Vincent Starrett

The Blue Door

Stories of Murder, Mystery, and Detection

ALL OF THE CHARACTERS AND INCIDENTS IN THIS BOOK ARE FICTITIOUS

Acknowledgment

For permission to reprint the stories in this collection, I am grateful to the editors of the Pictorial Review, Short Stories, Real Detective Tales, and MIDWEEK, The Chicago Daily News

V. S.

TO

EDWIN BAIRD

EDITOR AND FRIEND

The Blue Door

1.

Obliquely returning, at a late hour (or early, as you prefer), from the Sea Lions’ Saturday Nite Frolic, two shirt-fronted gentlemen, who addressed each other as Norway and Pemberton, affectionately linked arms and paraded, somewhat crazily, down the center of the street.

There was no mistaking their condition, and night-roaming taxi drivers, realizing the situation, hailed them hopefully. But the survivors of the recent hilarious celebration shook jovial heads and plodded onward in the Sunday morning silence. At intervals, however, the older of the two men tugged at his companion’s arm, endeavoring to draw him over to the sidewalk.

“Come ’long, Norway,” he urged, a little thickly. “Don’t be a damn’ fool. Let’s get home.”

“Let’s not,” suggested young Mr. Norway, with surprising clarity. He brandished his stick at a leering street lamp and tightened his grasp on the other’s sleeve. “’S the use of going home? There’s nobody there.”

The older man failed to appreciate this flight of logic. “We’ll be pinched, first thing we know,” he complained. “You don’t want to be pinched, do you?”

“Let ’em,” responded Norway, with some irrelevance, and continued his calisthenics with his stick. After a moment he added: “Tell you what let’s do. Let’s get some more Scotch and go to my place. No use going to bed now. Time to get up, Pemberton, ol’ man. Time for breakfas’ pretty soon. Whatcha say? Couple more little drinks, then we’ll call it a night. Gotta get some more Scotch, though. Well, whatcha say?”

The man called Pemberton made a gesture of resignation. “All right,” he agreed, “let’s go to your place, wherever it is. But what’s the sense of drinking all night? Besides, you can’t get anything now. Everything’s closed up—tight.”

“H’m!” said young Mr. Norway scornfully. “I can get it any time I want it. Any time,” he repeated firmly. “Day or night,” he added with conviction. “Know how to get a drink after midnight, Pemberton?”

“How?”

“Ask a cop!”

“You’re drunk as a fool,” said Pemberton.

His companion stood upon his dignity. “Not drunk at all,” he retorted. “But I’m going to be. Know what’m talking about, ol’ man. There’s a cop at the next corner. You’ll see.”

Mr. Pemberton became uneasy. “Good God, Norway,” he protested, “you can’t ask a policeman for liquor! Do you know this man?” His own wits were clearing under the effect of apprehension.

“Don’t know him at all,” said the younger man, “but he’s a cop, ain’t he? An’ all cops know where the liquor is, don’t they? Can’t fool me.”

Mr. Pemberton became more and more perturbed. His perturbation increased as relentlessly they bore down upon the policeman at the corner. He made an effort to stop the headlong progress of his companion, but Norway had already engaged the attention of the patrolman. Mr. Pemberton sighed, and assumed a subservient position in the rear.

“Morning!” observed Norway cheerfully, bracing his feet and slightly rocking.

The bluecoat stared suspiciously.

“Awful sorry to bother you, ol’ man, but we gotta get some liquor. Couple o’ thirsty Sea Lions in need o’ liquor.” He stepped back and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Whoo-o-o Whoo-o-o!” he rumbled, with a sound like a contralto fog siren, and immediately explained, “Sea Lions—see? Y’ain’t a Sea Lion yourself, officer?”

The officer was not. He was deeply interested, however.

“Thirsty, eh?” he countered.

“You bet,” said Norway earnestly. “Wanta get some Scotch. Good Scotch,” he added with great solemnity, “solid wool, eighteen karat. You know? Don’t happen to know a good place, do you?”

Suppressing a smile, the policeman appeared to think deeply. After a moment he replied: “Well, yes, I do know a place not far from here.” His glance took them both in, swiftly and shrewdly; but there seemed no doubt that they were quite innocent of guile. They appeared sincerely to want a drink. Furthermore, they were both already sufficiently liquored not to be likely to remember the incident.

“I’ll tell you what you’ve got to do, boys,” said the policeman. “This is Dearborn Street; I suppose you know that. Well, you go along here, the way you were going, for two blocks, then turn over west one block, then south again. There’s a little street cuts in there, only a couple of blocks long, and in front of one of the houses you’ll find an old cab—the only one left in the world, I guess. An old cab with a tired old horse attached to it. He stands with his head down, all the time, as if he was asleep, which maybe he is, and up on the box there’ll be an old cabby, with his head down, and for all I know maybe he’s asleep, too. Well there you are! All you got to do is get into the cab, then wake up the old cabby and tell him what you want. He’ll take you where you can get it.”

Pemberton stared, amazed at such directions from a policeman. Norway, however, received the nightmarish direction with gratitude and assurance. It was as if he had been given merely a street number and a name. He turned at once.

“Many thanks, ol’ man,” he nodded. “Knew you could fix us up. Well, many thanks!” And the hand that had been fumbling the change in his pocket came out with a reckless handful. It was the policeman’s turn to thank his interrogators.

“There!” said Norway triumphantly, as they moved away. “What’d I tell you? Any time you want a drink in this town—just ask a cop!”

Pemberton breathed a long sigh of relief. “By Golly, I need one,” he remarked plaintively.

“Now,” continued the younger man, as briskly as ever, “what’d that cop tell us to do?”

“I know the street,” answered his companion. “It must be Baker Street. Let’s get there in a hurry. I’m sober as a judge.”

He led the other to the sidewalk, this time without demur, and they continued their advance for two blocks, as directed, before turning to the west. At Baker Street they halted and looked quickly at each other. Suddenly both were smiling.

For two squares to the southward the little thoroughfare extended, lined on either side with tall residence buildings; and before the second house from the corner stood a tired horse attached to a decrepit cab of World’s Fair vintage—Chicago, 1893. Asleep upon the box sat an ancient cabman.

“Well,” observed Pemberton, “he’s there.”

“Sure he’s there,” said young Mr. Norway in a matter-of-fact tone. “Did you think he wouldn’t be? Any time you want anything in Chicago, ol’ man, just call a cop. Wanta taxi? Call a cop! Wanta cab? Call a cop! Wanta drink? Call a cop! Wanta policeman? Call a cop!”

He bore down upon the antique vehicle and, opening the door, climbed in and sat down. More slowly, Pemberton followed him. Neither horse nor driver stirred. The older man reopened and again closed the door, with some violence. Mr. Norway, a wizard of resource, thrust his stick through the open front window and sharply prodded the cabman with the ferule. “Probably dead,” he observed casually; and then the sleeper stirred and turned upon them.

The wrinkled face of the old driver was thrust toward them beyond the open window; his eyes were blinking.

“Whoo-o-o!” roared young Mr. Norway, in imitation of a sea lion. “Attaboy, Methuselah. All together now, gentlemen! We want liquor! We—want—liquor!”

“Shut up, you damned fool!” said Pemberton tensely. “Do you want to wake up the neighborhood?” Leaning forward toward the peering countenance, he asked in a low voice, “Can we get a drink, brother?”

“Right!” said the driver, and turned to rouse his slumbering animal with a long whip.

“Right away,” said young Mr. Norway, and fell asleep in his corner of the cab.

Pemberton looked at his companion with disgust in his glance. The opportunity to escape from the turbulent Norway seemed to have arrived. Still, he decided, after a moment, he might as well see it through. Norway might wake if he stopped the cab to get out, and then there would be another scene. Besides, he had no idea where Norway lived when he was at home, and it was probably necessary—decent, anyway—to get the idiot home, somehow. Let him have his drink, and possibly he would go along by himself.

He leaned back in his own corner and noted the curious career of the cab. Ingenious, he told himself; very ingenious indeed. The course, while erratic, was very methodical, and he was not surprised when, twenty minutes after they had departed, they drove up to the same house in Baker Street from which they had embarked.

He wakened Norway without ceremony and bundled that sleepy inebriate out onto the sidewalk. A door, slightly below the level of the sidewalk, stood open, and at the top of a flight of steps inside an unseen light was burning. The morning air was raw and chilly, and Norway shivered.

“The blue door at the top of the first flight,” said the driver, accepting a gratuity. “Tell ’em that the sleeping cabman sent you.”

Pemberton nodded curtly and led his companion inside. By degrees Norway was coming back to consciousness.

“Funny steps,” he muttered, looking vaguely up the stairway, and pronouncing the word shteps. “Got brass trimmings, ain’t they?” At the edge of each step the runner was bound with a strip of metal.

He stumbled after his companion until they stood upon a landing confronting a door that had been painted blue. Pemberton knocked softly with his knuckles against the panel, and the blue door was slightly opened. In the aperture was framed a hideously ugly woman, who looked back at them with unfriendly eyes.

“Well?” asked the woman sharply.

“We were told,” explained Pemberton, “that we could get—ah—something to drink here.”

“Were yese now?” sneered the woman, and her ugly face seemed to contract with malevolence. “Who told yese that maybe?”

“The sleeping cabman,” replied Pemberton politely, and gave her a smile.

For an instant she continued to stare at them, as though upon the instant she had conceived for them a dislike and an antipathy that would never end. Then, “Come in,” she said abruptly, and they passed into a sudden blaze of light.

2.

Arthur norway came slowly out of a deep slumber and looked about him at the familiar furnishings of his own room. Everything was as it should be, and for some moments he lay quietly on his pillow without memory of the events of the preceding hours of darkness.

After a time it occurred to him that his head was aching with quiet persistence and his tongue was thick and coated. An instant later, as he started to sit up, his dark sleeve attracted his attention, and he noted with a sense of bewilderment that he was fully dressed. At that point memory began to function, and with a bound he was out of bed and standing stupidly in the center of his chamber.

The declining sunlight of afternoon was coming in through his window, and a glance at his watch confirmed his suspicion that he had been asleep for a number of hours. It was, in point of fact, three o’clock Sunday afternoon.

Suddenly he became conscious that the telephone bell was ringing; that it had been ringing for some time. Probably it was that which had awakened him. There was an exasperated note in the outcry of the alarm bell. Pemberton probably, ringing him up to ask how he felt. The answer to that one was easy. He felt like hell.

Slowly he moved to the instrument and placed the receiver against his ear. After a moment it occurred to him to say “Hello,” and he said it.

It was not Pemberton; it was Taylor, reminding him of an engagement for that evening. Well, to the devil with Taylor! Without troubling to speak, he hung up the receiver and was called back a few minutes later. Taylor was under the impression that he had been cut off by the operator. Norway disillusioned him and again hung up the receiver.

Wow, what a head! And his tongue tasted like a brown plush vest. He had a policeman to thank for that. A policeman and a sleeping cabman. Poor old Pemberton! He was probably a wreck, too. He remembered everything very clearly now. At the top of the steps there had been a blue door, and then—in the doorway—an ugly woman with red hair. She had passed them in, and then there had been a barroom and a lot of people drinking. Lots of light, lots of glasses tinkling, lots of men, but not so many women. A flashy place with a long mirror and a lot of tables. A regular old-fashioned bar, though, with a brass rail and everything. The bartender’s hair, he recalled, was parted in the middle and plastered down on the temples just the way a bartender’s hair should be.

He supposed he had done a lot more drinking himself; in fact, he remembered some of it. He remembered it all, up to a point. Then everything had sort of faded out, like a picture on the screen. He and Pemberton had got separated somehow, he supposed. But no! Pemberton must have seen him home. Who else would have bothered?

“Wotta head!” observed young Mr. Norway idiomatically, and returned to the telephone.

He gave the number of the club where he had met Pemberton and asked for that member. Mr. Pemberton, the operator told him, was not in.

“When did he go out?” asked Norway.

The operator consulted someone else. “He didn’t come here last night,” she reported.

Good Night!

What had happened, Norway wondered, to old Pemberton?

The operator was asking, “Who is this?” as he started to hang up.

“Norway,” he said. “Tell him Norway called, when he comes in.”

“Oh, yes!” said the girl, with heavy sarcasm. “Why not Portugal?” She terminated the connection with a spiteful click.

Mr. Norway sat down in a chair to think it over. After all, he had got Pemberton into this mess, by insisting on approaching the policeman. What ought to be done about it?

But—pshaw! Pemberton was a grown man, capable of looking after himself. Probably a good drinker, too. He had gone to a hotel, no doubt, or to a Turkish bath. Probably he hadn’t gone to bed at all.

“You’re a better man than I am, Gordon gin,” said Norway aloud, and decided that he was an ass to worry about Pemberton. Pemberton had been drinking prewar cocktails when Arthur Norway had been drinking root beer at school.

A little later in the day, however, when he had bathed and dined and was feeling somewhat more human, Norway again called his companion’s club. Pemberton had not yet returned, and there had been no word from him.

“Is this Sweden again?” asked the operator, recognizing his voice. “No, Mr. Pemberton hasn’t come in yet.”

With a mild oath, Norway replaced the receiver.

Well, that was that. Then, his conscience reproaching him, he called up Taylor, apologized for his rudeness, and the two friends foregathered for the evening. Norway said little about his exploits of the preceding night, beyond explaining that he had done some important drinking.

In the morning he called Pemberton again, and learned with genuine alarm that still there had been no word of him. The operator was brusque and indisposed to answer questions.

Norway’s elastic conscience again smote him. If anything had happened to Pemberton, he was to blame. He didn’t know where Pemberton worked, or he would have called his office. Maybe Pemberton didn’t work at all; he looked like a bit of a capitalist.

“Ought I to call the police?” asked Norway, addressing the scratch pad on his telephone. There was no reply to his question, which, in consequence, remained unanswered. He fell into a panic of thinking.

If he called the police and nothing had happened to Pemberton, his friend might be angry. A lot of undesirable publicity might result about nothing. After all, Pemberton didn’t owe him any explanations. Pemberton wasn’t bothering him with telephone calls about his health.

Monday evening Mr. Norway was seized of a brilliant idea. He had them at times. Before leaving the office he telephoned one Honeywell, an old friend whom he had neglected in recent weeks, and asked him to dinner at the Belle Isle. Mr. Honeywell was charmed to accept. They met in the lobby and went into conference over the oysters.

Bartlett Honeywell was a name well known to a vast section of the American public. It was a name that appeared over exciting mystery tales in popular magazines for sale at all newsstands. But Bart Honeywell was known to Arthur Norway chiefly because they had attended high school together. In those days Norway had worked out Honeywell’s mathematics for him, and in return Honeywell had written Norway’s “compositions.” Although their ways lay widely apart, they were still friends, and each admired the other as much as he deserved to be admired. Honeywell admired Norway because he made a great deal of money in an office, and Norway admired Honeywell because he wrote stories that editors bought and printed and that other people read.

