that in passing she patted the shoulder of her secretary
affectionately, and the girl looked up at her quickly, with eyes
aglow. The truth was no longer concealed from his discernment. The
girl was staunch in every fiber of her being.

"Miss Lawton, I am sorry, but I have really not any too much time this
morning. If we could proceed to business at once."

"Certainly. If you will come this way, Mr. Banks--" At the door she
paused, and turned to the secretary: "I will see you later, dear."

Anita led the detective swiftly through the wide, clean halls and up
the stairs, explaining in clear, distinct tones the floor-plan. On the
second floor she opened the door leading into a little ante-room at
the front of the house just over the office, and when they were
seated, she said quickly, with rising excitement, although her voice
was carefully hushed.

"Mr. Bl--Banks, I have something to show you--my father's will! It was
discovered, or rather, produced, yesterday. The lawyers who have
charge of the estate--Anderson & Wallace, you know--seem to me to be
perfectly disinterested, and honest, but I am so hedged in on every
hand by a stifling feeling of deceit and treachery that I feel I can
trust no one save you and Mr. Hamilton--not even poor old Ellen, my
maid, who has been with me since I was born!"

"I quite understand, Miss Lawton, and I realize how difficult the
situation is for you, but I want you to trust no one--at least, to
the extent of giving them your confidence. Now about the will; it was
produced by your late father's attorneys?"

"No, by President Mallowe, of the Street Railways. It appears that
Father left it in his charge. Mr. Anderson drew it; his partner, Mr.
Wallace, witnessed it; and they both assure me that it is absolutely
authentic. Here it is."

She opened her bag and handed a long envelope to him, but at first his
attention was held by what she had said, and he frowned as he repeated
quickly:

"'Authentic?' I trust you did not show any suspicion that you doubted
for a moment that it was genuine?"

"Oh, by no means! It was Mr. Anderson himself who took especial pains
to assure me of its authenticity."

Blaine regarded the envelope reflectively for a moment before he
raised the flap. Why had the attorney considered it necessary to
assure his late client's daughter that the will which he had himself
drawn was genuine?

The will was short and to the point. In it Pennington Lawton left
everything of which he died possessed to his daughter, unconditionally
and without reservation.

"Of course, Miss Lawton, since you are only twenty, and your father
has named no guardian or trustee, the courts will at once appoint one,
and I have no hesitation in saying that I believe the guardian so
appointed will be one of your father's three associates, presumably
Mr. Mallowe. However, that will make little difference in our
investigation, and, since it is claimed that all your father's huge
fortune is lost, the matter of a guardian cannot tie our hands in any
way. Now, just a moment, please."

He drew from his pocket a small but powerful magnifying glass and the
slip of paper which Ramon Hamilton had sent him, on which was the
signature of the late Pennington Lawton. Through the microscope he
carefully compared it with that affixed to the will and then looked up
reassuringly.

"It is quite all right, Miss Lawton. In my estimation the will is
authentic and your father's signature genuine." He folded the paper,
slipped it in its envelope and returned it to her. "There is one thing
now which I must most earnestly caution you against. Do not sign any
paper, no matter who wishes it or orders it--no matter if it is the
most trivial household receipt. Do not write any letters yourself, or
notes to any one, even to Mr. Hamilton; you understand they might be
intercepted. If anyone wishes you to sign a paper relating to the
matter of your father's estate, say you cannot do so until you have
shown it in private to Mr. Hamilton--that you have promised you will
not do so. Any other papers you can easily evade signing. As for your
private correspondence, obtain a social secretary, and permit her to
sign everything--one whom you can trust--say, one of your girls from
here, that girl downstairs, for instance. What is her name?"

Anita Lawton rose, and a peculiar pained expression passed over her
features.

"I am sorry, Mr. Blaine--really, really I am sorry. I cannot tell you
her name. That was one of the conditions under which she came to us
here--that is why I have given her an official position here in the
Club. She is staunch and faithful and true; I know it, I feel it; and
she is too high-principled to pass under any name not her own. I know
and am heartily in sympathy with the reason for her secretiveness. You
know that I trust you implicitly, but I know you would not have me go
back on my word when once it has been given."

"Certainly not, Miss Lawton. I realize that many of your protégées
here may come of unfortunate antecedents. If you feel that you can
trust her, use her. Do you feel equally sure of the other members of
your Club?"

"Absolutely. I feel that they all really love me; that they would do
anything for me they could in the world, and yet I have done so little
for them--only given them the little help which I was able to bestow,
which we should all do for those less fortunate than ourselves.... Why
did you ask me, Mr. Blaine, if I felt that I could trust the girls who
have placed themselves under my care?"

"Because we may have need of them in the future. They may be of the
most vital assistance to us in this investigation, should events turn
out as I anticipate and they prove worthy of the charge it may be
necessary for me to impose on them. But enough of that for now. If at
any time you wish to see me, personally, telephone me as you did this
morning and I will meet you here."

The detective left her in the office of the secretary, and as he made
his adieus to them both he cast a last quick, penetrating glance at
the girl behind the desk. Again that vague sense of resemblance
possessed him. With whom was she connected? Why was her name so
significantly withheld?

In the meantime Guy Morrow, from his post of observation in the window
of the little cottage on Meadow Lane, had watched the object of his
espionage for several fruitless days--fruitless, because the actions
of the man Brunell had been so obviously those of one who felt
himself utterly beyond suspicion.

The erect, gray-haired, clear-eyed man had come and gone about his
business, without the slightest attempt at concealment. A few of the
simplest inquiries of his land-lady had elicited the fact that the
gentleman opposite, old Mr. Brunell, was a map-maker, and worked at
his trade in a little shop in the nearest row of brick buildings
just around the corner--that he had lived in the little cottage since
it had first been erected, six years before, alone with his
daughter Emily, and before that, they had for many years occupied a
small apartment near by--in fact, the girl had grown up in that
neighborhood. He was a quiet man, not very talkative, but well liked
by his neighbors, and his daughter was devoted to him. According
to Mrs. Quinlan, Guy Morrow's aforesaid land-lady, Emily Brunell was a
dear, sweet girl, very popular among the young people in the
neighborhood, but she kept strictly at home in her leisure hours and
preferred her father's companionship to that of anyone else. She
was employed in some business capacity downtown, from nine until
six; just what it was Mrs. Quinlan did not know.

Morrow kept well in the background, in case Mr. Pennold should put in
an appearance again, but he did not. Evidently that conversation
overheard by Suraci had been a final one, concerning the securities at
least, and no one else called at the little cottage door over the way,
except a vapid-faced young man to whom Morrow took an instant and
inexplicable dislike.

Morrow made it a point to visit and investigate the little shop at an
hour when he knew Brunell would not be there, and found in the cursory
examination possible at that time that its purpose seemed to be
strictly legitimate. A shock-headed boy of fifteen or thereabout was
in charge, and the operative easily succeeded in engaging his stolid
attention elsewhere while, with a bit of soft wax carefully palmed in
his left hand, he succeeded in gaining an impression of the lock on
the flimsy door. From this he had a key made in anticipation of orders
from his chief, requiring a thorough search of the little shop--orders
which for the first time in his career, he shrank from.

He made no effort to scrape an acquaintance with Brunell himself, but
frequently encountered, as if by accident, the daughter Emily, on her
way to and from the subway station. If she recognized in him the young
lodger across the street, she made no sign, and as the days passed,
Morrow, the man, despaired of gaining her friendship, save through her
father, whom Morrow--the operative--had received orders not to
approach personally.

Before he had seen her, had he known that the old forger possessed a
daughter, he would have laid his plans to worm himself into the
confidence of the little family through the girl, but having once laid
eyes upon her face in all its gentle, trusting purity, every manly
instinct in him revolted at the thought of making her a tool of her
father's probable downfall.

There was a third member of the Brunell household whom Morrow had
observed frequently seated upon the doorstep, or on one of the lower
window sills--a small, scraggly black kitten, with stiff outstanding
fur, and an absurdly belligerent attitude whenever a dog chanced to
pass through the lane. It waited in the doorway each night for the
return of its mistress, and in the soft glow of the lamplight which
streamed from within, he had seen her catch the little creature up
affectionately and cuddle it up against her neck before the door
closed upon them.

One afternoon in the early November twilight, as Morrow was returning
to his own door after shadowing Brunell on an aimless and chilly walk,
he saw the kitten lying curled up just outside its own gate, and an
inspiration sprang to his ingenious mind. He seated himself upon the
steps of Mrs. Quinlan's front porch and waited until the darkness had
deepened sufficiently to cloak his nefarious scheme. Then, with soft
beguiling tone--and a few _sotto voce_ remarks, for he hated
cats--Morrow began a deliberate attempt to entice the kitten across to
him.

"Come here, kitty, kitty," he called softly. "Come, pussy dear! Come
here, you mangy, rat-tailed little beast! Come cattykins."

At his first words the kitten raised its head and regarded him with
yellow eyes gleaming through the dusk, in unconcealed antagonism. But,
at the soft, purring flattery of his voice, the gleam softened to a
glow of pleased interest, and the little creature rose lazily,
stretched itself, and tripped lightly over to him, its tail erect in
optimistic confidence.

Morrow picked it up gingerly by the neck and tucked it beneath his
coat, stroking its head with a reluctant thumb, while it purred loudly
in sleepy content, at the warmth of its welcome. The hour was
approaching when Emily Brunell usually made her appearance, and he
trusted to luck to keep the little animal quiet until she had entered
her home and discovered its loss, but the fickle goddess failed him.

The kitten grew suddenly uneasy, as if some intuition warned it of
treachery, and tried valiantly to escape from his grasp, and never did
Spartan boy with wolf concealed beneath his tunic suffer more
tortures than Morrow with the wretched little creature clawing at his
hands.

Would Emily Brunell never come? What could be keeping her to-night, of
all nights? Morrow gripped the soft, elusive bundle of fur with
desperate firmness and looked across the street. Evidently he was not
the only one impatient for her arrival. The doorway opposite had
opened, and Jimmy Brunell stood peering anxiously forth into the
darkness.

At that moment the kitten emitted a fearsome yowl, which Morrow
smothered hastily with his coat. He fancied that the old man turned
his head quickly and glanced in his direction, and never had the
operative felt guiltier.

Brunell, however, retired within, closing the door after him, and the
kitten's struggles gradually grew weaker and finally ceased.

Morrow felt a horrible fear surging up within him that he had
strangled the little beast, and his grasp gradually relaxed. Then he
opened his overcoat cautiously and peered within. The kitten was
sleeping peacefully, and he heaved a sigh of relief, glancing up just
in time to see Emily Brunell pass quickly through her own gate and up
to the door.

He sat motionless on the steps of Mrs. Quinlan's, and his patience was
rewarded when after a few moments the Brunell's door re-opened and he
heard the girl's voice calling anxiously: "Kitty! Kitty!"

Morrow rose with unfeigned alacrity and crossing the road, opened the
little gate without ceremony and mounted the steps of the porch.

"I beg your pardon," he said blandly. "Is this your kitten?
It--er--wandered across the street to me and fell asleep under my
coat. I board just over the way, you know, with Mrs. Quinlan. My name
is Morrow."

The girl gave a little cry of relieved anxiety, and caught the kitten
in her arms.

"Oh, I am so glad! I was afraid it was lost, and it is so tiny and
defenseless to be out all alone in the cold and darkness. Thank you so
much, Mr. Morrow. I suppose it was waiting for me, as it usually does,
and grew restless at my delay, poor little thing! It was kind of you
to comfort it!"

Feeling like an utter brute, Morrow stammered a humble disclaimer of
her undeserved gratitude, and moved toward the steps.

"Oh, but it was really kind of you; most men hate cats, although my
father loves them. I should have been home much earlier but I was
detained by some extra work at the club where I am employed."

"The club?" he repeated stupidly.

"Yes," replied the girl, quietly, cuddling the kitten beneath her
chin. "The Anita Lawton Club for Working Girls."

She caught herself up sharply, even as she spoke, and a look almost of
apprehension crossed her ingenuous face for a moment, and was gone.

"Thank you again for protecting my kitten for me," she said softly.
"Good-night."

Guy Morrow walked down the steps and across to his own lodgings with
his brain awhirl. The investigation, through the medium of a small
black kitten, had indeed taken an amazing turn. Jimmy Brunell's
daughter was a protégée of the daughter of Pennington Lawton!




CHAPTER VI

THE FIRST COUNTER-MOVE


The little paragraph in the newspaper, which, irrelevant as it
would seem, had caught the keenly discerning eye of Henry Blaine,
grew in length and importance from day to day until it reached a
position on the first page, and then spread in huge headlines over
the entire sheet. Instead of relating merely the incidents of a
labor strike in a manufacturing city--and that city a far-distant
one--it became speedily a sociological question of almost national
import. The yellow journals were quick to seize upon it at the
psychological moment of civic unrest, and throw out hints, vague
but vast in their significance, of the mighty interests behind the
mere fact of the strike, the great financial question involved, the
crisis between capital and labor, the trusts and the common people,
the workers and the wasters, in the land of the free.

Henry Blaine, seated in his office, read the scare-heads and smiled
his slow, inscrutable, illuminating smile--the smile which,
without menace or rancor, had struck terror to the hearts of the
greatest malefactors of his generation--which, without flattery or
ingratiation, had won for him the friendship of the greatest men in
the country. He knew every move in the gigantic game which was being
played solely for his attention, long before a pawn was lifted from
its place, a single counter changed; he had known it, from the moment
that the seemingly unimportant paragraph had met his eyes; and he
also knew the men who sat in the game, whose hands passed over the
great chessboard of current events, whose brains directed the moves.
And the stakes? Not the welfare of the workingmen in that distant
city, not the lifting of the grinding heel of temporal power from
the supine bodies of the humble--but the peace of mind, the
honorable, untarnished name, the earthly riches of the slender
girl who sat in that great darkened house on Belleair Avenue.

Hence Blaine sat back quietly, and waited for the decisive move which
he knew to be forthcoming--waited, and not in vain. The spectacular
play to the gallery of one was dramatically accomplished; it was
heralded by extras bawled through the midnight streets, and full-page
display headlines in the papers the next morning.

Promptly on the stroke of nine, Henry Blaine arrived at his office,
and as he expected, found awaiting him an urgent telegram from the
chief of police of the city where the strike had assumed such colossal
importance, earnestly asking him for his immediate presence and
assistance. He sent a tentative refusal--and waited. Still more
insistent messages followed in rapid succession, from the mayor of
that city, the governor of that state, even its representative in the
Senate at Washington, to all of which he replied in the same emphatic,
negative strain. Then, late in the afternoon, there eventuated that
which he had anticipated. Mohammed came to the mountain.

Blaine read the card which his confidential secretary presented, and
laid it down upon the desk before him.

"Show him in," he directed, shortly. He did not rise from his chair,
nor indeed change his position an iota, but merely glanced up from
beneath slightly raised eyebrows, when the door opened again and a
bulky, pompous figure stood almost obsequiously before him.

"Come in, Mr. Carlis," he invited coolly. "Take this chair. What can I
do for you?"

It was significant that neither man made any move toward shaking
hands, although it was obvious that they were acquainted, at least.
The great detective's tone when he greeted his visitor was as
distinctly ironical as the latter's was uneasy, although he replied
with a mirthless chuckle, which was intended to be airily nonchalant.

"Nothing for me, Mr. Blaine--that is, not to-day. One can never tell
in this period of sudden changes and revolt, when our city may be
stricken as another was just a few hours ago. There is no better,
cleaner, more honestly prosperous metropolis in these United States
to-day, than Illington, but--" Mr. Carlis, the political boss who had
ruled for more than a decade in almost undisputed sway, paused and
gulped, as if his oratorical eloquence stuck suddenly in his throat.

The detective watched him passively, a disconcerting look of inquiring
interest on his mobile face. "It is because of our stricken sister
city that I am here," went on the visitor. "I know I will not be in
great favor with you as an advocate, Mr. Blaine. We have had our
little tilts in the past, when you--er--disapproved of my methods of
conducting my civic office and I distrusted your motives, but that is
forgotten now, and I come to you merely as one public-spirited citizen
to another. The mayor of Grafton has wired me, as has the chief of
police, to urge you to proceed there at once and take charge of the
investigation into last night's bomb outrages in connection with the
great strike. They inform me that you have repeatedly refused to-day
to come to their assistance."

Blaine nodded.

"That is quite true, Mr. Carlis. I did decline the offers extended to
me."

"But surely you cannot refuse! Good heavens, man, do you realize what
it means if you do? It isn't only that there is a fortune in it for
you, your reputation stands or falls on your decision! This is a
public charge! The people rely upon you! If you won't, for some reason
of your own, come to the rescue now, when you are publicly called
upon, you'll be a ruined man!" The voice of the Boss ascended in a
shrill falsetto of remonstrance.

"There may be two opinions as to that, Mr. Carlis," Blaine returned
quietly. "As far as the financial argument goes, I think you
discovered long ago that its appeal to me is based upon a different
point of view than your own. You forget that I am not a servant of the
public, but a private citizen, free to accept or decline such offers
as are made to me in my line of business, as I choose. This affair is
not a public charge, but a business proposition, which I decline. As
to my reputation depending upon it, I differ with you. My reputation
will stand, I think, upon my record in the past, even if every yellow
newspaper in the city is paid to revile me."

Carlis rested his plump hands upon his widespread knees, and leaned as
far forward, in his eager anxiety, as his obese figure would permit.

"But why?" he fairly wailed, his carefully rounded, oratorical tones
forgotten. "Why on earth do you decline this offer, Blaine? You've
nothing big on hand now--nothing your operatives can't attend to.
There isn't a case big enough for your attention on the calendar! You
know as well as I do that Illington is clean and that the lid is on
for keeps! The police are taking care of the petty crimes, and
there's absolutely nothing doing in your line here at the moment. This
is the chance of your career! Why on earth do you refuse it?"

"Well, Mr. Carlis, let us say, for instance, that my health is not
quite as good as it was, and I find the air of Illington agrees with
it better just now than that of Grafton." Blaine leaned back easily in
his chair, and after a slight pause he added speculatively, with
deliberate intent, "I didn't know you had interests there!"

The Boss purpled.

"Look here, Blaine!" he bellowed. "What d'you mean by that?"

"Merely following a train of thought, Mr. Carlis," returned the
detective imperturbably. "I was trying to figure out why you were so
desperately anxious to have me go to Grafton--"

"I tell you I am here at the urgent request of the mayor and the chief
of police!" the fat man protested, but faintly, as if the unexpected
attack had temporarily winded him. "Why in h--ll should I want you to
go to Grafton?"

"Presumably because Grafton is some fourteen hundred miles from
Illington," remarked Blaine, his quietly unemotional tones hardening
suddenly like tempered steel. "Going to try to pull off something here
in town which you think could be more easily done if I were away?
Cards on the table, Mr. Carlis! You tried to bribe me in a case once,
and you failed. Then you tried bullying me and you found that didn't
work, either. Now you've come again with your hook baited with
patriotism, public spirit, the cry of the people and all the rest of
the guff the newspapers you control have been handing out to their
readers since you took them over. What's the idea?"

The Boss rose, with what was intended for an air of injured dignity,
but his fat face all at once seemed sagged and wrinkled, like a
pricked balloon.

"I did not come here to be insulted!" he announced in his most
impressive manner. "I came, as I told you, as a public-spirited
citizen, because the officials of another city called upon me to urge
you to aid them. I have failed in my mission, and I will go. I am
surprised, Blaine, at your attitude; I thought you were too big a man
to permit your personal antagonism to me to interfere with your
duty--"

For the first time during their interview Blaine smiled slightly.

"Have you ever known me, Mr. Carlis, to permit my personal antagonism
to you or any other man to interfere with what I conceive to be my
duty?"

Before he replied, the politician produced a voluminous silk
handkerchief, and mopped his brow. For some reason he did not feel
called upon to make a direct answer.

"Well, what reason am I to give to the Mayor of Grafton and its
political leaders, for your refusal? That talk about me trying to get
you out of Illington, Blaine, is all bosh, and you know it. _I'm_
running Illington just as I've run it for the last ten years, in spite
of your interference or any other man's, and I'm going to stay right
on the job! If you won't give any other reason for declining the call
to Grafton, than your preference for the air of Illington, then the
bets go as they lay!"

He jammed his hat upon his head, and strode from the room with all
the ferocity his rotund figure could express. The first decisive move
in the game had failed.

The door was scarcely closed behind him, when Blaine turned to the
telephone and called up Anita Lawton on the private wire.

"Can you arrange to meet me at once, at your Working Girls' Club?" he
asked. "I wish to suggest a plan to be put into immediate operation."

"Very well. I can be there in fifteen minutes."

When the detective arrived at the club, he was ushered immediately to
the small ante-room on the second floor, where he found Anita
anxiously awaiting him.

"Miss Lawton," he began, without further greeting than a quick
handclasp, "you told me, the other day, that your girls here were all
staunch and faithful to you. Your secretary downstairs had previously
informed me that they were trained to hold positions of trust, and
that you obtained such positions for them. I want you to obtain four
positions for four of the girls in whom you place the most implicit
confidence."

"Why, certainly, Mr. Blaine, if I can. Do you mean that they are to
have something to do with your investigation into my father's
affairs?"

"I want them to play detective for me, Miss Lawton. Have you four
girls unemployed at the moment?--Say, for instance, a filing clerk, a
stenographer, a governess and a switchboard operator, who are
sufficiently intelligent and proficient in their various occupations,
to assume such a trust?"

"Why, yes, I--I think we have. I can find out, of course. Where do you
wish to place them?"