The amateur detective nodded sagaciously throughout his friend’s recital, and seemed to understand perfectly.

“So there you are,” concluded Norway. “Pemberton’s probably missing—God knows where!—and it’s my fault. Now the question is, ought I to go to the police—I’ve told you why I don’t like to—or just go on making inquiries myself? Or ought I to forget the whole business?”

“Forget nothing,” answered Honeywell promptly. “The man may be murdered!”

Norway hadn’t admitted that possibility even to himself. He jumped nervously. “By Jove!” he observed, weakly inadequate.

“What we’ve got to do,” continued Honeywell, “is find him ourselves. I’ll help you. You can’t do it yourself; you’ve got to be at the office during the day.”

“Oh, I could get away,” said Norway easily.

“Well, if I need you,” conceded Honeywell, “we’ll think about it.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Not much to go on, I’m afraid. I wish you hadn’t been so drunk, Norway. You forget the most important details.”

“We can find the house again,” protested Norway. “I’d recognize it in a minute.”

“You don’t even remember the name of the street,” commented the writer, “yet you remember Pemberton mentioning it. And you can be sure of one thing: that old scoundrel with the cab won’t be there during the day. He’s the night lookout. The policeman, too, is a night man, and probably he won’t admit anything. It’s one thing to ask a policeman what you did when you’re drunk, and another thing to ask him when you’re sober.”

“I wish I’d never seen him,” declared Norway earnestly. “Well, we’ve got to do it at night then, Honeywell.”

“Yes,” agreed the other, “I guess we’ve got to do it at night. This night, as a matter of fact. Already too much time has been allowed to elapse. You’re sure you never heard anything about Pemberton’s place of business?”

“I know I never did. He’s a new acquaintance, as I told you; and that’s the worst of it. A nice fellow that I meet, whom I like and who likes me; and first shot out of the box I run him into this!”

“Well, he must have a business some place, where they may know what’s become of him. Some place where people are agitated about him. Anyway, there’s the club. You’d better try it again, before we start out. He may have come back.”

However, Pemberton had not been heard from by anyone at the club; but in the telephone booth of the restaurant Norway had a shock. In the side pocket of his light overcoat he found a strange card.

“Now, how the devil did that get there?” he asked his friend, as they stood together in the lobby, preparing to go out.

The author-detective took the card and read: “Mademoiselle Marie Stravinsky, Russian Dancer.” He turned his peering, thick-lensed eyes upon his friend.

“You never heard of her?” he asked.

“Never in my life.”

“Of course,” said Honeywell, “a man gets a great many cards thrust at him. Some of them he accepts and absently drops into his pocket.”

“No,” asserted Norway, “nobody handed it to me. I’d be sure to remember.”

“I’m inclined to doubt it; but maybe! What you are thinking, of course, is that this card was put in your pocket, by someone in the speakeasy while you were intoxicated.”

“Something like that,” admitted Norway.

“Did you take your overcoat off?”

“I don’t know. I think it was off when I went in. Oh, hang it, I don’t remember!”

He knotted his brows for an instant. “Wait a minute! Honeywell, I’ll bet I found that card in the cab. It just popped into my head. I can’t swear to it, but I have a hazy sort of recollection about it. I seem to remember finding something on the seat when I climbed in.”

“Why should you stuff it in your pocket?”

“Good God, why should I do any of the things I did? Why should I want more liquor? Why should I ask a policeman for directions to a gin palace?”

The amateur detective was thoughtful. “You may be right,” he said, after a moment. “If you did find it in the cab it’s important—or may it be. Of course, someone else may have dropped it there. In fact, someone else did drop it there. Of course! It’s an admission card, see? It’s one way of getting into the place with the blue door.”

Again he was thoughtful.

“Or possibly it was dropped there by Pemberton, and you picked it up after he had climbed in. In which case it’s a clue also, for she will be a friend of Pemberton’s and may have heard from him.”

Mr. Norway again felt inclined to say “By Jove!” and said it before he could stop himself. “Bart,” he added with enthusiasm, “you’re a marvel!”

“No, I’m not,” said Honeywell, who knew very well his limitations; “but the card is something to work on, anyway, and I’m glad you found it. Look here, Norway, this is only Monday night, after all. Pemberton may be all right. Let’s give him until morning to show up at the club. Meanwhile, I’ll take this card and try to get a line on Mademoiselle Stravinsky. If she’s at all well known somebody will know where she lives; and I’d like to be able to call on her to-morrow.”

“All right,” agreed Norway, “whatever you think best.”

Vastly relieved by the knowledge that his clever friend was at work on the mystery, he went about his own business, while Honeywell, proud of his first real detective case, immediately set to work to discover the whereabouts of the Russian dancer.

“She’s probably not a Russian,” muttered the amateur detective, “and probably not much of a dancer, or it wouldn’t be necessary to have that kind of a card to advertise her. On the whole, I fancy it’s an admission card to the place with the blue door. Now, if I only knew how to find that place!”

The ease with which he discovered the address of Mademoiselle Stravinsky shocked him. The first man he asked seemed to know all about her. His informant was the leader of the restaurant orchestra, to whom the investigator had gone as soon as his friend’s back was turned.

“Sure,” said the orchestra leader, “I know her. Not personally, y’ understand; but I know who she is. She’s a cabaret dancer; everybody knows her. Used to be at the Whip-poor-Will, over in State Street, but I don’t know just where she works now. Anyway, she lives at the Sandblast. You know the big apartment building over near the lake? She’s got an apartment there.”

Honeywell, deeply grateful, wasted no further time. If she lived at the Sandblast, she wasn’t so far away at that minute; and there was no time like the present. He commandeered a taxicab and drove rapidly to the lake-front apartments.

What luck, he thought, if he should find Pemberton that very night! But that would be almost too easy. Furthermore, it would probably mean that nothing had happened to Pemberton. It didn’t take much of a detective, he reflected, to find a man who wasn’t lost. As reflecting credit upon Bartlett Honeywell, the case would be somewhat of a flop.

“Great Scott, what a bloodthirsty fellow I’m getting to be!” murmured the young man. “Here I’m almost hoping something has happened to him!”

At the Sandblast he ran his eye down the roster of names that appeared over the doorbells, and found a duplicate of the line of type on Norway’s card: Mademoiselle Marie Stravinsky. The additional words, Russian Dancer, had been scissored off to make the strip fit into its frame. He plunged his thumb into the minute button underneath. After a moment the release clicked like a telegraph instrument, and he adjusted his cravat and mounted the stairs.

Honeywell was not disappointed. Russian dancers, in anticipation, are lithe and beautiful. This one was both. She was not notably Russian, he reflected; she was, in point of fact, dark and Hebraic. However, she was radiantly young. How jolly it was to be an amateur detective, thought Honeywell, jiggling his cuffs into view.

Mademoiselle Stravinsky, however, was taken aback.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, then hesitated. “I thought you were someone else,” she said, after a moment.

“No, mademoiselle,” said Honeywell pleasantly. “May I introduce myself?” He did so. “The gentleman you were expecting is not Mr. Pemberton, by any chance?”

The dancer stared and frowned. “I do not understand you, sir,” she answered, clipping her words in foreign fashion. “Perhaps it is the wrong bell that you have rung?”

“That may be,” admitted the amateur. “You don’t know anyone named Pemberton, you mean?”

“I am sorry, but I do not know the gentleman you mention. You will pardon me if I close the door?”

She had begun to do so when Honeywell recovered his wits. “I beg your pardon,” he continued hurriedly. “The fact is, I was led to believe that he was a friend of yours. I’m sorry if I have made a mistake. You see, I found your card in his room.”

He made the last assertion boldly and untruthfully, and waited to see its effect.

“My card?” The pretty young woman was perplexed. “In the room of a Mr. Pemberton?”

The investigator conceded a point. “Well, in one of his rooms.”

“I must ask you to explain.”

“I should like to, mademoiselle. May I come in for a moment? I am quite respectable, I assure you.”

She flung open the door, and with a gesture invited him to enter. The apartment, he noted, was small and all but incapable of secreting anybody for long. After all, he decided, the truth was best. Certainly this charming creature was no criminal. He dropped into a big chair and told the story, suppressing only the fact that the card had been found in the ancient vehicle of the sleeping cabman.

“Why, it is wonderful!” she breathed when he had finished. “It is like a novel, is it not? And you—you are one of those clever detectives, Mr. Honeywell?”

“No,” asserted the clever detective, “that would be a bit thick, you know. I’m just a friend of Mr. Norway’s, trying to help him out.”

The dancer drew another breath of enchantment. “How sorry I am not to be able also to help,” she cried. “But you can see how impossible that is. I do not even know this Mr. Pemberton. As for my card, I can only suppose that it was given to him by someone else.”

“I understand,” said Honeywell. By George! She was stunning! “Well, thank you, anyway. And now I’ll run along.” He stood up and reached for his hat.

“Thank you,” said Mademoiselle Stravinsky. “Why, it is as good as a play, is it not? Except for your poor Mr. Pemberton. He, of course, is probably most unhappy. But may I not make a suggestion? Possibly he is ill. Possibly he was taken to a hospital. Have you called at the hospitals, Mr. Honeywell?”

Mr. Honeywell, feeling abysmally juvenile, admitted that he had not. “I never thought of it,” he confessed. “It was a good idea, my coming to you, if only to get a common-sense view of the case.”

On the steps, the amateur detective decided that he had been an ass. As for Mademoiselle Stravinsky, she was a beauty, and she had treated him very well indeed. Not many women would have bothered to listen to him.

He caught another taxi and headed for the apartment of Arthur Norway. There was a telephone there, anyway, and between them they could call up the different hospitals.

A disturbing thought began to gnaw at his mind. Surely that card meant something. Maybe the girl was telling the truth. Maybe she didn’t know Pemberton. But that didn’t prove that she had no connection with the place of the blue door. Had he been fooled? She had been very smooth, that good-looking girl. Had she been playing with him? But no, she had been very open and aboveboard; and he had mentioned the blue door. And yet… He leaned back in the taxicab.

Ho hum, thought Bartlett Honeywell, a bit wearily, this playing at detective wasn’t as easy as he had thought. In fiction, now, he would have had a confession in five minutes. It was odd how clever his creations were, when he himself was so bungling.

Norway greeted him with eagerness. “What luck?” asked that young man, even before the writer could remove his hat.

The amateur shrugged. “I’ve seen the Russian dancer,” he replied. “In fact, I’ve talked with her. She’s a knockout!”

“A knockout?”

“You know what I mean. She’s very good-looking. Anyway, she knows nothing. But she made a whacking good suggestion. She suggested that we call up the hospitals.”

“By Jove!” cried Norway. “Well, I suppose we could do that. You must have made quite a hit with the lady, Bart, to have her making suggestions. She didn’t pull the wool over your eyes, I suppose?” He chuckled.

Honeywell grinned provokingly. “She isn’t the woman who let you in at the blue door, anyway,” he retorted. “This one is a real beauty. Just the same,” he admitted, “I’ve been wondering, since I left her, whether she wasn’t almost too nice to me.”

“The woman at the speakeasy had red hair and a face like the wrath of God,” said Norway.

“This one has black hair and a face like a—like a—”

“I know,” nodded Norway. “Let it go at that, old man.”

He picked up a telephone directory with a red back and turned to the list of hospitals. After a moment he groaned. “Lord, what a lot of them!”

“This one wore a seal ring,” continued Honeywell casually. “You don’t remember a seal ring anywhere around that blue door, I suppose?”

Norway was suddenly interested. He hung up the receiver, which he had just plucked from its hook. “A seal ring?” he echoed.

“A regular man’s ring; I noticed it particularly. The design on the stone intrigued me; it was the head of a sphinx.”

“The head of a sphinx!” shrieked Norway.

“Something like that. You don’t mean to say you do recognize it?”

Norway collapsed into a chair. “Good God, Bart,” he cried, “it’s Pemberton’s! I remember every line of it. I saw it on his finger that night!”

Bartlett Honeywell got quickly to his feet. For a moment he stood silent, his eyes on those of his friend. Then he spoke slowly.

“I guess I’ve been a fool, Norway,” he observed. “But she won’t fool me again. Will you come along?”

Their progress to the Sandblast was marked by an array of speeding street lamps that fell behind them like a comet’s tail; but even so they were too late.

“Miss Stravinsky has gone away,” said the resident manager of the apartment building, when they had routed him from his chambers. “She left about half an hour ago…. No, sir, I don’t know where she went. She was called away suddenly, she said, and might be gone for some time. She’s given up the apartment…. Yes, sir, she only had it by the month; the furniture is ours…. No, sir…. Yes, sir…. Yes, sir…. No, sir…. I’m afraid not, sir…. Very well, sir…. Goodnight, sir!”

3.

There are parts of Chicago that are as satisfyingly picturesque as anything Europe can show. At night, when the shadows have painted out the ugliness that the sunlight loves to reveal, there are old-world glimpses that are worth going a distance to see. This is particularly true of what is locally known as the Near North Side, a district not too far from the roaring heart of the Loop, in which a motley of peoples and of passions have taken up their abode.

The neighborhood is known by its show spots, which is too bad, for they are quite the least attractive of the scenes it has to offer. There is that place, up a flight of stairs, where the waiters dance as they carry in one’s midnight supper, while the cook howls doleful ballads in the kitchen. And there is that blowsy club, up a miserable alley, that is a rendezvous for near-thinkers of a radical turn of thought. Free-thinkers, sex adepts, and notoriety seekers generally, speak their mind there, receiving for their performances half the contents of an impromptu tambourine. And there are little obscure back parlours, yet, where obscure poets and their lights-o’-love sit at sloppy tables and in the swash of dubious Budweiser catch a remote echo of the waves that beat on seacoast Bohemia.

But these are not the places to see. It is the accidental vignettes, the little washed-in sketches that are worth the journey. There is Elm Street, for instance, with its quaint old houses with white porcelain doorknobs and brass knockers. It progresses soberly westward from the Drive and almost ends in the broad front of a church then queerly changes its mind and winds up in a narrow byway west of LaSalle. It is like a bit of old London. The great gray mass of the Newberry Library bulks through the trees at Walton Square, and among its treasures are Latin breviaries, Sanskrit volumes with copper leaves, and an illuminated manuscript roll of the Bhagavad Ghita. To those who rest on the benches in the square there comes at times a silver chiming of bells from a neighboring temple, lost at intervals in the whir of motors in the avenue beyond and the strident voice of the fanatic who harangues an audience from a soapbox on the corner.