"That is the most difficult part of all, Miss Lawton. You must obtain
the positions for them. These three men who stand in _loco parentis_
toward you, as you say, and your spiritual adviser, Dr. Franklin, who
so obviously wishes to ingratiate himself with them, would none of
them refuse a request of this sort from you at this stage of the game,
particularly if they are really engaged in a conspiracy against you.
Go to these four men--Mr. Mallowe first--and tell them that because of
the sudden, complete loss of your fortune, your club must be
disorganized, and beg them each to give one of your girls, special
protégées of yours, a position. Send your filing clerk to Mr. Mallowe,
your most expert stenographer to Mr. Rockamore, your switchboard
operator to Mr. Carlis, and your governess into the household of your
minister. I have learned that he has three small children, and his
wife applied only yesterday at an agency for a nursery governess. The
last proposition may be the most difficult for you to handle, but I
think if you manage to convey to the Reverend Dr. Franklin the fact
that your three self-appointed guardians have each taken one of your
girls into their employ, in order to help them, and that his following
their benevolent example would bring him into closer _rapport_ with
them, no objection will be made--provided, of course, the young woman
is suitable."

"I will try, Mr. Blaine, but of course I can do nothing about that
until to-morrow, as it is so late in the afternoon. However, I can
have a talk with the girls, if they are in now--or would you prefer to
interview them?"

"No, you talk with them first, Miss Lawton, and to-morrow morning
while you are arranging for their positions I will interview them and
instruct them in their primary duties. I will leave you now. Remember
that the girls must be absolutely trustworthy, and the stenographer
who will be placed in the office of Mr. Rockamore must be particularly
expert."

After the detective had taken his departure, Anita Lawton descended
quickly to the office of the secretary.

"Emily," she asked, "is Loretta Murfree in, or Fifine Déchaussée?"

"I think they both are, Miss Lawton. Shall I ring for them?"

"Yes, please, Emily; send them to me one at a time, in the ante-room,
and let me know when Agnes Olson and Margaret Hefferman come in. I
wish to talk with all four of them, but separately."

Loretta Murfree was the first to put in an appearance. She was a
short, dumpy, black-haired girl of twenty, and she bounced into the
room with a flashing, wide-mouthed smile.

"How are you, dear Miss Lawton? We have missed you around here so much
lately, but of course we knew that you must be very much occupied--"

She stopped and a little embarrassed flush spread over her face.

"I have been, Loretta. Thank you so much for your kind note, and for
your share in the beautiful wreath you girls sent in memory of my dear
father."

"Sure, we're all of us your friends, Miss Lawton; why wouldn't we be,
after all you've done for us?"

"It is because I feel that, that I wanted to have a talk with you this
afternoon. Loretta, if a position were offered to you as filing clerk
in the office of a great financier of this city, at a suitable salary,
would you accept it, if you could be doing me a great personal service
at the same time?"

"Would I, Miss Lawton? Just try me! I'd take it for the experience
alone, without the salary, and jump at the chance, even if you
weren't concerned in it at all, but if it would be doing you a service
at the same time, I'm more than glad."

"Thank you, Loretta. The position will be with an associate of my
father's, I think, President Mallowe of the Street Railways. You must
attend faithfully to your duties, if I am able to obtain this place
for you, but I think the main part of your service to me will consist
of keeping your eyes open. To-morrow morning a man will come here and
interview you--a man in whom you must place implicit confidence and
trust, and whose directions you must follow to the letter. He will
tell you just what to do for me. This man is my friend; he is working
in my interests, and if you care for me you must not fail him."

"Indeed I won't, Miss Lawton! I'll do whatever he tells me.... You
said that I was to keep my eyes open. Does that mean that there is
something you wish me to find out for you?" she asked shrewdly.

"I cannot tell you exactly what you are to do for me, Loretta. The
gentleman whom you are to meet to-morrow morning will give you all the
details." Anita Lawton approached the girl and laid her hand on her
shoulder. "I can surely trust you? You will not fail me?"

The quick tears sprang to the Irish girl's eyes, and for a moment
softened their rather hard brilliance.

"You know that you can trust me, Miss Lawton! I'd do anything in the
world for you!"

Anita Lawton held a similar conversation with each of the three girls,
with a like result. To Fifine Déchaussée, a tall, refined girl, with
the colorless, devout face of a religieuse, the probability of
entering a minister's home, as governess for his children, was most
welcome. The young French girl, homesick and alone in a strange land,
had found in Anita Lawton her one friend, and her gratitude for this
first opportunity given her, seemed overwhelming. Margaret Hefferman
rejoiced at the possible opportunity of becoming a stenographer to the
great promoter, Mr. Rockamore; and demure, fair-haired little Agnes
Olson was equally pleased with the prospect of operating a switchboard
in the office of Timothy Carlis, the politician.

Meantime, back in his office, Henry Blaine was receiving the personal
report of Guy Morrow.

"The old man seems to be strictly on the level," he was saying. "He
attends to his own affairs and seems to be running a legitimate
business in his little shop, where he prints and sells maps. I went
there, of course, to look it over, but I couldn't see anything crooked
about it. However, when I left, I took a wax impression of the lock,
in case you wanted me to have a key made and institute a more thorough
investigation, at a time when I would not be disturbed."

"That's good, Morrow. We may need to do that later. At present I want
you merely to keep an eye on them, and note who their visitors are.
You've been talking with the girl you say--the daughter?"

"Yes, sir--" The young man paused in sudden confusion. "She's a very
quiet, respectable, proud sort of young woman, Mr. Blaine--not at all
the kind you would expect to find the daughter of an old crook like
Jimmy Brunell. And by the way, here's a funny coincidence! She's a
protégée of Miss Lawton's, employed in some philanthropic home or
club, as she calls it, which Pennington Lawton's daughter runs."

"By Jove!" Blaine exclaimed, "I might have known it! I thought there
was something familiar about her appearance when I first saw her! No
wonder Miss Lawton had promised not to divulge her name. It's a small
world, Morrow. I'll have to look into this. Go back now and keep your
eye on Jimmy."

"Very well, sir." Guy Morrow paused at the door and turned toward his
chief. "Have you seen the late editions of the evening papers, Mr.
Blaine? They're all slamming you, for refusing to accept the call to
Grafton, to investigate those bomb outrages last night."

Henry Blaine smiled.

"There won't be any more of them," he remarked quietly. "That strike
will die down as quickly as it arose, Morrow; the whole thing was a
plant, and the labor leaders and factory owners themselves were merely
tools in the hands of the politicians. That strike was arranged by our
friend Timothy Carlis, to get me away from Illington on a false
mission."

"You don't think, sir, that they suspect--"

"No, but they are taking no chances on my getting into the game. They
don't suspect yet, but they will soon--because the time has come for
us to get busy."




CHAPTER VII

THE LETTER


The next morning, when Ramon Hamilton presented himself at Henry
Blaine's office in answer to the latter's summons, he found the great
detective in a mood more nearly bordering upon excitability than he
could remember having witnessed before. Instead of being seated calmly
at his desk, his thoughts masked with his usual inscrutable
imperturbability, Blaine was pacing restlessly back and forth with the
disquietude, not of agitation, but of concentrated, ebullient energy.

"I sent for you, Mr. Hamilton," he began, after greeting his visitor
cordially and waving him to a chair, "because we must proceed actively
with the investigation into the alleged bankruptcy of Pennington
Lawton. We have been passive long enough for me to have gathered some
significant facts, but we now must make a salient move. The time
hasn't yet come for me to step out into the open. When I do, it will
be a tooth-and-nail fight, and I must be equipped with facts, not
theories. I want some particulars about Mr. Lawton's insolvency, and
there is no one who could more naturally inquire into this without
arousing suspicion than you."

"I don't need to tell you, Mr. Blaine, how anxious I am to do anything
I can to help you, for Miss Lawton's sake," Ramon Hamilton replied
eagerly. "I should like to have looked into the matter long
ago--indeed, I felt that suspicion must have been aroused in the
minds of Mallowe and his associates by the fact that I accepted the
astounding news of the bankruptcy as unquestioningly as Miss Lawton
herself, unless they thought me an addlepated fool--but I didn't want
to go ahead without direct instructions from you."

"I did not so direct you, Mr. Hamilton, for a distinct purpose. I
wished the men we believe to be responsible for the present conditions
to be slightly puzzled by your attitude, so that when the time came
for you to begin your investigation, they would be more completely
reassured. In order to make your questioning absolutely bona fide, I
want you to go first this morning to the office of Anderson & Wallace,
the late Mr. Lawton's attorneys, and question them as if having come
with Miss Lawton's authority. Don't suggest any suspicion of there
being any crookedness at work, but merely inquire as fully as possible
into the details of Mr. Lawton's business affairs. They will, in their
replies, undoubtedly bring in Mr. Mallowe, Mr. Rockamore and Mr.
Carlis, which will give you a cue to go quite openly and frankly to
one of the three--preferably Mallowe--for corroboration. Knowing that
you come direct from the late Mr. Lawton's attorneys, he will be only
too glad to give you whatever information he may possess or may have
concocted--and so lay open to you his plan of defense."

"Defense? You think, then, Mr. Blaine, that they anticipate possible
trouble--exposure, even? Surely such astute, far-seeing men as Mallowe
and Rockamore are, at least, would not have attempted such a gigantic
fraud if they'd anticipated the possibility of being discovered!
Carlis has weathered so many storms, so many attacks upon his
reputation and civic honor, that he may have felt cocksure of his
position and gone into this thing without thought for the future, but
the other two are men of different caliber, men with everything in the
world to lose."

"And colossal, unearned wealth to gain--don't forget that, Mr.
Hamilton. Men of different caliber, I grant you, but all three in the
same whirlpool of crime, bound by thieves' law to sink or swim
together. It is because they are astute and far-seeing that they must
inevitably have considered the possibility of exposure and safeguarded
themselves against it with bogus corroborative proof. If that proof is
in tangible form, and we can lay our hands on it, we shall have them
where we want them. Now go back to your office, Mr. Hamilton, and
dictate this letter to your stenographer, having it left open on your
desk for your signature. Don't wait for the letter to be typed, but
proceed at once to the office of Anderson & Wallace. You, as a lawyer,
will of course know the form of inquiry to use."

The detective handed Ramon Hamilton a typewritten sheet of paper from
his desk; and the young man, after hastily perusing it, gazed with a
blank stare of amazement into Blaine's eyes.

"I can't make this out," he objected. "Who on earth is Alexander
Gibbs, and what has he to do with Miss Lawton's case? This letter
seems to inform one Alexander Gibbs that I have retained you to
recover for us the last will and testament of his aunt, Mrs. Dorothea
Gibbs. I have no such client, and I know no one in--what's the
address?--Ellenville, Sullivan County."

Blaine smiled.

"Of course you don't, Mr. Hamilton. Nevertheless, you will sign that
letter and your secretary will mail it--that is, after it has lain
open upon your desk for casual inspection for a considerable length
of time. One of my operatives will receive it in Ellenville."

"But what has it to do with the matter in hand?" Ramon asked.