To the east, in Dearborn Street, the houses are elderly and tall, and once they were fashionable; but to-day placards stand in the windows or creak at the end of metal arms thrust outward from the stairheads. “Furnished Apartments,” the placards say, or, more simply, “Rooms.” Crossing the long thoroughfare at intervals, from east to west, are other streets of similar appearance, lined with gaunt, solemn houses, which at night, by the curious suggestion of darkness, sometimes seem fraught with sinister significance.

In one of the tall houses of this district was a large apartment on the second floor, to which access was gained by means of a blue door. And it was to seek this door, and that which lay beyond, that Messrs. Bartlett Honeywell and Arthur Norway went forth on the evening of the day that followed their fiasco at the apartment of Mademoiselle Stravinsky.

The hour was sufficiently late, and near an important intersection in Dearborn Street they halted their steps.

“Well,” observed Norway, “there’s the policeman, anyway.” He indicated the tall figure of a man in uniform some distance beyond them.

“There’s a policeman,” corrected Honeywell. “Whether or not he’s your policeman remains to be seen.”

“I’m almost certain this is the corner,” insisted the other, a bit nervously. “Besides, I ought to be able to recognize the fellow.”

The amateur detective shrugged dubiously. “We can only try,” he said. “Will you do the talking, or shall I?”

“If he recognizes me I’ll do it,” replied Norway. “If not, you’d better take him in hand.”

They approached slowly and halted before the policeman, who turned brusquely to confront them. There was no gleam of recognition in his glance. Norway, lacking the liquid courage that had fortified him on the preceding Saturday, made apologetic noises in his throat. His companion spoke.

“Beg pardon, officer,” he began, “but do you recognize this gentleman?”

The policeman’s gaze became more intent, and the unfortunate Norway squirmed.

“I can’t say that I do,” answered the policeman, and asked a question of his own: “What’s the idea? Am I supposed to know him?”

“The fact is,” continued Honeywell, “he was drunk last Saturday night and you gave him certain directions, he believes. He was with another gentleman, somewhat older and, I believe, somewhat less intoxicated. As the other gentleman has disappeared, we are naturally anxious to locate him.”

The policeman was interested. “I gave him directions?” he echoed. “I don’t remember them. What were the directions?”

“He and his friend were looking for some liquor, and they asked a policeman where they could get some. The policeman told them. I don’t know that you were the policeman.”

“Oh, you don’t!” cried the bluecoat with solemn irony. He added: “Say, what are you fellows trying to do? Kid me?”

“On my honor,” replied Honeywell, “I’m telling what I believe to be the truth. A policeman told my friend here of a place where he could get some liquor; where, in fact, he did get some liquor. Later, the gentleman who was with my friend disappeared, and we are afraid that something has happened to him.”

“Oh, you are afraid that something has happened to him?” The policeman’s sarcasm became more profound, a thing of weight and substance. After a moment he spoke again, gently and with an almost friendly smile. “Look here, buddy, I don’t know whether you’re coo-coo or I am, but just you move quietly along and forget that stuff, or something might happen to you. See? Take a tip from a friend, and get started.”

“If you’re not the man,” said the amateur detective in friendly tones, “of course you think I’m crazy. I don’t blame you. But let me ask you just one more question: Do you know anything about the sleeping cabman?”

The burly policeman retreated a step. “The what?” he demanded.

“The sleeping cabman. An old fellow asleep on a cab, you know, who takes people where they want to go. He only lets on he’s asleep until you climb into his cab; then he whips up his horse and—”

The policeman’s hand fell lightly on the speaker’s shoulder. There was a smile on his lips. “Never heard of him, buddy,” he interrupted. “So he lets on he’s asleep, does he? Cunning old rascal! Sorry I can’t help you. You might ask the copper on the next corner, though; he’s pretty keen after sleepers. But if you’ll take a tip from me, you won’t ask anybody, but just run along home and get into bed. Wonderful place—bed —when you ain’t feeling well,” he added sententiously.

Honeywell burst into a fit of laughter. “You still think we’re a couple of lunatics,” he cried. “I’m beginning to think so myself. It’s pretty wild, isn’t it? And yet, it’s all true. Well, thanks anyway. I imagine we’re lucky we’re not taking a ride with you.”

The two friends tramped off in the darkness and no word was spoken between them until they had reached the next corner. Then Honeywell said dryly: “I think we’ve had enough of policemen, Norway, until we go to them in the regular way. We’re going to find this damned blue door by ourselves.”

“You didn’t ask him about that,” said Norway.

“No, I knew just when to quit.”

Norway nodded. “All right,” he replied; “but listen, Bart—that was the policeman! Don’t contradict me. I know! I was too scared to tell him so—but he’s the man, and don’t you forget it. Now, come on.”

He cast about him for a moment, and then turned briskly up the side street. “It’s either this street or the next one,” he said. “I’ve forgotten the exact directions, but I know the way we walked.”

They stopped at the first north-and-south intersection and looked blankly at each other. There was no ancient cab at the curbstone of any house in view; no tired horse, no sleeping cabman; no cabman living or dead, awake or slumbering.

“And yet,” muttered Norway, “those look like the houses.”

They crossed the street and entered the narrow residence block that paralleled Dearborn Street. In one doorway, level with the sidewalk, from which it was only a few steps removed, a dim light was burning. Beyond its feeble illumination a flight of steps ascended. The door was open. Pushing closer in, Norway observed that the steps were bound at every edge by a metal strip. The fact woke a slumbering memory in his brain. He turned to his companion.

“Bart,” he said, “either this is the very place or its twin brother. Shall we risk it?”

For answer, Honeywell stepped forward and passed through the open door. Then in silence they ascended the poorly lighted stairway until they stood upon a landing before a door that certainly once had been painted blue.

“The blue door!” whispered Norway, and Honeywell raised his hand and rapped with his knuckles against the panel. Within were the familiar sounds of subdued revelry.

The story writer knocked more loudly, and suddenly all sound ceased. In a moment steps were heard beyond the barrier, and the door creaked open on ancient hinges. A formidable-looking man stood in the opening; he glared out at them with baleful eyes.

But Norway, timorous in the presence of uniformed law and order, in the presence of this stranger was undismayed. To the snarling “Whadda yuh want?” of the man in the doorway, he replied smilingly, “Liquor.”

The mountainous bouncer sneered. “Who sent yuh here?” he demanded, truculently. “This is a private home.”

“The sleeping cabman,” said Norway, and stepped six inches nearer. The door was beginning to close in his face.

“Mademoiselle Marie Stravinsky,” said Honeywell suavely, and shoved the card he carried under the man’s red nose.

The fellow shrugged. He pulled the door open half a foot. “You’re new ones to me,” he observed ungraciously, “but I s’pose you’re all right. Don’t make so much noise next time you come, boys,” he added in better humor. “We thought the place was pinched.”

They slid through and looked about them with eager eyes.

Norway’s first impulse was to say quickly, “This is not the place,” and go out; but his friend’s fingers were on his arm, as if he sensed the danger, and together they strode forward to the long bar that flanked one side of the room.

“All right, Jim,” said the man at the door, and an oily barkeep glided forward to receive their order.

In the wide mirror that hung behind the bar Honeywell studied his friend’s face and read the doubt written there. “We’re in wrong,” he said inwardly, and gave his order with great nonchalance to the oily barkeep.

“Let’s sit down, Artie,” he remarked to Norway, avoiding a reference to his friend’s surname, and when their drinks had been set before them they carried them to a table, which fortunately was unoccupied.

“Wrong place?” asked the writer casually, as if passing the time of day; and Norway nodded.

“The glass is on the wrong side, and so’s the bar,” replied his friend. “Less swanky, too. All men here. The other place was—ah—co-educational.”

Honeywell laughed. “We’ll leave after a drink or two,” he said. “Take it easy, old chap. Lots of time.”

Over the rim of his glass he began a careful scrutiny of the long room. There were perhaps thirty men present, all drinking, and three youngish citizens were doing duty behind the bar. There appeared to be everything on hand that anyone might care to drink, and a great deal that Bartlett Honeywell had no notion of trying. On the whole, the appearance of the place was much similar to that of an old-fashioned barroom of the better sort. The men, for the most part, seemed harmless enough Republicans and Democrats.

Mr. Honeywell sipped leisurely at his Scotch-and-soda and decided that he was beginning to enjoy the chase. At the bar he had asked for a Scotch highball, but in private he preferred to think of the compound as Scotch-and-soda; the phrase had greater literary connotations. It pleased him now to fancy himself a private detective of wide clandestine celebrity, sipping the drink that such detectives like best.

In a little while a small man came out of a back room and, glancing quickly about the place, came over to their table and sat down. A waiter from behind the bar came to his side and received his order. Messrs. Norway and Honeywell accepted his company without outward demonstration. When he had inhaled a draught from his tumbler the newcomer became friendly.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you here before, boys,” he said affably. “Glad to see you. Any friend of the house is a friend of mine.” He made the remark with proper modesty, yet with a proper appreciation of the honor he was conferring upon the newcomers by his interest. He added: “Name’s Silvernail—Julian Silvernail.”

Withholding his own name and that of his friend, Honeywell hastened to indicate that they were delighted to make Mr. Silvernail’s acquaintance. They hadn’t been in before, he added, but they hoped to be in again often, now that they had found the place.

Julian Silvernail understood perfectly. “Nice little place,” he observed with some condescension. “Gawd knows who gets the graft, but it’s a nice little place. Maybe you know my name. I do a little turn over at the Pollymabel. Song and dance.”

“An actor!” cried Honeywell in ecstasy.

“Well, something like that, you know.” Mr. Silvernail was deprecatory. “Everybody seems to know me, anyway.” He smiled and inhaled another draught of liquid, setting down his glass to wave a friendly hand at the huge man at the door. “Everybody knows me,” he repeated. “I’m wise to all these places. Lead you to ’em with my eyes shut.”

Honeywell’s suspicions began to diminish. The man was patently an egotist, and probably just what he claimed to be, a cheap artist in neighborhood vaudeville. It was just conceivable that he might be made useful.

“We thought we might run into a friend of ours here,” said the writer after a moment. “He comes here sometimes. Haven’t seen him for a day or two. Maybe he’s sick.” There was considerable noise at the moment; he resolved to risk the name. “His name’s Pemberton,” he continued. “You don’t happen to know him?”

“Pemberton?” repeated Silvernail. “’S funny. I seem to know that name. Knew a fellow named Pemberton out in ’Frisco, once; probably not the same fellow, though.”

“The fact is,” Honeywell went on, “we’re a bit worried about Pemberton. He drinks too much. Goes on a bat, sometimes, and disappears. May be dead, for all anyone knows, once he lets himself go. I’d certainly like to run across him.”

“Comes here, does he?” asked the vaudevillian. “Some of the boys’ll know him, maybe. Big Ed, over there at the door, ought to know him. I’ll ask him.”

“No, don’t bother,” cried Honeywell quickly. “He’ll turn up.” And Norway hurriedly added, “I saw him a couple of nights ago, over at another place. Place just like this, about a block over. You know it? Don’t know it very well myself; but I know it’s got a blue door, like this one.”

Silvernail chuckled. “Second floor?” he asked. “Old boy outside, asleep on his box? Redhead Annie at the door? I’ll say I know it! But, say, it’s hard to get in there. Sort of fancy club, that.”

“We thought we’d drop in, later on,” added Honeywell, pleased at the way the conversation had turned.

“Drop in now,” cried Silvernail. “Why not? I’ll go with you. Say, I know that whole crowd. Wait’ll I come back, boys. Won’t be a minute.”

He hastily swallowed what was left of the liquor in his glass and got to his feet. In a moment he had disappeared into the back room from which he had emerged.

Honeywell looked at Norway. “Have we been damned fools?” he asked in a low voice. “I was suspicious of that fellow at first, and I think I’m more suspicious of him now.”

“Oh, he’s all right,” answered his companion, excited at the prospect of finding the trail of the missing Pemberton. “He certainly looks the part he calls himself. I know the type, Bart. Take a chance; it may be the only one we’ll have.”

“No hope for it, I guess,” muttered Honeywell. “Here he is. What’s he talking to that fellow behind the bar for?” he asked complainingly. “They’re both looking over here at us.”

“Telling him about Pemberton, I imagine,” replied Norway. “It can’t be helped. And we are looking for him, you know! I don’t know why we shouldn’t ask questions, wherever we go.”

The dapper Silvernail rejoined them, smiling. “All set?” he asked. “Here we go!”

The man-mountain who had been called Big Ed opened the door for them, smiling evilly, and they descended to the street in silence. A light drizzle of rain was falling and a touch of fog was in the air. The street lamps gleamed somewhat ghostily in the silver darkness. A purple taxicab was coming along the slippery street, feeling its way toward the curb. Silvernail flung up an arresting hand.

“Hey, Purple!” he called.

The driver brought his machine to a standstill. “Sorry,” he said courteously, “but I’ve got a call.”

“To hell with it,” said Silvernail cheerily. “I’ve got a new suit, and it’s raining. We’re only going a block or two, anyway. You can be back in ten minutes.”

He yanked open the door as he spoke. “In you go, boys.” The driver laughed and surrendered. Norway and Honeywell climbed in, and the song-and-dance artist followed.

“Do you know a place called the Blue Door?” asked Silvernail of the chauffeur.

“I’ve heard of it,” admitted the driver cautiously.

“Take us there,” said Julian Silvernail. “It’s in the next block, in the same position as this place we’re leaving.”

The driver nodded and the taxi moved away from the curb. At the corner they turned and began to circle the square.

“You know,” cried the irrepressible Silvernail, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I knew your friend Pemberton, once I see him.”

“I hope so,” said Honeywell politely, “but I’m afraid there’s not much chance of your seeing him. As we told you, Mr. Pemberton has been missing for some days. We don’t exactly want to advertise it, but we would like to get some sort of a line on him. The fact is, we’re afraid something may have happened to him.”

“Things do happen,” admitted Mr. Silvernail with great originality. He brought forth a package of cheap cigarettes and proceeded with difficulty to light one. The street lamps were eerie in the wet darkness. The rain was increasing.

“Hello,” cried Norway suddenly, “this fellow’s going all wrong! He’s turning north.”

“That’s funny,” said the actor. “He oughta know better than that. Hey, buddy!” he called through the glass pane before him. “Not north—south!”

Instead of replying, the driver stepped on his accelerator and the car leaped forward as if it were an animal. Reaching an east-and-west crossing, it turned westward with undiminished speed and rushed blindly along the strange thoroughfare, while Julian Silvernail swore and tugged frantically at the window.