"Everything. I understand that you employ quite an office force, for
an attorney who has so recently been admitted to the bar, and who has
necessarily had little time yet to build up an extensive practice.
There may be a spy in your office--remember that as Miss Lawton's
fiancé and her only protector in this crisis, you are the one whom
they would safeguard themselves against primarily. When I called you
up this morning, to ask you to come here, you very indiscreetly
mentioned my name over the telephone. Your entire office force will
know that you have been to consult me--this letter will throw them off
the track should there be a spy among them, and will also give you a
legitimate excuse to call upon me frequently in the immediate future.
You realize that we also must safeguard ourselves, Mr. Hamilton."

The young man reddened.

"Of course. I did not think--I called you by name inadvertently," he
stammered. "I'll be more discreet in the future, Mr. Blaine."

"Memorize the gist of the letter on your way to your office--particularly
the name and address--and place it securely in your vest pocket. When
you have left your office to go to Anderson & Wallace, destroy it
carefully. You had best, perhaps, stop in the lavatory of some
restaurant or public bar and burn it, or tear it into infinitesimal
pieces. Remember that everything depends upon you now--upon your
discretion and diplomacy."

Hamilton followed Blaine's instructions to the letter, and an hour
after he had left the detective he was closeted with the senior member
of the firm of Anderson & Wallace.

"My dear Mr. Hamilton, we have had so little time," Mr. Anderson
expostulated. "Remember that Mr. Lawton's death occurred little more
than a fortnight ago, and even the most cursory examination has shown
us that his affairs were in a most chaotic condition. It will take us
weeks, months, to settle up so involved an estate.

"At present we can give you little information. It is by no means
certain that Mr. Lawton was an absolute bankrupt--we have not yet
assured ourselves that nothing can be saved from the wreckage. You
cannot imagine how aghast, thunderstruck, we were, when this present
state of affairs was made known to us. We have been Mr. Lawton's
attorneys for more than twenty years, and we thought that we knew
every detail of his multifarious transactions, but for some reason
which we cannot fathom he saw fit, within the last two years, to
change his investments without taking us into his confidence--and with
disastrous results."

"Mr. Lawton was always conservative. He took no one fully into his
confidence," Ramon Hamilton replied guardedly.

"You knew, of course, that he had ideas about the disposal of his vast
wealth which many other financiers would consider peculiar. He would
never invest in real estate, to our knowledge. His millions were
placed entirely in stocks and bonds, and for years he had stated that
his object was, in the event of his death, to save his daughter and
the trustees from unnecessary trouble over real-estate matters. This
makes his later conduct all the more inexplicable. Mr. Mallowe has
told me that Mr. Lawton made several suggestions to him and to his
associates, Mr. Rockamore and Mr. Carlis, to go with him into the
unfortunate speculations which ultimately caused his ruin. They were
far-seeing enough to refuse."

"Just what were these speculations, Mr. Anderson?"

"I can't tell you at this moment. You'll understand that we don't wish
to make any statement until we can do so definitely, and we are still,
as I said, quite at sea. We'll try to straighten everything out as
soon as possible, and give you and Miss Lawton a full report. In the
meantime, why not consult Mr. Mallowe? He can give you more explicit
information concerning the late Mr. Lawton's speculation and final
insolvency than we shall be able to do for some time; or possibly, Mr.
Rockamore, or even Mr. Carlis might enlighten you. All three seem to
have been more conversant with Mr. Lawton's affairs than we, his
attorneys."

The dignified old gentleman's voice held a note of pained resentment,
with which Ramon Hamilton could not help but sympathize.

"I will adopt your suggestion, Mr. Anderson, and call upon Mr. Mallowe
at once. I can no more understand than you can how it happens that Mr.
Lawton should have confided to such an extent in his business
associates, to the exclusion of you and Mr. Wallace--to say nothing of
his own daughter; but doubtless there were financial reasons which
we'll learn. I will take up no more of your valuable time, but will
try to see Mr. Mallowe immediately. If I learn any facts you're not
now in possession of, I'll let you know at once."

Mr. Mallowe, when approached over the telephone, welcomed most
cordially the proposed interview with Miss Lawton's fiancé. When the
latter arrived, he was greeted with a warm, limp hand-clasp, and
seated confidentially close to the president of the Street Railways.

"Mr. Anderson did well to suggest your coming to me, Mr. Hamilton,"
the magnate remarked unctuously. "I believe I am in a position to give
you a more comprehensive idea of the circumstances which brought about
my esteemed friend's unfortunate financial collapse at the time of his
death than my colleagues, because I was closer to him in many ways,
and I am confident that he regarded me as his best friend. However, I
don't feel that I can, in honor, violate the confidence of the dead by
giving any details just now--even to you and Miss Lawton--of matters
which have not yet been fully substantiated by the attorneys. I know
only from Mr. Lawton's own private statements that he was interested,
to the point one might almost say of mania, in a gigantic scheme from
which we, his friends, tried in vain to dissuade him. He urged me
especially to go in on it with him, but because of the very position I
hold, it would have been impossible for me to consider it, even if my
better judgment hadn't warned me against it."

"Can't you give me some idea of the nature of this scheme?" Ramon
asked. "I can't believe, any more easily than Miss Lawton can, that
there could have been anything that was not thoroughly open and
above-board about her father's dealings. Surely, there can be no
reason for this extraordinary secrecy, particularly as the newspapers
had given to the world at large the unauthorized statement, from a
source unknown to Miss Lawton or myself, that Pennington Lawton died a
bankrupt!"

The young man drew himself up sharply, as if fearful of having said
too much, and for a moment there was silence. Then Mr. Mallowe leaned
back easily in his chair and, removing his tortoise-shell rimmed
eyeglasses, tapped the desk thoughtfully with them as he replied:

"That was regrettable, of course, Mr. Hamilton. It must have been
distressing in the extreme to Miss Lawton, coming just at this time,
but it would have had to be revealed sooner or later, you know--such a
stupendous fact could not be hidden. There is no extraordinary secrecy
about the matter. When the attorneys have completed their settlement
of the estate, everything will be clear to you and Miss Lawton. I must
naturally decline to give you any explanation which would be, just
now, merely an uncorroborated opinion. I appreciate your feelings in
this sudden, almost overwhelming trouble which has come to Miss
Lawton, and I sympathize with both of you most heartily; but one must
have patience. You will pardon me, but you are both very young, and
that is the hardest lesson of all for you to learn."

His watery eyes beamed in fatherly benevolence upon Ramon, and Anita's
fiancé felt his gorge rising. The older man reminded him irresistibly
of a cat licking its chops before a canary's cage, and it was with
difficulty he restrained himself to remark coldly:

"You told me at the beginning of this interview, Mr. Mallowe, that
I did well in coming to you, since you could give me a more
comprehensive idea of the circumstances than anyone else, yet you
have disclosed nothing beyond a few vague suggestions--to any other
man I should have said, insinuations--and generalities which we
were already familiar with. Can't you give me any real information?"

"My dear boy, I intend to tell you all that I know and can verify."
The silky smoothness of the magnate's tones had deepened in spite of
himself, with a steely undernote.

"I don't know when the project which spelled his ruin was first
conceived by Mr. Lawton, but I believe that he started to put it into
active operation over three years ago. He went into it with his usual
cold nerve, and then, when the pendulum did not swing his way he kept
heaping more and more of his securities on the pyre of his ambition
and pride in himself, until he was forced to obtain large loans. That
he did seek and obtain such loans I can prove to you at the present
moment, in one instance at least, for it was through me the affair was
negotiated. I think he fully realized his enormous error, but refused
to admit it even to himself, and strove by sheer force of will-power
to carry a hopeless scheme to success."

"Sought loans! He--Pennington Lawton required loans and obtained them
through you?" Ramon almost started from his chair. "Mr. Mallowe, you
will forgive me, but I can scarcely credit it. I know, of course, that
financiers, even those who conduct their operations on a far lesser
scale than Mr. Lawton, frequently seek loans, but your manner and your
speech just now led me to believe that you had some other motive in
doing what you did for Mr. Lawton. From what you have told me I gather
that it was owing more to your friendship for him, than to your
financial relations, that he called upon you at that time."

"And it was to my friendship at that time that he appealed, Mr.
Hamilton."

"Appealed? I cannot imagine Pennington Lawton appealing to any man.
Why should he appeal to you?"

"Because, my dear boy, he was in a mighty bad fix when he had need to
call upon me. Oh, by the way, I have the letter here in my safe--I
found it only the other day."

"The letter? What letter?"

"The letter Mr. Lawton wrote me from Long Bay asking me to get Mr.
Moore's help in the matter--here it is."

Mallowe went to his safe, and opening it, withdrew from an inner
drawer a paper which he presented to the young lawyer. After a cursory
examination Ramon placed it upon the desk before him, and turning to
Mr. Mallowe said:

"I am awfully sorry to have annoyed you with this matter, but you
understand exactly how Miss Lawton and I feel about it--"

"Of course, Mr. Hamilton, I realize the situation fully. I am glad to
have had this opportunity to explain to you how the matter stood as
far as I personally was concerned. You know I will do anything that I
can for Miss Lawton and I trust that you will call upon me."

He rose with ponderous significance as if to state tacitly that the
interview was at an end, but the younger man did not stir from his
chair.

"This letter came to you--when did you say, Mr. Mallowe?"

"When Pennington Lawton and his daughter were at The Breakers at Long
Bay, about two years ago last August, as nearly as I can remember."

"If you still had the envelope, we could obtain the exact date from
the postmark," Ramon suggested significantly. "The letter I see is
only headed 'Saturday.'"

"Yes, it is unfortunate that I did not keep it," the magnate retorted
a little drily. "It was by the merest, most fortunate chance that the
letter itself came to light. However, I cannot see at this late date
what difference it could possibly make when the letter was mailed,
since it establishes beyond any possibility of doubt the fact that it
_was_ mailed. As to the matter of the negotiation of the loan, I would
prefer that you apply to Mr. Moore himself for the particulars
concerning it. I am sure that he will be quite as glad as I have been
to give you such definite information as he possesses."

This time the dismissal could not be ignored, and Ramon Hamilton took
his departure, but not before he had marked well the particular drawer
within the safe from which the letter had been taken.

As he went down the corridor, a saucy, red-cheeked young woman with
business briskness in her manner came from an inner office and smiled
boldly at him. She was Loretta Murfree, the new filing clerk who had
been installed only that morning in Mr. Mallowe's office.

Had Ramon known her to be the protégée of Anita Lawton and the spy of
Henry Blaine, he might have glanced at her a second time.

The young man proceeded straight to the offices of Charlton Moore,
the banker, and found that an interview was readily granted him.
Mr. Moore remembered the incident of the loan, and his private
accounts showed that it had been made on the sixteenth of August two
years previously.

"Mr. Mallowe arranged the matter with you for Mr. Lawton, did he not?"
Ramon asked.

"Yes, it was a purely confidential affair. Mr. Carlis came with
him to interview me. They did not at first tell me that Mr. Lawton
positively desired the loan, but they made tentative arrangements
asking if I would be in a position to give it to him should he desire
it, and they said they came to me at this early date desiring to make
no definite statement. Mr. Lawton had told them that once before I had
accommodated him by carrying a note confidentially at his request.
Of course I did not care to commit myself, as you can readily
understand, Mr. Hamilton, until I was assured the proposition was
bona fide.

"Mr. Mallowe and Mr. Carlis suggested that I call Mr. Lawton up on the
private wire in his office, but the matter was so delicate that as
long as he had not come to me in person I did not care to telephone
him. Mr. Mallowe showed me a letter which he had recently received
from Pennington Lawton corroborating his statement. But in the matter
of the amount desired we could not definitely distinguish the figures.
Mr. Mallowe was sure that it was three hundred and fifty thousand
dollars. Mr. Carlis was equally certain that it was three hundred and
eighty-five thousand. To make certain of the matter they called Mr.
Lawton up from my office here in my presence, and he stated that the
sum desired was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. There was
only one odd thing about the entire transaction, and that was a remark
Mr. Mallowe made as he was leaving. After the negotiations had been
completed he turned and said, 'You understand, Mr. Moore, that Mr.
Lawton is so careful, so secretive, that he does not wish this matter
ever mentioned to him personally, even if you think yourself
absolutely alone with him.'"

"Mr. Lawton was a very peculiar man in many ways," Ramon said
meditatively. "His methods of conducting his affairs were not always
easily understood. The negotiations were then completed shortly
thereafter?"

"Yes, within a few days. I turned the amount required over to Mr.
Mallowe and Mr. Carlis, and accepted Mr. Lawton's note. I will show it
to you if you care to see it."

"That will not be necessary, Mr. Moore, but I am going to make a
request that may seem very strange to you. Should it be necessary,
would you be willing to show that note to some one whom I may bring
here to you--some one who may prefer not to see you personally, but
merely to be permitted to examine the note in the presence of some
responsible people of your own choosing?"

"Certainly, Mr. Hamilton. I think I can safely promise that. But what
does it mean--is there anything wrong with Pennington Lawton's note?"

"Not that I am aware of, Mr. Moore," Ramon answered, laughing rather
shortly. "I am unable to explain just now, but I think the name of
Pennington Lawton carries with it a sufficient guarantee that the note
will be honored when it is presented."

An hour later, at the close of the busiest day he had experienced
since his graduation from the law school, young Hamilton presented
himself at Henry Blaine's office. The detective listened in silence to
his story, and at its conclusion remarked quietly: "You did well, Mr.
Hamilton. I am going to call one of my operatives and ask you to
repeat to him in detail the location of that safe in Mallowe's office
and the drawer which contains Mr. Lawton's letter from Long Bay."

"Anyone would think you meant to steal it, Mr. Blaine."

Young Hamilton's laugh was now unrestrained. "There couldn't possibly
be anything wrong with the note or the entire transaction. Mr. Moore
proved that when he told me how Mr. Mallowe and Carlis called up Mr.
Lawton in his presence on his private wire and discussed the
negotiations."

"Are you sure that they did, Mr. Hamilton?" The detective suddenly
leaned forward across his desk, his body tense, his eyes alight with
fervid animation. "Are you sure Pennington Lawton ever received that
message?"

"He must have. According to Mr. Moore, the two men used Mr. Lawton's
private wire, the number of which was known only to a few of his
closest intimates and which of course was not listed."

"But some one who knew that the telephone message was coming might
readily have been in Lawton's office seated at his desk, alone, and
replied to it in the financier's name. Do you understand, Mr.
Hamilton? The note may be a forgery, the letter may be a forgery; that
we shall soon know. If it is, and the money so obtained from Moore has
been converted to the use of the three confederates whom we suspect to
have formed a conspiracy to ruin Miss Lawton, then her father's entire
fortune might have been seized upon in virtually the same way."

Henry Blaine rose and paced back and forth as if almost oblivious of
the other's presence. "The mortgage of his was forged--we have proved
that," he continued. "Why, then, should not every other available
security have been stolen in practically the same way?" he continued.

"But how would anyone dare? The whole thing is too bare-faced," Ramon
expostulated. "A man like Mr. Moore could not have been imposed upon
by a mere forgery."

"But if that note proves to be a forgery, Mr. Hamilton, and the
letter as well--we shall have picked up a tangible clue at last. I
think I am beginning to see daylight."

Late that night in the huge suite of offices of President Mallowe of
the Street Railways, a very curious scene took place. The stolid
watchman who had been on uneventful duty there for twenty years had
made his rounds for the last time. With superb nonchalance, he settled
himself for his accustomed nap in his employer's chair. From the
stillness and gloom of the semi-deserted office-building two stealthy
figures descended swiftly upon him, their feet sinking noiselessly
into the rich pile of the rugs. A short, silent struggle, a cloth
saturated with chloroform pressed heavily over his face, and the
guardian of the premises lay inert. The shorter, more stocky of the
two nocturnal visitors, without more ado switched on a pocket electric
light and made a hasty but thorough survey of the room. The taller one
shrank back inadvertently from the drug-stilled body in the chair,
then resolutely turned and knelt beside his companion before the safe.
He dreaded to think of what discovery might mean. If he, Ramon
Hamilton, were to be caught in the act of burglarizing, his career as
a rising young lawyer would be at an end. The risk indeed was great,
but he had promised Henry Blaine every aid in his power to help the
girl he loved.

After a minute examination, the operative proceeded to work upon the
massive safe door. With the cunning of a _Jimmy Valentine_ he
manipulated the tumblers. Ramon Hamilton, his discomfiture forgotten,
watched with breathless interest while the keen, sensitive fingers
performed their task. Soon the great doors swung noiselessly back and
the manifold compartments within were revealed.

The young lawyer pointed out the drawer from which he had seen
President Mallowe remove the letter that morning, and it, too, yielded
quickly to the master-touch of the expert. There, on the very top of a
pile of papers, lay the written page they sought.

"He'll be all right. We haven't done for him, have we?" Ramon Hamilton
whispered anxiously, pointing to the watchman's unconscious form, as,
their mission accomplished, they stole from the room.

"Surest thing you know. He'll come to in half an hour, none the
worse," the operative responded. "We made a good clean job of it."

Henry Blaine could hardly suppress his elation when they laid the
letter before him on their return to his office.

"It's a forgery, just as I suspected," he exclaimed, with supreme
satisfaction. "Look, Hamilton; I'll show you how it was done."

"It is incredible. I can scarcely believe it. I know Pennington
Lawton's handwriting as well as I know my own, and I could swear that
his fingers guided the pen. His writing was as distinctive as his
character."

"It's that very fact," the detective returned, "which would have made
it easier to copy; but, as it happens, you are partially right. This
was not a forgery in the ordinary sense. Those are Pennington Lawton's
own words before you, in his own handwriting."

"Then how--" the young lawyer inquired, in a bewildered tone.

Henry Blaine smiled.

"You do not intend to specialize in criminal law, do you, Mr.
Hamilton?" he remarked whimsically. "If you do, you will have to be
up in the latest tricks of the trade. The man who forged this
letter--the same man, by the way, forged the signature on that
mortgage--accomplished it like this: He took a bundle of Mr. Lawton's
old letters, cut out the actual words he desired, and pasted 'em
in their proper order on the letter paper. Then he photographed this
composite, and electrotyped it--that is, transferred it to a
copperplate, and etched it. Then he re-photographed it, and in
this way got an actual photograph of a supposedly authentic
communication. There is only one man in this country who is capable
of such perfect work. I know who that man is and where to find him."

"Then if you can locate him before he skips, and make him talk, you
will have won the victory," Ramon exclaimed, jubilantly.

But the detective shook his head.

"The time is not yet ripe for that. The man is, in my estimation, a
mere tool in the hands of the men higher up. He may not be able to
give us any actual proof against them, and our exposure of him will
only tip them off--put 'em on their guard. We needn't show our hand
just yet."

"What's the next move to be, then?" the young lawyer asked. "I don't
mean, of course, that I wish to inquire into your methods of handling
the case--but have you any further commissions for me?"

"Only to accompany me to-morrow morning to the office of Charlton
Moore and let me examine that note which Mr. Lawton presumably gave
two years ago. Afterward, I have four little amateur detectives of
mine to interview--then I think we'll be able to proceed straight to
our goal."

The note also, as Henry Blaine had predicted, proved to be a forgery
and to have been executed by the same hand as the letter.

[Illustration: With the cunning of a Jimmy Valentine he manipulated the
tumblers. Ramon Hamilton, his discomfiture forgotten, watched with
breathless interest.]

The detective betrayed to the unsuspecting banker no sign of his
elation at the discovery, but following their interview he returned to
his office and sent for the four young girls whom he had taken from
the Anita Lawton Club and installed in the offices of the men he
suspected.

The first to respond was Margaret Hefferman, who had been sent as
stenographer to Rockamore, the promoter.

"You followed my instructions, Miss Hefferman," asked Blaine. "You
kept a list for me of Mr. Rockamore's visitors?"

"Yes, sir. I have it here in my bag. I also brought carbon copies of
two letters which Mr. Rockamore dictated and which I thought might
have some bearing on the matter in which you are interested--although
I could not quite understand them myself."

"Let me see them, please."

Blaine took the documents and list of names, scanning them quickly and
sharply with a practised eye. The names were those of the biggest men
in the city--bankers, brokers, financiers and promoters. Among them,
that of President Mallowe and Timothy Carlis appeared frequently. At
only one did Henry Blaine pause--at that of Mark Paddington. He had
known the man as an employee of a somewhat shady private detective
agency several years before and had heard that he had later been
connected in some capacity with the city police, but had never come
into actual contact with him.

What business could a detective of his caliber have to do with
Bertrand Rockamore?

The letters were short and cryptic in their meaning, and significant
only when connected with those to whom they were addressed. The first
was to Timothy Carlis; it read:

    Your communication received. We must proceed with the utmost
    care in this matter. Keep me advised of any further
    contingencies which may arise. P. should know or be able to
    find out. The affair is to his interests as much as ours.

                                                           B. R.

The second was addressed to Paddington:

    Have learned from C. that your assistants are under espionage.
    What does it mean? Learn all particulars at once and advise.

                                                              R.

"You have done well, Miss Hefferman," said Blaine as he looked up from
the last of the letters. "I will keep these carbon copies and the
list. Let me know how often Mr. Mallowe and Timothy Carlis call, and
try particularly to overhear as much as possible of the man
Paddington's conversation when he appears."

When the young stenographer had departed, Fifine Déchaussée
appeared. She was the governess who had been sent to the home of
Doctor Franklin, ostensibly to care for his children, but in reality
to find, if possible, what connection existed between Carlis,
Mallowe, Rockamore and himself. The young Frenchwoman's report was
disappointingly lacking in any definite result--save one fact. The
man Paddington had called twice upon the minister, remaining the
second time closeted with him in his study for more than an hour.
Later, he had intercepted her when she was out with the children in
the park; but she had eluded his attentions.

"I wish you hadn't done so. If he makes any further attempt to talk
with you, Mademoiselle Déchaussée, encourage him, draw him out. If he
tries to question you about yourself and where you came from, don't
mention the Anita Lawton Club, but remember his questions carefully
and come and tell me."

"Certainly, m'sieur, I shall remember."