Honeywell started to rise to his feet, but a lurch of the car threw him into a corner with a shock that bruised his elbow. He subsided in his seat with a curious smile on his lips. Norway was rapping with his cane against the driver’s window, threatening to break the glass. A moment later he, too, subsided, and all three looked at one another in the darkness.

“Well, I’m damned!” said Julian Silvernail. “What does this mean, boys? Are you running away with me?”

“No more than you are running away with us,” replied Honeywell. “The driver would appear to be running away with us all. If I am not mistaken, we are being kidnaped.” The words were jerked out of him by the headlong speed of the taxicab, which now seemed to be running wild toward the western frontier.

“But this is infamous,” cried Norway. “Isn’t there something we can do?”

“We can break the glass and yell for help,” answered Honeywell, “but I doubt if it would do us any good. Anyone who heard us would only think we were all drunk. Or we can try to force the door open and jump for it; but it would be unsafe to try it. One of us would be sure to be killed. For my part, I’m going to sit tight and see what it all means. At any rate, we are three to one, if this fellow tries any funny business.”

Silvernail grunted. “We can knock his block off at the end of the line,” he suggested; “but where is the end of the line?”

Then suddenly, the taxicab swung north again, and plunged at length into a maze of small, dark streets and shadowy houses, to emerge at length in a barren district backgrounded by railroad tracks and the distant hoot of locomotives. In a narrow street that was little more than a blind alley it slackened speed and at length came to a stop. The driver sprang down from his seat and wrenched open the door at Honeywell’s side. In his hand there had appeared a menacing pistol of sinister reputation.

“Well, here we are,” he observed with acrid sarcasm. “Keep your faces shut, and get out quick.”

In silence, the trio descended to the sodden earth, and suddenly Norway and Honeywell were aware that two pistols were covering them. The second was in the hand of Julian Silvernail.

“End of the line, boys,” said their companion of the wild ride, “and a long walk back. You’re lucky to be getting back at all. You look like a couple of sensible young fellows to me. Take a tip from a friend, and keep out of this business. It ain’t healthy.”

The voice was detached and cool, but not unfriendly. Honeywell, when he had recovered his own, answered.

“Who do you think we are?” he asked.

The two strangers laughed.

“Forget it now, boys,” continued their acquaintance of the barroom. “We weren’t either of us born yesterday. Big Ed was wise to you as soon as you opened your traps. If he’d had his way, you wouldn’t be going home to-night. You’re only doing your duty; I know that, and I ain’t unfriendly; but we’re making our living in our way, too, and all we want is to be let alone, see? There’s no harm in selling good liquor to good fellows, now, is there?”

“I see,” said Honeywell; “you think we are government detectives, do you?”

“Government, or state, or anti-saloon league, or whatever you are, you’ve had your warning,” said the taxi driver. “Next time there’ll be less talking.”

He climbed back into his seat and Silvernail jumped quickly into the body of the cab. The engine was still running. In a moment the car was in motion. It turned slowly, and Honeywell, straining his eyes in the darkness, saw that the license plate had been painted over. There was a dark line about the body of the cab, too, that was unfamiliar. It was, in point of fact, he realized quickly, not a Purple taxi at all, but a private cab of similar hue and build; an owl taxi, probably, trading on the color of the popular company whose name was in everybody’s mouth.

With a final shifting of gears, it moved off in the darkness, leaving the two friends to silence and their thoughts.

Their thoughts were neither pleasant nor printable.

4.

The sun, rising early next morning after the rain, found the two adventurers soundly sleeping, and had been up a number of hours before either opened his eyes upon a lunatic world. The long, wet tramp through the night before a respectable taxicab could be encountered had had its inevitable effect upon the two friends; it had tired them so completely that sleep had overwhelmed them almost before they could undress.

About ten o’clock, however, Norway stirred, troubled by vague thoughts of the office, and, rolling over in bed, beheld the tousled head of Bartlett Honeywell outlined upon a sofa pillow. The story writer had spent the night upon a couch. Instantly Norway was wide awake, the details of the preceding evening livid in his mind. His vocal shudderings in the cold shower awoke Honeywell, who hastened to join his friend in the workaday world, however lunatic.

Some minutes later they descended to breakfast. Their plans had been perfected the night before, during that long, damp walk. They were through with private detecting: it was a delusion and a snare. The police should hear of these outrages, and that shortly.

Without difficulty, they gained the ear of a police captain and told their story. The officer smiled understandingly.

“Don’t those fellows do the damnedest things?” he asked. “I hear they have airships now, and fly the stuff over from Canada to some place in Michigan. Then they bring it down the lake and land it some place right under the noses of the government fellows. They’re sure getting cute. Well, gentlemen, I’ll do what I can to help you. I suppose you can find the place again where you met this fellow—what’s his name?—Goldstein?”

“Silvernail,” said Honeywell.

“Of course he lied about being a vaudeville actor,” continued the captain, “but he’s a bad actor, I’ll make a little bet on that. We’ll raid the place before they can get time to turn around, and maybe we’ll find a clew to your friend—what’s his name?—Emerson?”

“Pemberton,” said Honeywell.

“Whatever it is,” agreed the captain. “You fellows ’ll have to go along, see?”

He bustled about for some moments and came back with a square-shouldered, powerful fellow in plain clothes, who was introduced as Detective Sergeant Brady.

“Take a couple of men with you, Brady,” ordered the captain, “and get the whole gang.”

“Oughtn’t we to go at night, Captain?” asked Norway. “There’ll be a bigger crowd there at night.”

“Oh, we don’t want the customers,” grinned the officer. “They’re decent enough citizens, like yourselves. All they go there for is a drink. We want the fellows who run the place; the fellows behind the bar, and this Big Ed you were talking about.”

“How about the policeman who directed Mr. Norway?” queried Honeywell.

“Don’t you worry about him. That’s our job. He’ll get all that’s coming to him and then some. Leave that to me.”

A police car was waiting at the curb, and they all piled in, while a small crowd collected before the station to see them off. Honeywell dimly wondered how many bootleggers were in the throng.

Under the guidance of Norway, who sat beside the driver, the police car rapidly covered the distance to the scene of their adventure, and in an instant the whole posse was in motion. Two of the detectives scurried around to the back of the house, to interrupt any possible egress at that point, while Brady and the two adventurers proceeded up the stairway at the front.

At the door leading to the apartment, which seemed somewhat less blue than the night before, Brady hammered briskly and received no reply. He pounded again with the same result.

“Well,” said Detective Sergeant Brady, “down she comes!”

He flung himself sharply against the door frame and rebounded, rubbing his shoulder. “All together, boys,” he said; and the trio hurled itself in a knot at the withholding door.

Twice they repeated the performance, and then there were running steps inside and the bolts were withdrawn. The men who opened the door were Brady’s companions, who had effected an entrance at the rear. They grinned sheepishly and flung out empty hands to indicate the condition of the barroom.

Brady and the two adventurers pushed in and looked about them; but the place was vacant. Everything had been removed overnight. There was not even a clew to the illegal business that had been conducted there only a few hours before.

They returned, crestfallen, to the station, where they listened to a brief lecture from the captain.

“That’s the way it often happens, gentlemen,” said the officer sympathetically. “Maybe you got the wrong house, and maybe you didn’t. Maybe they got a tip-off and scuttled the ship; maybe they just suspected there’d be trouble after they kidnaped two American citizens. I don’t know. We’re up against that sort of thing all the time, you know, and there’s nothing we can do about it but try again. ‘Better luck next time’ is our motto, these days. Well, gentlemen, any time you get another hunch, look us up. We’re always glad to help.”

He relighted the stub of a frayed cigar and ushered the friends to the station door.

“Well?” asked Honeywell, cocking an eye at Norway as they stood on a corner a block removed from the police station.

“I think that captain tipped them off himself,” asserted Norway promptly. “The police are in this bootlegging business themselves, up to their necks.”

“No,” demurred the amateur detective. “They wouldn’t have had time to clean out that place between the time we left the station and the time we reached the apartment. I’m not defending the police; they may be as bad as you think they are. One of ’em certainly sent you and Pemberton to that first place with the blue door. But there’s something else behind all this, something big that’s blocking us. I’m beginning to think that something pretty serious has happened to Pemberton, and somebody’s afraid we are going to uncover it.” His lips set in a thin line. “Well, we are! I’m not through with this case yet, Norway. If they’ve killed Pemberton we’ll get the men who killed him. If they’re just keeping him locked up some place, we’ll find him, and he’ll have the evidence we need to put the others where they belong. That’s why Pemberton is missing. Somehow, somewhere, he got the goods on this gang—so the gang got Pemberton.”

“The place with the blue door is the place we’ve got to find, Bart,” declared Norway with emphasis.

“I know—and thanks to Silvernail, we can find it. He said it was in the next block, and I don’t think he lied about that. You thought yourself that we might be a block off in our calculations. Well, I’m going there, myself, to-night.”

“Alone?” Norway’s question was a protest.

“Yes, alone. We’re probably being watched and followed, Norway, and you’re more dangerous than I am, because you know Pemberton. I’ve got a plan turning in my mind, and I’ll tell you about it when it’s ready.”

In Norway’s mailbox, when they returned to his apartment, there was a letter in a strange hand, and its recipient quickly tore open the envelope. After a moment he whistled in surprise, and then he laughed.

“By heaven, Bart,” he cried, “we’ve been on a wild goose chase all along. Nothing has happened to Pemberton at all! This is from him. He’s simply out of town.”

“What?” cried the writer, snatching the paper from his friend’s hand.

But the letter, which was only a friendly note, said quite plainly that Pemberton, who had been out of town for a few days, would be back shortly and hoped to see Norway upon his return.

“Let’s get upstairs,” said Honeywell; and in the apartment he slumped down in a chair and reread the surprising letter a number of times.

“It certainly takes the wind out of our sails, doesn’t it?” asked Norway.

“It does,” admitted the story writer, “and I’m wondering if it wasn’t intended to do just that.”

“Now what the devil do you mean?”

“I’m wondering whether the writer of that note isn’t trying to call us off the chase.”

“But the writer of the note is Pemberton,” protested Norway. “There hasn’t been any chase except the one we cooked up for ourselves.”

Honeywell was again deep in thought. After a few minutes he asked: “How do you know the note is from Pemberton? Because it’s signed with his name?”

“Why—yes—I suppose so.”

“Did you ever have a letter from him before? Do you know his handwriting? As I understand it, you met Pemberton at the Jack o’ Lantern Club the night of the Sea Lions’ Frolic. If nothing has happened to Pemberton, there was no occasion for this note. He could have waited until his return and then called you up. No, this note is too damned timely, Norway; and I don’t believe your friend ever wrote it. It was written by someone who knows you are searching for Pemberton, and who is desperately afraid you are going to find him—or what’s left of him, maybe! It was written to call off the hunt, to allay suspicion, to help you to forget your fears for Pemberton’s safety.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Norway. “Who could that be?”

“Who? Well, it might have been written by Silvernail, just for instance, or by somebody else at Silvernail’s dictation. He knows about Pemberton. We babbled about him enough to that little thug, and he probably knew all about him before.”

Again for a time the writer became thoughtful. Then, “I’m going to find that other place to-night,” he said grimly. “I’ve got to. It holds the secret of Pemberton’s fate. And I’m more than ever certain, now, that Pemberton has either been murdered or is being held captive by those who are afraid of what he has seen.”

Thus it fell out that Arthur Norway sat at home that evening, close to a telephone, while Bartlett Honeywell, creator of mysteries, fared forth alone on the trail of the blue door.

It was close to eight o’clock when the amateur detective turned briskly out of Dearborn Street into the little thoroughfare of tall houses that held the bootlegger’s palace which he sought. He was exactly a block removed from the scene of their earlier exploit, and no sleeping cabman nodded on his box to mark the entrance. But Honeywell was not disturbed. He realized that the cabby had been removed for good and proper reasons. So long as the search for Pemberton continued, no helpful clue would be furnished by the opposing forces.

It was a night of stars and soft breezes, and the writer’s mind reacted happily to the background of vibrant darkness. He strolled casually past the suspected doorway and glanced casually in at the open door. He noted the metal-bound edges of the steps and the soft pile of the scarlet stair runner; but he made no attempt to enter. He was merely an honest citizen out for a stroll on a balmy evening of spring. His light cap was pulled a little sidewise on his head, a pipe was in the corner of his mouth, his hands were in his trouser pockets. On the second floor the blinds were drawn, but a thin line of light escaped beneath the edges.

He circled the block at easy gait and, returning, noted that the nearest intersecting highway was Baker Street. The house he watched was the second from the corner.

In Baker Street, too, the houses were tall and solemn, the very twins of those in the little street that held the apartment with the blue door. The entire square was small, and in a moment he knew why. There was no intervening alley. If an alley existed, it was a private one, somewhere in the center of the buildings, reached probably from the courts. In that case, he reflected, the rear entrances of the several buildings that clustered at the corner would be rather near together. Perhaps they even adjoined.

An odd idea occurred to him. Was it not even possible that the entire square was given over to the lucrative business of selling illegal liquor? A speakeasy in every flat! Dumbwaiters that lifted the “stuff” from huge storerooms in the basements! An entire city block that was a stronghold of criminal enterprise! A great fortress made up of adjoining buildings, connecting from the inside! The headquarters of a vast bootleg industry whose ramifications extended to all quarters of the city!

It was not possible, of course; but the idea pleased him. It was the sort of fancy that made his stories popular in the magazines, an extravagance of imagination that made him the one and only Bartlett Honeywell, purveyor of mystery fiction to innumerable thousands.

With this notion running pleasantly through his head, he continued his stroll, and out of the wild idea was born another and less spectacular one. It was at least probable that there were two entrances to the house with the blue door and the scarlet stair runner. Since there was no visible access to the rear, where could the second entrance be?

Approaching the Baker Street intersection from another direction, he looked with close attention at all the houses within eye sweep and reached a tentative decision. If there were any connections between the houses at the corner, they would be between the three that made the triangle, that is, the corner house itself and those that stood on either side of it, one in Baker Street, one in the little street of the sleeping cabman.

Here, at any rate, was a valid idea. The commercial entrance to the gin palace was obviously the stairway that led to the blue door. Ergo, the private entrance would be in Baker Street. There might be a flaw in his reasoning, he realized; it was quite possible that no connection existed whatever; but it might pay him to give a trifle of attention to the corner house and to the second house in Baker Street.

He crossed the street and resumed his stroll upon the sidewalk directly across from the two houses that had interested him. Low lights burned in several of the windows, but the shades of all were drawn.

Then, with startling suddenness, his dream castle was given a foundation. A door opened in the second house, and a woman came out and stood upon the steps. She was clad in a light coat over a dark suit, and something in her height and manner made the writer’s heart beat rapidly. He shrank back in the shadow of a bush upon a neighboring lawn and watched her.

The young woman—she was obviously young— seemed impatient; but in a moment a taxicab swung into view from Dearborn Street and glided to the curb before the house upon whose steps she stood. She ran quickly down and pulled open the door before the driver could leave his seat. A dim light burned in the interior of the cab, and Honeywell, reckless and excited, ran halfway out into the street for a view of the passenger’s face.

Then quickly he turned his back and walked away. He had been right. The second house harbored at least one member of the criminal crew. The young woman who was rolling away in the taxi was Mademoiselle Marie Stravinsky.

Honeywell paused under a lamp post to look at his watch. It was now nine o’clock and the night was yet young. But what should his next step be? To try to force an entrance by either door would be madness, single-handed; and, anyway, what could he hope to find? Would he not do well to return to Norway for a consultation, or perhaps hurry at once to the police with this new clue to the whereabouts of the man he sought? For that Mademoiselle Stravinsky knew all about the missing Pemberton he had no doubt at all.

Fortune, as he debated, solved his problem. A lone policeman tramped into view from the west and Honeywell, crossing to the other side, accosted him.

“I don’t know whether I’m lost or in the wrong block, officer,” he said. “Do you know anyone along here by the name of Honeywell?”

The name was an inspiration, for he had been able for an instant to think only of “Smith,” a common predicament. To ask for a person named Smith is usually to find him in every block.

The policeman had stopped. “I never heard that name ’round here,” he answered good humoredly. “Are you sure it’s Baker Street you want?”

“Well, I thought so,” said Honeywell, “but maybe I’m wrong. I thought he lived there in the second house; but he said his name was over the bell, and I can’t find any name at all.”

“Up there?” asked the policeman, jerking a thumb. “Well, no, he wouldn’t live there. That’s all one house. Amos Churchill lives there. I thought everybody knew him.”

“Oh!” said Honeywell quickly. “Then I am wrong, for I remember he said he lived in the next block to Amos Churchill. I’ll find him now. Many thanks, officer.”

“Not at all,” said the bluecoat, resuming his stride; and the writer walked hurriedly away in the direction indicated.

Amos Churchill!

Good Lord! thought Honeywell, and whistled softly under his breath. “Am I going crazy?” he muttered. “Or have I uncovered something so big that it scares me?”

And quickly all that he knew or had read about Amos Churchill began to fill his mind. The man was a political power and a millionaire. Even so, he might be a crook. But the man was also a reformer! He was quoted in all the better newspapers. His fulminations against the liquor interests were part of the backbone of the Antis’ crusade. He had given thousands for better government, better police protection; to smash the crime rings and to abolish official graft.

Yet Amos Churchill lived in the second house in Baker Street, around the corner from the Blue Door. There was no law against that, to be sure; yet not ten minutes before he had seen Mademoiselle Marie Stravinsky leave the house of this same Amos Churchill— possibly in the very car in which he and Norway had been kidnaped. And Mademoiselle Stravinsky, questioned about Pemberton, had packed her things in a handbag and fled from her apartment. It was the card of Mademoiselle Stravinsky that had been found in the cab of the sleeping cabman. Her name was known to Big Ed, the doorkeeper at the gin palace.

“This thing is getting wild,” asserted Honeywell, half aloud. “I’m going to do some thinking about it.”

He had promised Norway that in case of trouble or of success he would telephone, and Norway was probably nervously awaiting a call. On the whole, it would be best to go straight to Norway’s rooms and tell him all that had occurred. They could talk it all over and do what they decided was the thing to do—go to the police maybe, or to the state’s attorney, or to the federal prohibition officer.

He stepped off the sidewalk to cross an intervening alley, and heard light footsteps behind him. The nearest street lamp, he suddenly noticed, was extinguished.

Then a stunning blow took him sidewise across the head, behind the left ear, and he dropped quietly into a pair of arms outstretched to catch him.

5.

On Thursday morning Norway called his office and informed his superiors that he would not be down. He was haggard and tired, for he had sat up half the night awaiting the call from Honeywell that did not come. At length he had fallen asleep in his chair, to wake three hours later, at dawn, and call the rooms of his friend.

Perhaps, he thought, the story writer had returned late and gone directly to his bed. But there was no answer to his continued ringing, and something whispered that the worst had happened. Honeywell, too, had disappeared; he was now part of the mystery that shrouded the fate of Robert Pemberton.

At eight o’clock Norway ordered some breakfast brought up to his room by a neighboring restaurateur.

At nine o’clock he settled his hat upon his head with determination and laid his hand upon the doorknob. He would go at once to the chief of police. There would be no more fooling with underlings.

But someone was coming up the steps, wearily, and footsteps were sounding now in his own corridor. Then a light rapping sounded on his door and the handle was rattled. He flung it open, and Honeywell half fell into the room.

The amateur detective was not a pretty sight. His hair was matted and his eyes were bloodshot behind his thick lenses; his garments were stained and disordered. Norway greeted the apparition with a cry of dismay.

“It’s all right, old man,” said Honeywell. “It’s really I; but they almost got me.”

“They?” echoed Norway.

“Whoever they are—and I think I know, at last, who is behind this outrage. Don’t worry about me. All I need is a bath and some breakfast, and I’ll be all right again. I might do, also, with some sleep, but I don’t like to waste the time. Well, maybe I’ve had enough.” He smiled grimly. “I lay for some hours, I think, in a stinking alley.”

Briefly he told his friend all that had happened, then vanished into the bathroom. Norway sat in silence until he had emerged.

“Where were you going, Norway?” asked the author. “You were about to go out as I came along.”

“To the chief of police, I think.”

“Not yet,” said Honeywell. “By to-night we’ll have all we need in the way of evidence; then we can lay it before the proper authorities. But there is still work to be done.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“I’m going back to that house in Baker Street,” asserted Honeywell. “I’m going to confront this Churchill and force him to tell the truth. It’ll be half bluff, but I think I can put it over. If not, I’ll spill the entire story in the morning newspapers.”

“It’s almost unbelievable, isn’t it? This thing about Churchill, I mean.”

“The papers won’t find it so. Anything is believable that makes an eight-column scarehead. The Morning Hawk hates Churchill like poison; it would take a chance on anything about him. It isn’t the best newspaper in town, but it has the biggest circulation.”

Norway lighted a cigarette and seated himself. He looked with horror at the discolored bruises on his friend’s face. “I think we’re in for a lot of trouble, Bart,” he observed, “but I’m with you in it. ‘Yours to a cinder,’ as we used to sign our letters when we were younger. By Jove, I’m glad to see you safely back again!”

“Meanwhile,” smiled Honeywell, “can you lend me a suit of clothes and a clean shirt and collar?”

The story writer slept during part of the afternoon and went to dinner feeling vastly refreshed. It was half after seven when the two friends sallied forth to what was to be the final chapter of their misadventures.

A block from the dwelling of Amos Churchill they halted for a final word, but for the most part all plans were laid. At eight o’clock Honeywell would ascend the steps and ask for an interview with Amos Churchill. If it was denied, they would go instantly to the chief of police with the entire story. If it was granted, Norway would watch him enter the house, then patiently await the hour of nine. If by that time Honeywell had not safely emerged, Norway would follow him through the door, accompanied if possible by the friendly policeman whose schedule, as Honeywell had noted, took him past the Churchill place at nine o’clock.

“Everything clear?” asked the writer as they paused on the corner. “Okay, then! Keep out of sight, Norway, while I go forward.”

“Keep your gun handy in your side pocket, Bart,” whispered his friend.

“I didn’t bring it,” answered the other. “I have no right to carry it, and it might only get me into serious trouble. But I think Churchill will give me no difficulty. He has a reputation to maintain. He may order me out of his house, but I think there will be no violence.”

He waved his hand and strode rapidly along Baker Street to the house he had come to invade. Norway saw him climb the steps and pause for a moment in the entry. Then the inner door was opened, there was a brief exchange of words, and Honeywell disappeared inside the house. Norway began to pace his little beat, back and forth, back and forth, one eye upon the place across the street. Occasionally he glanced at his watch as the time passed.

Within, a frowning butler took the card of Bartlett Honeywell to Amos Churchill, then ushered the writer into the presence. Red curtains framed the wide doorway that led to Churchill’s sitting room. The furniture was expensive and of massive pattern. A yellow lamp glowed on a small table beside a deep red leather chair in which sat the man the volunteer investigator had come to see.

Amos Churchill was a man of middle age, and was very well preserved. He seemed to have great strength and vitality. He was of a somewhat saturnine cast of countenance, and, although a little mustache clothed his upper lip, his head was bald.

He looked up as Honeywell was announced and smiled a mechanical smile of welcome, the professional smile of a busy man interrupted at his herculean labors.

“Mr. Bartlett Honeywell.” He repeated the name as the butler turned away, reading from the card that he held in his hand. He did not rise to greet his visitor. “I think I have not met you before, Mr. Honeywell?”

“Not before, I think,” agreed Honeywell pleasantly. “I am a newspaper man, Mr. Churchill, as I informed your butler. I am a free lance, however, and am not connected with any one journal. I hope I am not intruding at an awkward hour?”

The politician smiled a hard, metallic smile.

“I am usually glad to see newspaper men,” he replied somewhat cynically. “I am used to seeing them, at any rate. Most people are, these days. When a man has been waked from sleep a number of times, at three or four in the morning, to answer questions as to the state of his health or the amount of his embezzlement, he becomes accustomed to the activities of newspaper men.”

He chuckled sardonically. Honeywell politely smiled.

“I did not come to ask you about your health,” said the writer, “although I trust it is excellent; nor have I any information concerning your embezzlements. I am afraid you are going to believe me very rude, and I think I had better be frank and brief.”

“That would be a good idea,” agreed the politician. His ease was considerable; the story writer felt certain that Churchill was entirely sure of the reasons for the sudden visit.

Very leisurely, Honeywell began his story. He told it simply and clearly and without reticence. Everything that he had heard and seen, everything that had happened to himself and Norway, everything that between them they had inferred, he related quietly while the reformer listened. Churchill’s impassive face betrayed no emotion whatever. When he had finished the man still sat silent. The black eyebrows were slightly raised, however, as if in ironic question, and a little steely light glittered in each eye.

“I tell you everything in detail,” concluded Honeywell, “because I want you to understand how completely I intend to write this story, in the event that I write it at all, for the newspapers.”

Amos Churchill took a cigar from his pocket and leaned forward to light it. Then he dropped back in his big chair and blew a long streamer of smoke at the paneled ceiling. Honeywell admired his composure.

“A very remarkable tale,” commented the politician at length. “I have just placed you, Mr. Honeywell. You are the Bartlett Honeywell who writes detective fictions for certain of the magazines. I have seen your name upon the covers, on the newsstands. I have not read your stories, but I am certain they are very exciting and fascinating. You have a powerful imagination. The story that you have invented, in which I am cast for the part of villain, is a really extraordinary flight of fancy. Of course, it is entirely fiction.”

“You will pardon me,” retorted Honeywell, reddening, “but I believe it to be entirely fact.”

“I suppose you do. You would hardly have come here to-night with such a tale without believing it. Now, Mr. Honeywell, I have only this to say: I did not have to let you in here, and, having let you in, I did not have to listen to your ravings. However, it pleased me to hear what you had to say, and I think you will agree that I have been very patient and very courteous. I am going to continue to be patient and courteous. Instead of ordering my butler to throw you out into the street, I am going to ask you to leave quietly—but at once.”

“You have no comment to make on what I have told you then?” asked the story writer.

“Only that which I have already made: that the whole tale is the purest fiction. I advise you to write it all out and sell it to a magazine. But in that case, be very careful to use names that are equally fictitious.”

For an instant Honeywell’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair.

“Very well,” he said at last, “I shall write it all out within an hour or two, and give it—not sell it—to the Morning Hawk. Whether your name is mentioned, or that of Mademoiselle Stravinsky, must be decided by the Hawk’s editor.”

He rose to his feet.

“Just a moment, Mr. Honeywell,” interposed Churchill. “Sit down again for a minute. You have just threatened me. What is more to the point, you are probably just idiot enough to put your threat into execution. And the editor of the Hawk, who has had his knife in me for some time, is just reckless enough to print your story. It would cost him his job, and his paper a lot of money; but the story would have been printed, and that I should not like. People believe what they read in print, and my denials would not have the full force of your accusations. I suggest that you reconsider your determination to go to the Hawk.”

Honeywell nodded. It was his moment of triumph. Things were coming his way in the end. It was being very suavely done, but Churchill was surrendering.

“I suggest,” returned the author, “that you reconsider your decision not to speak. I suggest a compromise. I suggest that you produce Pemberton, in which case I shall at once withdraw from the affair. I can not, of course, answer for Pemberton. It will be for him to decide what steps, if any, should be taken against those who have held him prisoner.” He hesitated, and their demanded starkly, “Or can you produce Pemberton?”

“Ignoring the implication of that question and accepting it literally, I can not,” replied Churchill. “I do not know the man, and I have no notion where he is. My suggestion for a reconsideration was in another connection. I suggest that you question the wisdom of the course you plan to pursue.”

The level tones had become deadly, but Honeywell thought only that his victim was on the run. He again rose to his feet, glancing at his watch as he did so. They had been engaged in conversation for some time; the hour set for Norway’s possible interruption was close at hand. The conversation was getting nowhere. He would better go at once to the police or the papers.

“You refuse then?” asked Churchill casually. Then, without warning, he shot forward his foot and shoved the intruder back into his chair. At the same instant his hand tugged at the drawer of a small desk that stood beside him. The drawer opened and with startled eyes Honeywell glimpsed a flash of steel within. A long revolver lay under the politician’s hand. The man’s face was now a savage mask of fury.

The writer leaned quickly forward. His hand was just in time to clutch the extended arm of the other and arrest its course. For a moment the two were tense in their dramatic attitudes. Then the red curtains parted and the burly butler drove into the room, an automatic pistol raised at the level of Honeywell’s breast.

The latter sat back in his chair and slowly raised both hands above his head.

“Very well,” he said quietly, “kill me as you killed Pemberton.”

It was while this melodrama was at its height that Norway, backed by the ponderous policeman—an unwilling and incredible participant—ran up the steps of the house and hammered at the door.

As the sounds penetrated to the study the butler drew slowly back. He lowered his weapon slightly, still holding it ready for use, and looked inquiringly at Churchill. The hammering of Norway’s fists still sounded on the glass and woodwork of the outer door.

“Your friends?” asked Churchill with a curious smile, and Honeywell nodded his head.

“And Mr. Norway—is he among them?” continued the politician. He turned to the butler. “See who is at the door, Adamson. Let them come in here.”