Agnes Olson and Laurette Murfree, the switchboard operator to Carlis
and filing clerk to Mallowe, respectively, added practically the same
information as had the two preceding girls. Mark Paddington, the
detective, had been in frequent communication with each of their
employers. When the young women had concluded their reports and
gone, Blaine telephoned at once to Guy Morrow, his right-hand
operative, and instructed him to watch for Paddington's appearance
in the neighborhood of the little house in the Bronx, where they had
located Brunell, the one-time forger.




CHAPTER VIII

GUY MORROW FACES A PROBLEM


Morrow, meanwhile, had slowly become aware that he had a problem of
his own to face, the biggest of his life. Should he go on with his
work? In the event that James Brunell proved, indeed, to be guilty of
the forgeries of which he was suspected by the Master Mind, it would
mean that he, Morrow, would have betrayed the father of the girl he
felt himself beginning to care for. Dared he face such a tremendous
issue?

His acquaintance with Emily Brunell had progressed rapidly in the few
days since his subterfuge had permitted him to speak to her. He had
met her father and found himself liking the tall, silent man who went
about the simple affairs of his life with such compelling dignity and
courteous aloofness. Brunell had even invited him to his little shop
and shown him with unsuspecting enthusiasm his process for making the
maps which were sold to the public schools.

Morrow had seen no evidence of anything wrong, either in the little
shop or the home life of the father and daughter; nor had he observed
Paddington--who was well known to him--in the neighborhood.

Even in these few mornings it had become a habit with him to watch for
Emily and walk with her to her subway station, and as frequently as he
dared, he would await her arrival in the evening. After his last
telephone conversation with Blaine, he called upon the two in the
little house across the way, determined to find out, if possible, if
the man Paddington had come into their lives. He felt instinctively
that James Brunell would prove a difficult subject to cross-examine.
The man seemed to be complete master of himself, and were he guilty,
could never be led into an admission, unless some influence more
powerful than force could be brought to bear upon him.

But the girl, with her clear eyes and unsuspecting, inexperienced
mind, could easily be led to disclose whatever knowledge she
possessed, particularly if her interest or affections were aroused. It
seemed cowardly, in view of his newly awakened feelings toward her,
but he had committed far more unscrupulous acts without a qualm, in
the course of his professional work.

Brunell was out when he called, but Emily led him into the little
sitting-room, and for a time they talked in a desultory fashion.
Morrow, who had brought so many malefactors to justice by the winning
snare of his personality, felt for once at a loss as to how to
commence his questioning.

But the girl herself, guilelessly, gave him a lead by beginning, quite
of her own accord, to talk of her early life.

"It seems so strange," she remarked, confidingly, "to have been so
completely alone all of my life--except for Daddy, of course."

"You have no brothers or sisters, Miss Brunell?" asked the detective.

"None--and I never knew my mother. She died when I was born."

Morrow sighed, and involuntarily his hand reached forward in an
expression of complete sympathy.

"Daddy has been mother and father to me," the girl went on
impulsively. "We have always lived in this neighborhood, ever since I
can remember, and of course we know everyone around here. But with my
downtown position and Father's work in the shop, we've had no time to
make real friends and we haven't even cared to--before."

"Before when?" he asked with a kindly intonation not at all in keeping
with the purpose which had actuated him in seeking her friendship.

"Before you brought my kitten back to me." She paused, suddenly
confused and shy, then added hurriedly, "We have so few guests, you
know. Daddy, somehow, doesn't care for people--as a rule, that is. I'm
awfully glad that he has made an exception with you."

"But surely you have other friends--for instance, that young fellow
I've noticed now and again when he called upon you."

Morrow's thoughts had suddenly turned to that unknown visitor toward
whom he had taken such an unaccountable dislike.

"Young fellow--what young fellow?" Emily Brunell's voice had changed,
slightly, and a reserved little note intruded itself which reminded
Morrow all at once of her father.

"I don't know who he is--I'm such a newcomer in the neighborhood, you
know; but I happened to see him from my window across the way--a
short, dapper-looking young chap with a small, dark mustache."

"Oh! _that_ man." Her lip curled disdainfully. "That's Charley
Pennold. He's no friend of mine. He just comes to see Father now and
again on business. I don't bother to talk to him. I don't think Daddy
likes him very much, either."

She caught her breath in sharply as she spoke, and looked away from
Morrow in sudden reserve. He felt a quick start of suspicion, and
searched her averted face with a keen, penetrating glance.

If this Charley Pennold, whoever he might be, wished to see James
Brunell on legitimate business, why did he not go to his shop openly
and above-board in the day-time? Could he be an emissary from some one
whom the old forger had reason to evade? If he were, did Emily know
for what purpose he came, and was she annoyed at her own error in
involuntarily disclosing his name?

"He is a map-maker, too?" leaped from Morrow's lips.

"He is interested in maps--he gives Daddy large orders for them, I
believe."

Emily spoke too hurriedly, and her tones lacked the ring of sincerity
which was habitual with them.

The trained ear of the detective instantly sensed the difference, and
his heart sank.

So she had lied to him deliberately, and her womanly instinct told her
that he knew it.

She began to talk confusedly of trivialities; and Morrow, seeing that
it would be hopeless to attempt to draw her back to her unguarded
mood, left her soon after--heartsick and dejected.

Should he continue with his investigations, or go to Henry Blaine and
confess that he had failed him? Was this girl, charming and innocent
as she appeared, worth the price of his career--this girl with the
blood of criminals in her veins, who would stoop to lies and deceit to
protect them? Yet had not he been seeking deliberately to betray her
and those she loved, under the guise of friendship? Was he any better
than she or her father?

Then, too, another thought came to him. Might she not be the tool,
consciously or unconsciously, of a nefarious plot?

He felt that he could not rest until he had brought his investigations
to a conclusion which would be satisfactory to himself, even if he
decided in the end, for her sake, never to divulge to Henry Blaine the
discoveries he might make.

A few days later, however, Morrow received instructions from Blaine
himself, which forced his hand. The time had come for him to use the
skeleton-key which he had had made. He must proceed that night to
investigate the little shop of the map-maker and look there for
the evidence which would incriminate him--the photographic and
electrotyping apparatus.

Early in the evening he heard Emily's soft voice as she called across
the street in pleasant greeting to Miss Quinlan, but he could not
bring himself to go out upon the little porch and speak to her,
although he did not doubt his welcome.

He waited until all was dark and still before he started upon his
distasteful errand. It was very cold, and the streets were deserted. A
fine dry snow was falling, which obliterated his footprints almost as
soon as he made them, and he reached the now familiar door of the
little shop without meeting a soul abroad save a lonely policeman
dozing in a doorway. He let himself into the shop with his key and
flashed his pocket lamp about. All appeared the same as in the
day-time. The maps were rolled in neat cases or fastened upon the
wall. The table, the press, the binder were each in their proper
place.

Morrow went carefully over every inch of the room and the curtained
recess back of it, but could find no evidence such as he sought. At
length, however, just before the little desk in the corner where James
Brunell kept his modest accounts, the detective's foot touched a metal
ring in the floor. Stepping back from it, he seized the ring and
pulled it. A small square section of the flooring yielded, and the
raising of the narrow trap-door disclosed a worn, sanded stone
stairway leading down into the cellar beneath.

Blaine's operative listened carefully but no sound came from the
depths below him; so after a time, with his light carefully shielded,
he essayed a gingerly descent. On the bottom step he paused. There was
small need for him to go further. He had found what he sought. Emily
Brunell's father was a forger indeed!




CHAPTER IX

GONE!


Guy Morrow, after a sleepless night, presented himself at Henry
Blaine's office the next morning. The great detective, observing his
young subordinate with shrewd, kindly eyes, noted in one swift glance
his changed demeanor: his pallor, and the new lines graven about the
firm mouth, which added strength and maturity to his face. If he
guessed the reason for the metamorphosis, Blaine gave no sign, but
listened without comment until Morrow had completed his report.

"You obeyed my instructions?" he asked at length. "When you discovered
the forgery outfit in the cellar of Brunell's shop, you left
everything just as it had been--left no possible trace of your
presence?"

"Yes, sir. There's not a sign left to show any one had disturbed the
place. I am sure of that."

"Not a foot-print in the earth of the cellar steps?"

"No, sir."

"And the outfit--was there any evidence it had been used lately?"

"No--everything was dust-covered, and even rusty, as if it had not
even been touched in months, perhaps years. The whole thing might be
merely a relic of Jimmy Brunell's past performances, in the life he
gave up long ago."

Morrow spoke almost eagerly, as if momentarily off his guard, but
Blaine shook his head.

"Rather too dangerous a relic to keep in one's possession, Guy, simply
as a souvenir--a reminder of things the man is trying to forget, to
live down. You can depend on it: the outfit was there for some more
practical purpose. You say Paddington has not appeared in the
neighborhood, but another man has--a man Brunell's daughter seems to
dislike and fear?"

"Yes, sir. There's one significant fact about him, too--his name. He's
Charley Pennold. It didn't occur to me for some time after Miss
Brunell let that slip, that the name is the same as that of the
precious pair of old crooks over in Brooklyn, the ones Suraci and I
traced Brunell by."

"Charley Pennold!" Blaine repeated thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of
him. He's old Walter Pennold's nephew. The boy was running straight
the last I heard of him, but you never can tell. Guy, I'm going to
take you off the Brunell trail for a while, and put you on this man
Paddington. I'll have Suraci look up Charley Pennold and get a line on
him. In the meantime, leave your key to the map-making shop with me. I
may want to have a look at that forgery outfit myself."

"You're going to take me off the Brunell trail!" Morrow's astonishment
and obvious distaste for the change of program confronting him was
all-revealing. "But I'll have to go back and make some sort of
explanation for leaving so abruptly, won't I? Will it pay to arouse
their suspicions--that is, sir, unless you've got some special reason
for doing so?"

Blaine's slow smile was very kindly and sympathetic as he eyed the
anxious young man before him.

"No. You will go back, of course, and explain that you have obtained
a clerkship which necessitates your moving downtown. Make your peace
with Miss Brunell if you like, but remember, Guy, don't mix sentiment
and business. It won't do. I may have to put you back on the job there
in a few days, and I know I can depend on you not to lose your head.
She's a young girl and a pretty one; but don't forget she's the
daughter of Jimmy Brunell, the man we're trying to get! Pennington
Lawton had a daughter, too; remember that--and she's been defrauded of
everything in the world but her lover and her faith in her father's
memory." His voice had gradually grown deeper and more stern, and he
added in brisk, businesslike tones, far removed from the personal
element. "Now get back to the Bronx. Come to me to-morrow morning, and
I'll have the data in the Paddington matter ready for you."

The young detective had scarcely taken his departure, when Ramon
Hamilton appeared. He was in some excitement, and glanced nervously
behind him as he entered, as if almost in fear of possible pursuit.

"Mr. Blaine," he began, "I'm confident that we're suspected. Here's a
note that came to me from President Mallowe this morning. He asks if I
inadvertently carried away with me that letter of Pennington Lawton's
written from Long Bay two years ago, in which I had shown such an
interest during our interview the other day. He has been unable to
find it since my departure. That's a rather broad hint, it seems to
me."