Then Honeywell heard the front door open and close, heard hurrying footsteps in the entry and the hall, and heard the shrill voice of Arthur Norway calling his name.

The dilettante, the policeman, and the butler entered the room together. Honeywell turned and smiled.

“You are just in time to prevent another disappearance, Norway,” he remarked. “Whatever this man may have been responsible for before, I now order his arrest charged with the attempted murder of Bartlett Honeywell.”

The embarrassed policeman looked from Churchill to Honeywell and back again at Churchill. But Norway, after one incredulous glance at Churchill, leaped forward and grasped the politician by the hand.

“My God, Bart,” he cried, “what does this mean? Have you gone crazy? This is Pemberton!”

A sneering smile sat upon the politician’s lips.

“Yes,” he observed, “at last you have found the missing Pemberton. What a damned fool I was ever to pick up with you, Norway.”

Honeywell only looked on with unbelieving eyes.

In the silence that followed, Churchill spoke again. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “the little farce is over. I have just admitted that I was a fool. It is your turn to admit that you were even bigger fools. As I am myself Pemberton, you can hardly arrest me as my own murderer. You have, however, blundered onto certain things in my life that, I concede, would not look well in print, and I am willing to make what amends I can to you, within reason. I assure you, just the same, that not a single one of the several things you suspect about me could be proven in a court of law. I am not always a fool. I hope you take my meaning.”

Then Honeywell found his voice. “Why did you do it?” he asked.

“Why did I deceive your friend Norway? Because I was an idiot, I suppose, and because he was drunk. I had been drinking myself, and was not eager to appear in anyone’s eyes as a man who preached one thing and practised another. The facts about Pemberton are these: he is a member of the club that Mr. Norway and I know, and was present on the occasion of the frolic. He is well known to me. For some reason, probably because we were introduced to the clever Mr. Norway at about the same instant, he confused me with Pemberton. He insisted on calling me Pemberton, and as he was a bit drunk and disorderly, I let it go at that.

“As it happens, Pemberton was leaving town on an early train, and he did not return to the club, but spent the balance of that Saturday night at a hotel. In the morning he caught his train and went about his business; I went about mine, never dreaming that I had inspired such affection in Norway that he would worry about me the next day. When he tried to reach Pemberton and failed, he became frantic, it would seem, with this result. I heard from several sources of his efforts to locate Pemberton, and realized that it was I whom he was trying to find. It was too late to hunt him up and confess my duplicity, I decided, and besides I imagined he would tire of the hunt and let the missing Pemberton go to the devil. Pemberton, of course, knew nothing at all about what was happening; he was actually out of the city. He is still out of the city. I wrote the letter you received from him, in an effort to stop your headlong career.

“Well,” continued Churchill, “that’s what happened. It was a mess, and it is a mess. The ambitious Norway enlisted your services, and between you you ran down a lot of things about my private life that it is most annoying to realize you know. I am talking, of course, about a certain young woman and a blue door. Oh, I admit I tried in a number of ways to discourage you, but you were too pertinacious. Silvernail failed to stop you, and so did the man who is responsible for any headache you may still have, as a result of last night’s attempt.”

“There are other things to be explained,” suggested Honeywell, after a moment. “There was a crossing policeman who—”

“And an old cabman, I believe,” interrupted Churchill quickly. “They are all susceptible of explanation, Mr. Honeywell,” he added meaningly, “but need we go into everything here and now? Are you appointing yourselves defenders of the faithful, guardians of the public morals, correctors of police laxity, avengers of outraged justice? Or are you two sensible men who know when they have had enough? Who know when they are up against something bigger than they can handle alone?”

The story writer turned to the big policeman. “What do you make of all this?” he asked sharply.

“Hanged if I can make anything out of it!” answered the bewildered bluecoat. “But if Mr. Churchill says it’s all right, I guess it’s all right.”

Honeywell flung up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “That, I suppose, would be the attitude of nine tenths of the people of Chicago,” he said. “If Mr. Churchill says so, it’s all right. I think I have learned a valuable lesson, Mr. Pemberton-Churchill,” he concluded dryly. “My own insignificance and helplessness were never before brought home to me so clearly. But the day will come when a lot of insignificant and indignant persons will join forces to cleanse the high places of all corruption.”

Amos Churchill shrugged.

“Perhaps!” he answered. “But I think you and all of us will be dead when that day arrives, Mr. Honeywell. Good luck with your stories!”

In the taxicab that took them homeward, Bartlett Honeywell swore softly to himself.

“He’s right,” he declared at last. “The time hasn’t come. People are fools because they want to be fools; and they are fooled because they want to be fooled. Sleeping cabmen! Tired horses! Blue doors! Corrupt saints! Even if the Hawk printed it, it would sound like a fairy tale.”

He was silent again for a time. Then he made a final remark.

“By heaven, there’s one thing I can do, Norway,” he grunted. “I can write it as fiction! I can make a story of it!”

He did.

This is it.

Too Many Sleuths

1.

Miss Lambert’s pretty maid paused in the doorway and addressed her mistress’s back—that part of it that was visible above the faded brocade of an old chair.

“I won’t be gone but a jiffy, Miss Lambert,” she said. “I’ll be back in no time at all. It’s raining out, so I’m taking the umbrella.” Her head inside the closing door, she added: “I’ll be back in just a jiffy.”

The straight, spinster back of Miss Harriet Lambert stiffened slightly. “You be careful of that umbrella, Lucy,” said the voice of Miss Lambert, acidly. “It’s the best umbrella I’ve got.”

The article in question was the only umbrella Miss Lambert had, and so her observation, the maid knew, was strictly accurate.

The corners of the little maid’s mouth drew downward for a moment. She made a wry face at the narrow shoulders of her mistress, rigidly encased in black satin, and showed a pink morsel of her tongue. “I’ll be very careful, Miss Lambert,” she promised, closing the door.

At the click of the latch, Miss Lambert rose to her feet and marched resolutely to the door that had just closed. Yes, the patent spring lock had snapped, and she was quite safe. She was locked in, and she was quite, quite safe. She listened for a moment and heard the outer door close after her vanishing servant. Then, returning to her seat before the wood fire that crackled in the grate, she resumed her tireless immobility.

Her eyes, somewhat faded like her dress, resumed their complacent consideration of the gew-gaws that decked her mantel. They were pretty little things, and they were hers. She smiled happily in the serene knowledge that they were hers. Pretty little things.

Lucy, too, was a pretty little thing; but it would be like her to leave the umbrella at the corner shop and have to go back for it. And, like as not, when she went back for it, it would be gone. That was the way things went. Still, rain or no rain, one must have one’s evening paper. Life was so filled with deliciously horrible events that, otherwise, one would never hear about.

Miss Lambert shuddered pleasantly and thought of her jewels, hidden safely in the bedroom closet. Possibly, in the paper, there would be some new and hideous account of brutal murder, committed for just such treasures. Life was a dreadful thing. Times without number, old gentlewomen, living in single blessedness, had been horribly done to death for their pitiful little hoards, the savings of a lifetime. She lay back against her cushions and clutched the edges of her seat with tense, white fingers.

What her collection of brooches, rings, and pendants was worth she knew to the fraction of a dollar. It was worth twenty thousand dollars, if it was worth a penny.

Again she rose to her feet and tried the door, and again she was relieved to find it secure. It was exactly as she had left it a moment before. The patent spring lock still held against the bloody terrors that filled the outside world.

Miss Lambert returned to her seat before the fire and drowsed gently against her chair back. Her eyes traced the pattern of the rug upon which her feet rested, the delightful rug that had been given to her, years before, by Grandma Gilchrist. It was a lovely rug, and it was hers. Everything around her was hers. The umbrella had been a gift from Mr. Spurgeon, the lawyer, who would run upstairs to help her in case of trouble. All she had to do was knock upon the floor and Mr. Spurgeon, if he were at home, would run right up to her. It was a distressing thought that Mr. Spurgeon was not always at home, but Lucy would soon return…. And then the patter of the rain upon the little maid’s umbrella became the rattle of many fingers upon a door that shut out all the newspapers of the world with spring locks of patent rings and brooches … and the rug that had been Grandma Gilchrist’s rose up before her and bowed with the smile of Mr. Spurgeon the lawyer.…

Miss Lambert dozed against the faded brocade of the old chair back and did not wake until the sound of a key, in the lock behind her, told her that Lucy had returned with the evening paper.

She was really only partly awake when she half rose from her chair and turned, just in time to miss the full force of the blow that fell sidewise upon her head from behind. But it was sufficient to pitch her across the chair arm and to the floor, where she lay with sprawling arms clutching vaguely at the darkness that came and went within her brain.

She bleated feebly like a frightened sheep, and groped upward to her knees, reaching blindly for other knees that seemed to recede from her grasp. In the fleeting instant between the first blow and the second her brain bridged incredible intervals of time and thought, and she knew that she must knock upon the floor. With a dreadful joy she knew that at length her fears were being realized. It was, in its way, a moment of triumph.

And then, in an ecstasy of terror, she saw that the rug which had been Grandma Gilchrist’s had reared itself upright and was rushing down upon her with the fury of a whirlwind.

2.

The murder of Miss Harriet Lambert shocked the community. The morning newspapers were filled with it, and as usual there was a great deal of talk about the inadequacy of police protection in the outlying districts. Nonetheless, the police were doing their best to solve the mystery.

It really was a mystery. Two persons apparently had seen the murderer making his escape, without either quite suspecting what was going on. The fellow had been remarkably cool about it, and he was now very much at large. The two who had seen him and were prepared to identify him, if caught, were Robert Spurgeon, the middle-aged lawyer who lived in the basement apartment beneath that of Miss Lambert, and Lucy Andrus, Miss Lambert’s maid. So ran the newspaper accounts.

Spurgeon’s story and that of Miss Andrus, as told to the police, were related at length in the news sheets. They were also related at length by Frederick Dellabough to his friend Troxell the bookseller. Dellabough, police reporter for the Morning Telegram, often took his problems to Troxell, and frequently received valuable assistance.

G. Washington Troxell—with a futile gesture he concealed a preliminary George—listened with attention to the reporter’s account of the murder. A half inch of cigarette glowed intermittently under his straggling mustache; his whimsical little eyes seemed lost in rolls of surrounding pink tissue. To the ceiling, on three walls of his dusty little shop, he was surrounded by books— books old and new, books rare and fine, and books for which nobody with sense would pay a penny.

“Hmph!” observed Mr. Troxell, when he had heard the subject of the journalist’s report. “I was just beginning to read about it.”

Young Mr. Dellabough gestured deprecatingly. “I can tell you what’s in the Telegram,” he said. “I wrote it. The marvel is, Mr. Troxell, that she lived as long as she did. Three neighbors, called in by the maid’s screams, saw her die—as well as Spurgeon and Lucy Andrus. All five heard her last words. They thought she was already dead, when suddenly she moved and tried to rise.”

The reporter leaned forward in his chair. He spoke in a lower tone of voice, as if he had something secret to communicate. “It was hard to tell what she said, but it sounded like, ‘The carpet… it rose up!’ Next minute, she was really gone.”

Washington Troxell stirred obesely in his seat. He was usually most flippant and cynical when he was most deeply moved. He glanced at a shelf of fairy tales, and back at the narrator.

“Magic carpet!” he murmured. “Very interesting.”

“Of course she was raving,” added Dellabough.

Mr. Troxell carefully removed his fragment of cigarette, burned his fingers, swore, and at length deposited the thing in a tray.

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s crazy,” answered the reporter, “perfectly crazy —unless she meant that the man came up through the floor, pushed the carpet aside, and then attacked her.”

“What do Spurgeon and the maid think?”

“I’ll tell you the whole story,” said Dellabough. “About seven o’clock, Spurgeon was in his sitting room, immediately beneath that of Miss Lambert. He heard a noise in the room above. It was a distinct thump on the floor, as if the old lady had fallen out of her chair. An instant later there were three knocks on the floor— his signal. For months he had been subconsciously waiting for sounds of disaster. Miss Lambert was old and jumpy, and he had promised her that if she ever knocked on the floor he would run up to her. She was the sort of woman, you see, who is constantly afraid that something is going to happen to her.”

The bookseller nodded. “I know them,” he commented. “Something ought to happen to them.”

“Well, something did, in this case,” said the reporter. “Time and again, she told Spurgeon, and most of the neighbors too, that she knew something would happen to her. She almost insisted upon it. Of course, it was her jewels she was thinking about, and it was her jewels that the fellow got—thousands of dollars’ worth of them, I guess. Old family stuff, you know. Anyway, she worried Spurgeon so much that he was always unconsciously listening for the knocks on the floor that would call him upstairs. He thinks she may have had some secret knowledge of a plot against her life—she always seemed so certain.”

“What did Spurgeon do when he heard her fall?”

“He jumped out of his chair and ran upstairs. At the head of the stairs he noticed that the inner corridor door stood open, although the outer door was closed. Miss Lambert’s door was closed and locked; it locked with a spring lock. Well, he stood outside the door for a minute and listened; then, just as he put his hand on the knob and tried it, he heard another sound inside. He couldn’t identify it, but it sounded like the breaking of sticks.”

“Sticks? Was there a fireplace?”

“Yes, and there was a fire in it. You’re thinking what I thought—that what he heard was somebody getting ready to burn something. But Spurgeon was excited and flustered, and he wondered if the sounds he had heard before might not have been perfectly natural ones. That is, he thought the servant was inside, breaking up some kindling for the fireplace, and that she had upset a chair, maybe—which would be the fall he had heard. Then he remembered the knocks, and didn’t know what to think. There was a bell in the side wall, alongside the door, and he rang it three times without answer.

“Then he decided to break in; but just as he stood there, bracing himself, the outer door opened—the street door—and the maid came in. It seemed she had been out buying a paper for the old lady, and she was carrying the paper and a dripping umbrella. She saw Spurgeon at the door, and asked him what the trouble was. He told her what he had heard, and she thought at once, of course, that something had happened to Miss Lambert. All this takes time to tell, but actually it happened inside of a very few minutes.”

“Was the maid excited?” asked Troxell, deeply interested. He was almost squirming with happiness. There was nothing he loved so much as a good mystery.

“She was very much excited. She got out her key, and Spurgeon took it and unlocked the door. I suppose they both expected somebody to spring out at them; but instead of that a very curious thing happened. Miss Lambert’s sitting room lay before them, darkened except for the low fire in the grate, but there was a light going in the room beyond—that is, off to the right—which was Miss Lambert’s bedroom. And just as they opened the door a well-dressed man came out of the bedroom, and turned and bowed to somebody he appeared to be leaving. He was so cool, and so polite, that they just stood there staring.

“His back was to them when he turned, and he was speaking. He said, ‘Well, thank you very much, Miss Lambert, and I’m sorry to have been a trouble. I’ll look in again, then, next week.’ And with that he bowed again, turned, nodded in a friendly way to the two people in the doorway, pushed past them, and went quietly out into the street.”

Washington Troxell hugged himself with pleasure. “Splendid!” he cried. “Perfectly splendid! The fellow was an artist. Of course, once in the street, he ran like hell.”

Dellabough agreed gloomily. “He’s probably still running,” he observed. “Oh, yes, he was cool enough! Spurgeon and Miss Andrus, of course, were flabbergasted. They vaguely suspected something wrong, but apparently they had seen a friend leaving Miss Lambert with expressions of good-will. In a minute Spurgeon recovered his wits, groped around and found the switch in the sitting room, and flooded the place with light. Then they saw it.”

“Absolutely beautiful,” commented the bookseller.

“Not exactly,” demurred Dellabough dryly. “The old lady’s head had been pretty badly battered. I’ve seen the body.”

“I mean the man’s escape,” said Troxell.

“Well, what do you think of the case?” demanded the reporter. “Have you any suggestions?”

“I suppose you have a description of the man? Spurgeon and Miss Andrus could have given you that.”

“They did what they could. It was pretty dark, though, before Spurgeon snapped on the lights. Spurgeon saw a man a little taller than himself, and a little heavier, well featured and clean-shaven. Also a light overcoat, and—he thought—dark trousers. He thought the man was carrying something in his hand.”

“Probably his hat,” said Troxell.

Dellabough appeared surprised. “Why, yes,” he agreed, “I suppose it was, now that you mention it. Funny it hadn’t occurred to me.”

“You were thinking about the jewels, or the weapon, I suppose. Those would be in his pocket. Or was the weapon found?”

“No, it wasn’t. A hammer might have done the job —or a burglar’s jimmy. Something like that. Something fairly heavy, anyway.”

“How was the body lying?”

“Well, her feet were toward the door and her head toward the fireplace. But her head had been covered with a hearth rug. The injuries were frightful.”

“Hmph!” said Washington Troxell. “There’s your carpet, Dellabough! She wasn’t dead when he covered her with the rug. She saw it coming down on her, and it was the last thing she remembered.”

The reporter applauded softly. “Muffed again,” he observed. “I seem to miss all the easy ones. You’re right, of course.”

“But how about the maid’s identification?” continued the bookseller. “How did it tally with Spurgeon’s?”

“Approximately the same, except for three features. The maid thought he had a little mustache, a slightly crooked nose, and that he had some peculiarity in his gait.”

“In his gait?” Troxell appeared surprised. “Was the corridor lighted?”

“Only faintly, I believe.”

“She must have watched him pretty closely. He could hardly have taken half a dozen steps between Miss Lambert’s bedroom and the door where the maid stood. The irregularity would have had to be pretty noticeable to be caught in that distance. It’s odd that Spurgeon didn’t see it, too.”

Dellabough shrugged expressively.

“The fact is,” he said, “both Spurgeon and Miss Andrus were completely bewildered, as I have suggested. They tried hard to remember what they had seen, and they may have thought—later—they saw things that they didn’t. It’s a common experience.”

“Well, go on,” said the bookseller.

“That’s all.”

“Surely not! What did Spurgeon and Miss Andrus do after the man had made his escape?”

“Oh! Spurgeon, as I said, snapped on the lights in the sitting room, and looked around him; and Miss Andrus ran into the bedroom. She called to Spurgeon that the place had been robbed.”

“She didn’t see the body as she crossed the room?”

“Apparently not. It was partly concealed by a chair.”

“Even so, one would think that she would have looked at the chair. She undoubtedly left Miss Lambert sitting in it. I suppose her mind was on the jewels. Most women’s minds are on jewels, or something similar. How did she know so quickly that the place had been robbed?”

“The box that had contained the jewels was on the bed in the bedroom, broken open and empty.”

“I see! That was the ‘breaking of sticks’ that Spurgeon heard, I suppose.”

“I suppose so. That’s one that I got by myself.”

G. Washington Troxell lighted a fresh cigarette, settled himself comfortably in his huge chair, and managed with an effort to cross his legs.

“I should really like to visit the scene,” he said at last; “but of course that’s out of the question. I can’t and I won’t. Besides, the actual sight of everything would probably upset my reasoning. I think much better at a distance from the scene. That way, I get only the essentials as reported by my clever friend Dellabough. Who knew about Miss Lambert’s jewels?”

“Everybody in the place, I imagine,” replied the reporter morosely. “She made no secret of her fears, anyway. She bothered everybody to death with them, and probably with her jewels too.”

“It was a fearful joy she snatched from them,” agreed the bookseller. “Well, there are a lot of things to be discovered. They have all occurred to you, no doubt?”

“Oh, no doubt!” grinned Dellabough. “Still, you might enumerate them. I may have missed one or two.”

“It occurs to me,” Washington Troxell lay back in his chair and blew a thin geyser of smoke at the ceiling of his shop—“it occurs to me that the murderer may have known where the jewels were kept. Certainly he found them without much difficulty. Who could have told him that? Or does the circumstance presuppose a previous acquaintance with the inside of the flat and the ways of its occupant? It occurs to me, also, that he chose an admirable time for his performance. He entered the apartment when its second occupant—the maid, Lucy Andrus—was out. Did he know that she would be out, or was it pure chance that took him there at so fortuitous a moment?”

Dellabough was scribbling furiously on a pad of paper that he had snatched from the bookseller’s desk.

“If he knew that Lucy Andrus was out, how did he know it? Was it common knowledge that she went out every evening at that hour to get a paper?”

“I believe it was,” interrupted Dellabough. “She did it every night, and probably the neighborhood knew it.”

The bookseller nodded.

“But he should also have known that she would be back in a few minutes, and he should not have tarried until her arrival. However, perhaps he tried to time himself properly, and missed. Lucy’s afternoon out would have been a better time, though. Is he a working man, who could not get away in the afternoon? That he is someone who knew about the jewels goes without saying. Who, other than the neighbors, might know about the jewels? What tradesmen come to the house? What plumbers? What friends? What neighbors, for that matter?”

“She had few friends,” said Dellabough. “Very few visitors, I understand.”

“So I should imagine. She talked people to death about herself, and so—finally—talked herself to death, as it were. One really can’t feel particularly sorry for her, you know. She was a confounded nuisance, Dellabough, and there will be few to miss her, I suspect. Still, somebody murdered her, and murder is a practice that should either be discouraged or legalized.”

He chuckled cynically.

“Finally, Mr. Frederick Dellabough, how did the murderer get into the apartment?”

“I thought of that,” said Dellabough. “It’s a facer. He had a key, that’s certain. There was no sign of force, back, front, or at the windows.”

“All right! Where did he get his key? Where and when did he have an opportunity to steal one, or to see one and have a duplicate made? Who gave him one?”

“Of course, there’s an alternative,” suggested the reporter.

“That he was let in? I know! It’s a valid line of inquiry. Very well, who let him in? There are two alternatives there. If he was let in, he was let in by either Miss Lambert herself, or by Lucy Andrus before she went out. There are difficulties both ways. If Miss Lambert let him in, after the maid had gone out, then he was known to her. Otherwise, he would have struck her down at the door. And I can’t quite conceive of the old lady letting anybody in, or even answering the doorbell. Certainly she didn’t open the door, then calmly turn her back and stroll over to her chair.

“On the other hand, if he was let in by Lucy Andrus, how and when was it done? You may be sure that her mistress kept a sharp eye on Lucy, and knew what was going on most of the time. It would be possible, but exceedingly difficult, for the maid to introduce a man into the house. I think of only one way it could have been done with comparative safety. It might have been done just as the maid went out; that is, as Lucy Andrus opened the door to go out, the man might have slipped in. In that case, the murder must have occurred immediately after the maid’s departure—even before she had got down the steps. The time element must be carefully checked. Spurgeon ought to be able to help there. If he happens to know the exact moment he heard the fall in the room above him, it can be checked against the time of the maid’s departure. How long was she away? How long did Spurgeon stand in the corridor before he saw her come in? These are all pertinent and important questions, Dellabough.” Mr. Troxell swelled out his chest and beamed amiably upon his friend.

“You think the maid is in on this, do you?” asked Dellabough, reaching for his hat.

“Good God, no!” exploded G. W. Troxell. “I merely think she may have been. I’m suggesting lines of inquiry that may lead only to eliminations; but eliminations have their value. It’s a good thing, Dellabough, that you have me to come to in matters of this sort. If you hadn’t, you’d be selling box lunches to the factory girls.”

“All right, all right!” said Dellabough soothingly. “And, say—many thanks!”

He went happily away. Mr. Dellabough of the Telegram also thought it was a good thing that he knew G. Washington Troxell. It saved him a great deal of thinking.

3.

Then, to complicate matters, a cloud of witnesses appeared; in point of fact, there were twelve of them. They came forward with a great clatter, after the ???lanket invitation of the police had been published by the press. All lived in the neighborhood of the Lambert apartment, and all had seen a man loitering in the street during the weeks that preceded the murder.

The information would have been more valuable if they had been able to agree about the man’s appearance. When their stories had been heard and sifted there emerged a weird mixture of derby hats, green caps, motor caps and gray felts that created a confused and indefinite impression as to the head covering worn by the lounger in the street. Gray spats and checked trousers even figured in one description, and there was a wide difference of opinion about the man’s upper lip. He wore a large mustache, he wore a small mustache, and he wore no mustache at all.

Dellabough, who was not a novice, threw his hands into the air and consigned them all to perdition and the police.

The thirteenth person to come forward, however, was one Thomas Gray, an amiable youth who played billiards in a local cue parlor no great distance from the scene of the crime. Young Mr. Gray, with a shrewd notion in his head that information was paid for, came forward with a story to tell. It appeared that one of the occasional visitors at the cue parlor frequented by Thomas Gray had been trying to sell a pawn ticket, which pawn ticket—when presented with a sum of money—was good for one crescent diamond brooch. What was more, the occasional visitor in question bore a general resemblance to the man seen and described by Spurgeon and Lucy Andrus.

This time, Dellabough threw his hat into the air, and hurried off to the address that had been furnished the police by Gray. In the small flat three blocks removed from the Lambert apartment he found a posse of detectives and listened to discouraging news.

Mr. and Mrs. Otto Sandow, late of that address, had left only the day before, for parts unknown.

“He didn’t leave the pawn ticket, I suppose?” inquired Dellabough facetiously.

“He didn’t,” agreed Detective Sergeant Grimwood, “but if the brooch is in the city we’ll get it without a ticket.”

“Can you?” queried the reporter.

“We can!”

“How?” Mr. Dellabough was hoping for a lead that would enable him to find the piece of jewelry first.

Detective Sergeant Grimwood waved a jaunty hand. “Oh, there’s ways!” he replied. After a moment he added: “We’ve got the pawnbrokers about where we want ’em, and when the word goes out what we’re after, somebody’ll come across with it.”

The informant Gray stood idly by, half triumphant and half chagrined. His information had been a sensation, all right, but much good it had done anybody, to date! Dellabough eyed the billiard player with speculative glance.

“Say,” he ventured, “is there any law against my talking to Mr. Gray?” The detective having guessed not, he addressed himself to the informant. “How much did Sandow want for the ticket?”

“Twenty dollars,” said Gray, smiling.

“Hell!” observed the reporter. “I’d have given him that myself.”

“So would I,” said Gray, “if I’d had the twenty.”

“Didn’t he have any friends who could tell us where he’s gone?”

“If he did, I don’t know them. He didn’t come into the parlor very often. Even Ed Lewis, the manager, didn’t know him very well. He didn’t play much; just hung around and watched the others.”

“What did he look like?”

“Fairly tall, dark man, with a little black mustache.

A German, I think.”

“Anything wrong with his nose?”

“N-no, I don’t think so. Mr. Grimwood asked me that, too. He had a big nose—big enough, anyway— and it was humped in the middle, if that’s what you mean. Kind of a Jew nose.”

“He certainly sounds like the man, doesn’t he?” The reporter turned to the detective in charge.

“Oh, he’s the man, all right,” said Grimwood. “He answers to the description—near enough, anyway. Descriptions are never accurate. And he pawned a diamond brooch, that’s certain. And finally, he’s skipped. That’s good enough to work on, I guess.”

“How about his walk? He didn’t limp, did he? Or did he?”

“Not that I ever noticed,” answered Gray.

“He may have limped purposely, while Spurgeon and the maid were looking at him,” suggested Grimwood.

“Or he may have hurt his leg while murdering the old woman,” added Dellabough. “He pawned the brooch, I suppose, to get money enough to skip. The fact that he tried to sell the ticket would suggest that he didn’t intend to redeem it. Look here, Grimwood: He may have sold the ticket, at that! Gray didn’t buy it, but maybe somebody else did.”

“I know. We’ve got to work fast. I’ve already made a report. In an hour there’ll be a dozen men working the pawnshops. My job is to get Sandow.”

Dellabough went away to a telephone and made his own report.

“Well,” said his editor, “keep after it. If we could beat the police it would be great stuff, you know.”

Keep after what? The admonition was typical of the vague orders of swivel-chair commanders, thought the reporter. The police were after the Lambert family brooch. Grimwood—a good man—was after Sandow. Nobody suspected the maid, however—unless it was Troxell. All right, he would pump the maid.

He sought the scene of the crime, and found Lucy Andrus and a big policeman in charge of the premises.

“Ever hear of a man named Sandow?” he asked, when the preliminary courtesies had been observed.

“No, sir,” answered Lucy Andrus, “I don’t think I ever did.”

“He looks like the man you saw coming out of Miss Lambert’s bedroom,” continued Dellabough. “As far as you know, you had never seen that man before, had you?”

“Oh, no, sir!”

“He didn’t remind you of anybody who ever called on Miss Lambert?”

“Not a bit; no, sir. Not many people called on Miss Lambert.”

“How about the people who delivered things to her? Grocery boys and that sort of thing.”

“I knew them all; every one of them. I used to do all the shopping, you see. Sometimes I brought things home, and sometimes they were delivered; but I knew all the delivery boys.”

She was a pretty girl, the reporter noted; he could well believe that all the delivery boys knew her.

“How long have you been working here, Miss Andrus?”

“More than a year, I guess.”

“Who was here before you were?”

“There was a girl named Molly. I don’t know her other name. Miss Lambert used to just talk about Molly.”

“Why did Molly leave?”

“I don’t know.”

The reporter tried a new line. “Did any of your friends ever come here to see you?”

The maid hesitated. It was one of the simple questions that the police had forgotten to ask. The burly bluecoat, who was giving an imitation of an absentminded man looking out of a window, pricked up his ears and listened for the reply.