"I should not consider it as such," the detective responded. "Guilty
conscience, Mr. Hamilton!"

"That's not all!" the young lawyer went on. "He says that a curious
burglary was committed at his offices the night after my interview
with him--his watchman was chloroformed, and the safe in his private
office opened and rifled, yet nothing was taken, with the possible
exception of that letter. Mallowe asks me, openly, if I knew of an
ulterior motive which any one might have possessed in acquiring it,
and even remarks that he is thinking of putting you, Mr. Blaine, on
the mysterious attempt at robbery. That would be a joke, wouldn't it,
if it wasn't really, in my estimation at least, a covert threat. Why
should he, Mallowe, take me into his confidence about an affair which
took place in his private office? He did not make the excuse of
pretending to retain me as his attorney. I think he was merely warning
me that he was suspicious of me."

"Probably a mere coincidence," Blaine observed easily.

"I wonder if you'll think so when I tell you that twice since
yesterday my life has been attempted." Ramon spoke quietly enough, but
there was a slight trembling in his tones.

"What!" Blaine started forward in his chair, then sank back with an
incredulous smile, which none but he could have known was forced.
"Surely you imagine it, Mr. Hamilton. Since your automobile accident,
when you were run down and so nearly killed on the evening you sent
for me to undertake Miss Lawton's case, you may well be nervous."

As he spoke he glanced at the other's broken arm, which was still
swathed in bandages.

"But these were no accidents, Mr. Blaine, and I have always doubted
that the first one was, as you know. Yesterday afternoon, a new
client's case called me down to the sixth ward, at four o'clock. In
order to reach my client's address it was necessary to pass through
the street in which that shooting affray occurred which filled the
papers last evening. Two men darted out of a house, shot presumably
at each other, then turned and ran in opposite directions without
waiting to see if either of the shots took effect. You know that isn't
usual with the members of rival gangs down there. Remember, too, Mr.
Blaine, that it was prearranged for me to walk alone through that
street at just that psychological moment. It seemed to me that neither
man shot at the other, but both fired point-blank at me. I dismissed
the idea from my mind as absurd, the next minute, and would have
thought no more about it, beyond congratulating myself on my fortunate
escape, had not the second attempt been made."

"The sixth ward--" Blaine remarked, meditatively. "That's Timothy
Carlis' stamping ground, of course. But go on, Mr. Hamilton. What was
the second incident?"

"Late last night, I had a telephone message from my club that my best
friend, Gordon Brooke, had been taken suddenly ill with a serious
attack of heart-trouble, and wanted me. Brooke has heart-disease and
he might go off with it at any time, so I posted over immediately. The
club is only a few blocks away from my home, so I didn't wait to call
my machine or a taxi, but started over. Just a little way from the
club, three men sprang upon me and attempted to hold me up. I fought
them off, and when they came at me again, three to one, the idea
flashed upon me that this was a fresh attempt to assassinate me.

"I shouted for help, and then ran. When I reached the club I found
Brooke there, sitting in a poker game and quite as well as usual. No
telephone message had been sent to me from him. I tried this morning,
before I came to you, to have the number traced, but without success.
Do you blame me now, Mr. Blaine, for believing, after these three
manifestations, that my life is in actual danger?"

"I do not." The detective touched an electric button on his desk. "I
think it will be advisable for you to have a guard, for the next few
days, at least."

"A guard!" Ramon repeated, indignantly. "I'm not a coward. Any man
would be disturbed, to put it mildly, over the conviction that his
life was threatened every hour, but it was of her I was thinking--of
Anita! I could not bear to think of leaving her alone to face the
world, penniless and hedged in on all sides by enemies. But I want no
guard! I can take care of myself as well as the next man. Look at the
perils and dangers you have faced in your unceasing warfare against
malefactors of every grade. It is common knowledge that you have
invariably refused to be guarded."

"The years during which I have been constantly face to face with
sudden death have made me disregard the possibility of it. But I shall
not insist in your case, Mr. Hamilton, if you do not wish it; and
allow me to tell you that I admire your spirit. However, I should like
to have you leave town for a few days, if your clients can spare
you."

"Leave town? Run away?" Ramon started indignantly from his chair, but
Blaine waved him back with a fatherly hand.

"Not at all. On a commission for me, in Miss Lawton's interests. Mr.
Hamilton, you have known the Lawtons for several years, have you
not?"

"Ever since I can remember," the young lawyer said with renewed
eagerness.

"Two years ago, in August, Pennington Lawton and his daughter were at
'The Breakers,' at Long Bay, were they not?"

"Yes. Anita and I were engaged then, and I ran out myself for the
week-end."

"I want you to run out there for me now. The hotel will be closed at
this time of year, of course, but a letter which I will give you to
the proprietor, who lives close at hand, will enable you to look over
the register for an hour or two in private. Turn to the arrivals for
August of that year, and trace the names and home addresses on each
page; then bring it back to me."

"Is it something in connection with that forged letter to Mallowe?"
asked Ramon quickly.

"Perhaps," the detective admitted. He shrugged, then added leniently,
"I think, before proceeding any further with that branch of the
investigation, it would be well to know who obtained the notepaper
with the hotel letterhead, and if the paper itself was genuine. Bring
me back some of the hotel stationery, also, that I may compare it with
that used for the letter."

A discreet knock upon the door heralded the coming of an operative, in
response to Blaine's touch upon the bell.

"There has been a slight disturbance in the outer office, sir," he
announced. "A man, who appears to be demented, insists upon seeing
you. He isn't one of the ordinary cranks, or we would have dealt with
him ourselves. He says that if you will read this, you will be glad to
assent to an interview with him."

He presented a card, which Blaine read with every manifestation of
surprised interest.

"Tell him I will see him in five minutes," he said. When the operative
had withdrawn, the detective turned to Ramon.

"Who do you think is waiting outside? The man who threatened
Pennington Lawton's life ten years ago, the man whose name was
mentioned by the unknown visitor to the library on the night Lawton
met his death: Herbert Armstrong!"

"Good heavens!" Ramon exclaimed. "What brings him here now? I thought
he had disappeared utterly. Do you think it could have been he in the
library that night, come to take revenge for that fancied wrong, at
last?"

"That is what I'm going to find out," the detective responded, with a
touch of grimness in his tones.

"But you don't mean--it isn't possible that Mr. Lawton was murdered!
That he didn't die of heart-disease, after all!"

"I traced Armstrong to the town where he was living in obscurity, and
followed his movements." Blaine's reply seemed to be purposely
irrelevant. "I could not, however, find where he had been on the night
of Mr. Lawton's death. Now that he has come to me voluntarily, we
shall discover if the voice Miss Lawton overheard in that moment when
she listened on the stairs, was his or not.... Come back this
afternoon, Mr. Hamilton, and I will give you full information and
instructions about that Long Bay errand. In the meantime, guard
yourself well from a possible attack, although I do not think another
attempt upon your life will be made so soon. Take this, and if you
have need of it, do not hesitate to use it. We can afford no
half-measures now. Shoot, and shoot to kill!"

He opened a lower drawer in his massive desk and, drawing from it a
business-like looking revolver of large caliber, presented it to the
lawyer. With a warm hand-clasp he dismissed him, and, going to the
telephone, called up Anita Lawton's home.

"I want you to attend carefully, Miss Lawton. I am speaking from my
office. A man will be here with me in a few minutes, and I shall seat
him close to the transmitter of my 'phone, leaving the receiver off
the hook. Please listen carefully to his voice. I only wish you to
hear a phrase or two, when I will hang up the receiver, and call you
up later. Try to concentrate with all your powers, and tell me
afterward if you have ever heard that voice until now; if it is the
voice of the man you did not see, who was in the library with your
father just before he died."

He heard her give a quick gasp, and then her voice came to him, low
and sweet and steady.

"I will listen carefully, Mr. Blaine, and do my best to tell you the
truth."

The detective pulled a large leather chair close to the telephone, and
Herbert Armstrong was ushered in.

The man was pitiful in appearance, but scarcely demented, as the
operative had described him. He was tall and shabbily clothed, gaunt
almost to the point of emaciation, but with no sign of dissipation.
His eyes, though sunken, were clear, and they gazed levelly with those
of the detective.

"Come in, Mr. Armstrong." Blaine waved genially toward the arm-chair.
"What can I do for you?"

The man did not offer to shake hands, but sank wearily into the chair
assigned him.

"Do? You can stop hounding me, Henry Blaine! You and Pennington Lawton
brought my tragedy upon me as surely as I brought it upon myself, and
now you will not leave me alone with my grief and ruin, to drag my
miserable life out to the end, but you or your men must dog my every
foot-step, spy upon me, hunt me down like a pack of wolves! And why?
Why?"

The man's voice had run its gamut, in the emotion which consumed him,
and from a menacing growl of protest, it had risen to a shrill wail of
weakness and despair.

Henry Blaine was satisfied.

"Excuse me, Mr. Armstrong," he said gently. "The receiver is off my
telephone, here at your elbow. It would be unfortunate if we were
overheard. If you will allow me--"

But he got no further. Quick as he was, the other man was quicker. He
sprang up furiously, and dashed the telephone off the desk.

"Is this another of your d--d tricks?" he shouted. "If it is, whoever
was listening may hear the rest. You and Pennington Lawton between
you, drove my wife to suicide, but you'll not drive _me_ there! I'm
ruined, and broken, and hopeless, but I'll live on, live till I'm
even, do you hear? Live till I'm square with the game!"

His violence died out as swiftly as it had arisen, and he sank down in
the chair, his face buried in his bony hands, his thin shoulders
shaken with sobs.

Blaine quietly replaced the telephone and receiver, and seated
himself.

"Come, man, pull yourself together!" he said, not unkindly. "I'm not
hounding you; Lawton never harmed you, and now he is dead. He was my
client and I was bound to protect his interests, but as man to man,
the fault was yours and you know it. I tried to keep you from making a
fool of yourself and wrecking three lives, but I only succeeded in
saving one."

"But your men are hounding me, following me, shadowing me! I have come
to find out why!"

"And I would like to find out where you were on a certain night last
month--the ninth, to be exact," responded Blaine quietly.

"What affair is it of yours?" the other man asked wearily, adding:
"How should I know, now? One night is like another, to me."

"If you hate Pennington Lawton's memory as you seem to, the ninth of
November should stand out in your thoughts in letters of fire," the
detective went on, in even, quiet tone. "That was the night on which
Lawton died."

"Lawton?" Herbert Armstrong raised his haggard face. The meaning of
Blaine's remark utterly failed to pierce his consciousness. "The date
doesn't mean anything to me, but I remember the night, if that's what
you want to know about, although I'm hanged if I can see what it's got
to do with me! I'll never forget that night, because of the news which
reached me in the morning, that my worst enemy on earth had passed
away."

"Were you in Illington the evening before?" asked Blaine.

"I was not. I was in New Harbor, where I live, playing pinochle all
night long with two other down-and-outs like myself, in a cheap hall
bed-room--I, Herbert Armstrong, who used to play for thousands a game,
in the best clubs in Illington! And I never knew that the man who had
brought me to that pass was gasping his life away! Think of it! We
played until dawn, when the extras, cried in the street below, gave us
the news!"

"If you will give me the address of this boarding-house you mention,
and the names of your two friends, I can promise that you will be
under no further espionage, Mr. Armstrong."

"I don't care whether you know it or not, if that's all you want!" The
gaunt man shrugged wearily. "I'm tired of being hounded, and I'm too
weak and too tired to oppose you, even if it did matter."

He gave the required names and addresses, and slouched away, his
animosity gone, and only a dull, miserable lethargy sagging upon his
worn body.

When the outer door of the offices had closed upon him, Henry Blaine
again called up Anita Lawton. This time her voice came to him
sharpened by acute distress.

"I did not recognize the tones of the person's voice, Mr. Blaine, only
I am quite, quite sure that he was not the man in the library with my
father the night of his death. But oh, what did he mean by the
terrible things he said? It could not be that my father brought ruin
and tragedy upon any one, much less drove them to suicide. Won't you
tell me, Mr. Blaine? Ramon won't, although I am convinced he knows all
about it. I must know."

"You shall, Miss Lawton. I think the time has come when you should no
longer be left in the dark. I will tell Mr. Hamilton when he comes to
me this afternoon for the interview we have arranged that you must
know the whole story."

But Ramon Hamilton failed to appear for the promised interview. Henry
Blaine called up his office and his home, but was unable to locate
him. Then Miss Lawton began making anxious inquiries, and finally the
mother of the young lawyer appealed to the detective, but in vain.
Late that night the truth was established beyond peradventure of a
doubt. Ramon Hamilton had disappeared as if the earth had opened and
engulfed him.




CHAPTER X

MARGARET HEFFERMAN'S FAILURE


The disappearance of Ramon Hamilton, coming so soon after the sudden
death of his prospective father-in-law, caused a profound sensation.
In the small hours of the night, before the press had been apprised of
the event and when every probable or possible place where the young
lawyer might be had been communicated with in vain, Henry Blaine set
the perfect machinery of his forces at work to trace him.

It was dawn before he could spare a precious moment to go to Anita
Lawton. On his arrival he found her pacing the floor, wringing her
slim hands in anguish.

"He is dead." She spoke with the dull hopelessness of utter
conviction. "I shall never see him again. I feel it! I know it!"

"My dear child!" Blaine put his hands upon her shoulders in fatherly
compassion. "You must put all such morbid fancies from your mind. He
is not dead and we shall find him. It may be all a mistake--perhaps
some important matter concerning a client made it necessary for him to
leave the city over night."

She shook her head despairingly.

"No, Mr. Blaine. You know as well as I that Ramon is just starting in
his profession. He has no clients of any prominence, and my father's
influence was really all that his rising reputation was being built
upon. Besides, nothing but a serious accident or--or death would keep
him from me!"

"If he had met with any accident his identity would have been
discovered and we would be notified, unless, as in the case when he
was run down by that motor-car, he did not wish them to let you know
for fear of worrying you."

Blaine watched the young girl narrowly as he spoke. Was she aware of
the two additional attempts only the day before on the life of the man
she loved?

"He merely followed a dear, unselfish impulse because he knew that in
a few hours at most he would be with me; but now it is morning! The
dawn of a new day, and no word from him! Those terrible people who
tried to kill him that other time to keep him from coming to me in my
trouble have made away with him. I am sure of it now."

The detective breathed more freely. Evidently Ramon Hamilton had had
the good sense to keep from her his recent danger.

"You can be sure of nothing, Miss Lawton, save the fact that Mr.
Hamilton is _not_ dead," Henry Blaine said earnestly. "You do not
realize, perhaps, the one salient fact that criminal experts who deal
with cases of disappearance have long since recognized--the most
difficult of all things to conceal or do away with in a large city is
a dead body."

Anita shivered and clasped her hands convulsively, but she did not
speak, and after a scarcely perceptible pause, the detective went on:

"You must not let your mind dwell on the possibilities; it will only
entail useless, needless suffering on your part. My experiences have
been many and varied in just such cases as this, and in not one in
fifty does serious harm come to the subject of the investigation. In
fact, in this instance, I think it quite probable that Mr. Hamilton
has left the city of his own accord, and in your interests."

"In my interests?" Anita repeated, roused from her lethargy of sorrow
by his words, as he had intended that she should be. "Left the city?
But why?"

"When he called upon me yesterday morning I told him of a commission
which I wished him to execute for me in connection with your
investigation. I gave him some preliminary instructions and he was to
return to me in the afternoon for a letter of introduction and to
learn some minor details of the matter involved. He did not appear at
the hour of our appointment and I concluded that he had taken the
affair into his own hands and had gone immediately upon leaving my
office to fulfill his mission."

"Oh, perhaps he did!" The young girl started from her chair, her dull,
tearless eyes suddenly bright with hope. "That would be like Ramon; he
is so impulsive, so anxious to help me in every way! Where did you
send him, Mr. Blaine? Can't we telephone, or wire and find out if he
really has gone to this place? Please, please do! I cannot endure this
agony of uncertainty, of suspense, much longer!"

"Unfortunately, we cannot do that!" Blaine responded, gravely. "To
attempt to communicate with him where I have sent him would be to show
our hand irretrievably to the men we are fighting and undo much of the
work which has been accomplished. He may communicate with you or
possibly with me, if he finds that he can contrive to accomplish it
safely."

"Safely? Then if he has gone to this place, wherever it is, he is in
danger?" Anita faltered, tremblingly.

"By no means. The only danger is that his identity and purpose may be
disclosed and our plans jeopardized," the detective reassured her
smoothly. "I know it is hard to wait for news, but one must school
oneself to patience under circumstances such as this. It may be
several days before you hear from Mr. Hamilton and you must try not to
distress yourself with idle fears in the meantime."

"But it is not certain--we have no assurance that he really did go
upon that mission." The light of hope died in her eyes as she spoke,
and a little sob rose in her throat. "Oh, Mr. Blaine, promise me that
you will leave no stone unturned to find him!"

"My dear child, you must trust in me and have faith in my long years
of experience. I have already, as a precautionary measure, started a
thorough investigation into Mr. Hamilton's movements yesterday, and in
the event that he has not gone on the errand I spoke of, it can only
be a question of hours before he will be located. You did not see him
yesterday?"

"No. He promised to lunch with me, but he never came nor did he
telephone or send me any word. Surely, if he had meant to leave town
he would have let me know!"

"Not necessarily, Miss Lawton." Blaine's voice deepened persuasively.
"He was very much excited when he left my office, interested heart and
soul in the mission I had entrusted to him. Remember, too, that it was
all for you, for your sake alone."

"And I may not know where he has gone?" Anita asked, wistfully.

"I think, perhaps, that is why Mr. Hamilton did not communicate with
you before leaving town," the detective replied, significantly. "He
agreed with me that it would be best for you not to know, in your own
interests, where he was going. You must try to believe that I am
doing all in my power to help you, and that my judgment is in such
matters better than yours."

"I do, Mr. Blaine. Indeed I do trust you absolutely; you must believe
that." She reached out an impulsive hand toward him, and his own
closed over it paternally for a moment. Then he gently released it.

Anita sighed and sank back resignedly in her chair. There was a
moment's pause before she added:

"It is hard to be quiescent when one is so hedged in on all sides by
falsehood and deceit and the very air breathes conspiracy and
intrigue. I have no tangible reason to fear for my own life, of
course, but sometimes I cannot help wondering why it has not been
imperiled. Surely it would be easier for my father's enemies to do
away with me altogether than to have conceived and carried out such an
elaborate scheme to rob me and defame my father's memory. But I will
try not to entertain such thoughts. I am nervous and overwrought, but
I will regain my self-control. In the meantime, I shall do my best to
be patient and wait for Ramon's return."

Henry Blaine felt a glow of pardonable elation, but his usually
expressive face did not betray by a single flicker of an eyelash
that he had gained his point. He knew that Ramon Hamilton had never
started on that mission to Long Bay, but if the young girl's
health and reason were to be spared, her anxiety must be allayed.
Courageous and self-controlled as she had been through all the grief
and added trouble which besieged her on every hand, the keen
insight of the detective warned him that she was nearing the
breaking-point. If she fully realized the blow which threatened
her in the sudden disappearance of her lover, together with the
sinister events which had immediately preceded it, she would be
crushed to the earth.

"You must try to rest." Blaine rose and motioned toward the window
through which the cold rays of the wintry sun were stealing and
putting the orange glow of the electric lights to shame. "See. It is
morning and you have had no sleep."

"But you must not go just yet, Mr. Blaine! I cannot rest until I know
who that man was whose voice I heard over your telephone this morning.
What did he mean? He said that his wife committed suicide; that he
himself had been ruined! And all through my father and you! It cannot
be true, of course; but I must know to what he referred!"

"I will tell you. It is best that you should know the truth. Your
father was absolutely innocent in the matter, but his enemies and
yours might find it expedient to spread fake reports which would only
add to your sorrow. You know, you must remember since your earliest
childhood, how every one came to your father with their perplexities
and troubles and how benevolently they were received, how wisely
advised, how generously aided. Not only bankers and financiers in the
throes of a panic, but men and women in all walks of life came to him
for counsel and relief."

"I know. I know!" Anita whispered with bowed head, the quick tears of
tender memory starting in her eyes.

"Such a one who came to him for advice in her distress was the wife of
Herbert Armstrong. She was a good woman, but through sheer ignorance
of evil she had committed a slight indiscretion, nothing more than the
best of women might be led into at any time. We need not go into
details. It is enough to tell you that certain unscrupulous persons
had her in their power and were blackmailing her. She fell their
victim through the terror of being misunderstood, and when she could
no longer accede to their demands she came to your father, her
husband's friend, for advice. Herbert Armstrong was insanely jealous
of his wife, and in your father's efforts to help her he unfortunately
incurred the unjust suspicions of the man. Armstrong brought suit for
divorce, intending to name Mr. Lawton as corespondent."

"Oh, how could he!" Anita cried, indignantly. "The man must have
been mad! My father was the soul of honor. Every one--the whole
world--knows that! Besides, his heart was buried, all that he did
not give to me, deep, deep in the sea where Mother and my little
brother and sister are lying! He never even looked at another
woman, save perhaps in kindness, to help and comfort those who
were in trouble. But when did you come into the case, Mr. Blaine?
That man whose voice I heard to-day must have been Herbert Armstrong
himself, of course. Why did he say that you, as well as my father,
were responsible for his tragedy?"

"Because when Mr. Lawton became aware of Armstrong's ungovernable
jealousy and the terrible length to which he meant to go in his effort
to revenge himself, he--your father--came to me to establish Mrs.
Armstrong's innocence, and his, in the eyes of the world. Armstrong's
case, although totally wrong from every standpoint, was a very strong
one, but fortunately I was able to verify the truth and was fully
prepared to prove it. Just on the eve of the date set for the trial,
however, a trag

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