“Well,” said Lucy Andrus reluctantly, “only one.”

Dellabough smiled his most seductive smile. “Nobody suspects him, of course,” he explained, more or less truthfully, “but it’s necessary, you see, to find out about everybody who ever came here. That’s why I ask. Who was your friend, Miss Andrus? Or, to be accurate, who is your friend?”

“He ain’t my friend any more,” answered the maid, accepting the question literally. “He used to be my friend, but we don’t go together any more. His name is Oscar,” she added: “Oscar Slaney.”

Oscar Slaney! Something in the name puzzled the reporter. Yet he was certain he had never heard it before. Why, then, should it strike him with a peculiar significance? He was immensely sensitive, he knew, to impressions, and somehow the name filled him with a sense of familiarity. Had he read it in the paper at some time?

“When did you and—ah—Oscar—stop going together?” he asked.

“Oh, a long time ago! Months ago!”

“He used to come to the house to see you, did he?”

“He was only here once or twice. Miss Lambert let me have him.”

So Miss Lambert had met this Slaney, in all probability. She would have known him by sight if he had come to her door. Dellabough remembered the reflections of G. Washington Troxell and felt that he was getting “warm.”

“What was he?” he continued. “I mean, what did he do?”

Again the maid hesitated. “It ain’t really against him, you know,” she said at last. “He was—what you call a —a bookmaker.”

Hoop-la! Mr. Dellabough’s pulses leaped. Now he was getting somewhere! Oscar Slaney was a bookmaker, a race-track gambler!

“He was a good enough man,” added Lucy Andrus. “I stopped going with him because he had another girl.”

A good enough man! That was amusing, thought Dellabough. Well, maybe he was. But—as a new thought struck him—bookmakers liked to hang out in billiard parlors! And Otto Sandow—!

Mr. Dellabough glanced furtively at the policeman in the window. No doubt the fellow was listening, for all his apparent preoccupation. He would report all that he heard to his superiors. And suddenly Mr. Frederick Dellabough knew why the name of Oscar Slaney had rung familiarly in his ears. It was the man’s initials that had struck him. O. S. Oscar Slaney! Otto Sandow!

“O Sunshine!” murmured Mr. Dellabough to himself.

He drew a long breath and began a masterly retreat.

“Well, it’s probably unimportant,” he observed. “I suppose you haven’t seen Mr. Slaney lately?”

The maid had not.

Greatly cheered, the reporter took his hat and his departure. There were sundry and divers ways, after all, of looking up bookmakers. To himself, as he railroaded toward the Loop, Dellabough admitted that he was a good reporter. He marshaled his arguments, then subdivided them and passed them in review before him. Thus revealed, they grouped themselves somewhat as follows:

(a) Otto Sandow is undoubtedly Oscar Slaney, or vice versa.

(b) As Oscar Slaney he visited Lucy Andrus, and met Miss Lambert.

(c) Lucy Andrus, wittingly or unwittingly, revealed to him the secret of Miss Lambert’s wealth. Not that it was much of a secret!

(d) Slaney, or Sandow, had stolen or borrowed Lucy’s key long enough to make a wax impression, and then had returned it.

(e) Months later, when he was no longer visiting Lucy Andrus, and was therefore less liable to be suspected, he had returned and let himself into the house, knowing, of course, just when Lucy would be out on her errand. Knowing, obviously, just where to find the jewels. Lucy must have told him where they were!

This last consideration, of course, might mean that the maid was implicated, as Troxell had seemed to suggest. If so, she probably knew now exactly where to find Sandow. Might not Lucy Andrus, indeed, lead him ultimately to Sandow? Wherefore, the thing to do was to watch Lucy Andrus.

His flow of ideas ended abruptly. However, he was satisfied with his progress.

Highly delighted by these evidences of his own perspicacity, the clever young man betook himself to a large downtown pool room, where he was known, and where he proceeded to lose three straight games of pool to a very inferior cue artist. He knew that it was an establishment frequented by sporting characters—and by bookmakers.

When this had all been accomplished he approached the friendly manager and engaged him in conversation.

“By the way,” he said casually, “what’s become of Oscar Slaney? That race-track fellow, you know! Didn’t he used to drop in here occasionally?”

“He drops in now occasionally,” answered the manager. “He was here only a little while ago. I saw him shaking dice at the cigar counter. What do you want him for?”

“I don’t—particularly,” asserted Dellabough untruthfully. “I want a friend of his, and I can’t find him. I thought maybe Slaney could give me a line on him.”

Circuitously he approached the cigar stand and purchased a handful of cigars. While he elaborately lighted one he observed between puffs to the man behind the counter: “I thought I saw Slaney here, a little while ago. He didn’t say where he was going, I suppose?”

The cigar clerk jerked a thumb at the telephone booth, on the other side of the room. “He’s telephoning,” he explained briefly.

“Oh, thanks,” said Dellabough, and strolled to the other side of the room. God, what luck! he told himself.

Passing the booth, he glanced within and had a good look at his victim. He was a husky fellow, this Slaney! And he fulfilled the terms of the composite description. Why, Lucy Andrus in her description had almost photographed the man!

It was odd, the reporter reflected. The maid had actually described Slaney as the man she had seen emerging from Miss Lambert’s room on the night of the murder; yet she had positively denied ever having seen the man before. Questioned, she had been slightly reluctant to mention Slaney’s name; yet she had done so, after a moment of hesitation. Had she not been afraid she was putting his neck in a halter?

By Jove! If Slaney limped it would explain the maid’s perfect knowledge of the man, even on the night of the crime! Wouldn’t it? And it would also mean that she had lied when she said she didn’t recognize the murderer.

Dellabough sauntered back and forth until the suspect emerged from the booth, and at that instant contrived to be at the far end of the room. He followed Slaney slowly to the stairway, saw him descend, and followed at the same pace. He didn’t limp. That was awkward.

In the street, the bookmaker struck out at a brisk pace that kept the reporter busy keeping him in sight. The business district, with its huge crowds, was no place for shadowing a man. Panic-stricken, Dellabough did his best, and on the boulevard, outside a great hotel, had the satisfaction of seeing his quarry meet a young woman.

Stalking the pair cautiously, he soon knew that the young woman was not Lucy Andrus. They moved over to a corner and, after a short wait, caught a north-bound bus. Dellabough, running hard, caught up with it and swung on board, much to the disgust of the conductor. As his victims had climbed to the top, the reporter went inside and took a seat near the last right-hand window, where he could see all who alighted.

The pair he was following got off at a street on the near North Side of the city, and strolled leisurely eastward. Dellabough alighted while the bus was in motion, again to the huge disgust of the conductor, and followed. The suspects turned up a flight of steps halfway along the block. Strolling past, the reporter noted the number of the house. At the next corner he turned and strolled back. The young man was coming down the steps. The young woman had gone inside.

Dellabough slowed his walk to a gentle saunter that was almost a crawl; then he noted that the young man was waiting for him. His heart beat rapidly. Slaney was definitely waiting for him to approach!

However, there could be no retreat; and, after all, he could hardly be suspected. He was too good a reporter to be caught following his man! Possibly Slaney wanted a match. Instinctively he groped for the box in his pocket. In a moment he was opposite the lowest step on which the suspect stood.

“Well,” observed Oscar Slaney, truculently, “exactly what the hell do you want?”

Too good a reporter!

“Why—why” stammered Dellabough. Suddenly he stood upon his dignity. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. “I’m not aware that I asked you for anything.”

“Whistle it!” said Slaney, with a belligerent grin. “Try it on your radio! How does the chorus go? What the hell have you been following me for?”

Mr. Dellabough looked quickly about him for a policeman. There was none in sight. It was while his face was momentarily averted that his adversary went into action. With a smashing right from the shoulder, he caught Frederick Dellabough of the Telegram a blow upon the chin that stretched the reporter flat upon the pavement. Reaching down then, he dragged Mr. Dellabough of the Telegram to his feet and pasted him twice in the eye. Finally, he turned leisurely and ascended the steps again, and a moment later had entered the house.

From his sitting position on the sidewalk, Mr. Dellabough, dazed, noted again the number of the building, and realized that he would never forget it.

4.

At the office, the following morning, Dellabough’s right eye became a subject of comment, mostly of a vulgar and boorish nature, he thought.

“Honestly, Fred; how did you get it?” asked one of his tormentors. It was the fourteenth repetition of the query.

Dellabough turned wearily on his persecutors.

“I was standing on a corner, minding nobody’s business but my own, when a fellow walked up and pinned it on me,” he said earnestly; “and if any of you cheerful, mouse-colored asses think you can decorate the other one, you’ve only got to try.”

They let him alone.

But Dellabough had realized the depths of his folly. His valued powers now served to tell him how superb an idiot he had made of himself. That was not doing much for his vanity, but it was something, he felt, to know enough to retreat promptly. … It seemed absurdly obvious to him, now, that Slaney was not Sandow.

If Slaney were Sandow—and Sandow had committed the murder—he would hardly have allowed himself to be trailed to a house where he was known, even by a reporter. Lucy Andrus, probably still annoyed by the perfidy of her old flame, had—consciously or unconsciously—described him when asked to describe the murderer. The description had happened also to fit Sandow, nearly enough for a mistake to be made, and the circumstance that the initials of the two men were the same had completed the error. It was odd, however, that such a strange fortuity should have occurred. Possibly, the reporter thought, he had better see Troxell again.

His first move was in the direction of the antiquarian bookshop. Concealing nothing, not even his own humiliation—which could hardly have been concealed—he told Troxell all that had occurred.

The bookseller chuckled cynically, as usual.

“You should have told Slaney exactly what you wanted, having gone as far as you did,” he observed. “If he is innocent, he could only have been anxious to prove it. As it is, if he is not innocent, you have let him know that he is suspected. He can now destroy the pawn ticket, and again change his residence.”

“What do you think about his innocence?” asked Dellabough, caressing his eye.

G. Washington Troxell spread himself more comfortably over his chair. “Slaney undoubtedly was a friend of Lucy Andrus,” he asserted. “He undoubtedly visited her at Miss Lambert’s apartment. He could have known about the jewels, and he could have had access to Lucy’s key. Those are all significant facts. They are much more significant than the similarity of initials. That could be coincidence. It involves no strain on the imagination. The actual resemblance between Slaney and Sandow is problematical. You haven’t seen the man called Sandow. Most descriptions furnished by witnesses will fit anywhere from one to one million men.”

He puffed at his cigarette reflectively.

“Nonetheless, Sandow is a significant figure, too, and the fact that he is known to have offered a pawn ticket for sale—a pawn ticket for a diamond brooch—is highly important. If it could be shown that the brooch was not Miss Lambert’s there would be, of course, no shadow of suspicion against Sandow. It is, after a fashion, in his favor that he tried openly to sell the ticket. But it is a curious coincidence, if it is a coincidence, that these two men, Slaney and Sandow, supposing them to be two men, should have the same initials, should resemble each other after a fashion, and should be concerned—even by suspicion—in this case. It is odd that Sandow should have pawned a diamond brooch so soon after a lot of brooches and things were stolen. It is inevitable that one should wonder whether they might not be the same man. Does Slaney have a crooked nose?”

“He has a well-humped nose; but he doesn’t limp.”

“It is, of course, also conceivable that Lucy Andrus has deliberately thrown suspicion on Slaney, while appearing not to. She may have her own suspicions of him, which she is unwilling to admit. She may suspect that he was the man she saw in the apartment, that night, slightly disguised; or she may even know him to be the man. It is hard to get inside of a woman’s mind. There’s only one thing to do—get after Slaney again. You know the house he went to. If he’s innocent he can clear himself.”

“Ought I to tell the police about him?”

“Why not? It may save your other eye! Go with the police. Slaney won’t punch Grimwood in the eye. And take Gray along, too. He’ll know whether Slaney is Sandow. But if Slaney is Sandow, and if Sandow committed the murder, of course he won’t be there when you arrive.”

Dellabough got to his feet in a hurry. “I’m off, right now,” he said.

He hurried away to the Detective Bureau and told his tale. Grimwood, as it happened, was not on hand, but he had no difficulty in interesting the officer in command. In a short time, with four brutal-looking plain clothes men, he was again on his way to the North Side residence.

While two of the detectives went up an alley behind the house, to head off flight at that point, the other two, with Gray and the reporter, ascended the front steps in a body and announced their presence. The young woman who had been Slaney’s companion the day before opened the door. She screamed at sight of the quartet on the doorstep and fell back a pace.

“We want to talk with Slaney,” said the spokesman gruffly, and pushed past her into the house.

From a rear room, as they entered, a man’s voice called to know what was the matter. Then the man himself hurried down the corridor. At sight of Dellabough his face became a mask of anger.

“So it’s you again?” he cried furiously. “Brought your gang with you this time, have you? Well, what the hell do you want?”

His eyes fell upon the face of Thomas Gray, and his features underwent a change.

“Why, hello, Gray,” he said uneasily. But suddenly he burst out again: “Say, what is it all about, anyway? What am I wanted for?”

“You are Oscar Slaney,” answered Dellabough dramatically. He wondered secretly whether his left eye was about to suffer.

“All right, I’m Oscar Slaney. What’s that to you?”

“You are also Otto Sandow,” accused the reporter. “Isn’t he, Gray?”

Gray nodded. “Yes, he’s Otto Sandow, all right,” he agreed.

“All right,” growled Slaney, “I’m Otto Sandow, too. What of it?”

“You pawned a diamond brooch some days ago.”

For an instant the bookmaker stared. Then, “My God!” he burst out. “You think I killed that old woman! I’ve just tumbled!”

“Didn’t you?” asked the foremost detective bluntly.

Slaney sat down in a chair. “No, I didn’t,” he replied, “but I know who’s to blame for this. That damned cat up at the house—Lucy Andrus!”

“No,” said Dellabough, loyally enough, “I’m to blame. I questioned her, and she told me of your former relations, that’s all.”

The young woman who had let them in continued to stare in horror. She had slumped into a chair and was looking at them out of frightened, incredulous eyes.

Slaney rose to his feet. “Look here,” he said angrily, “this is all damned nonsense. I was an idiot, I suppose, to try to sell that ticket; but I needed some money in a hurry. I once knew the old lady, because I knew the maid, but that’s all. I didn’t kill her. I’m not in that business.”

“What business are you in?” asked the detective quickly.

“I’m a bookmaker,” was the defiant answer.

“Why did you need money in a hurry?”

The confessed bookmaker squirmed. “I was going to leave town,” he admitted at length. “That makes it worse for me, I suppose. But it’s true. I took a lot of losses lately, and I was clearing out for New York. I was selling everything I could.”

“Why did you change your residence?” asked Dellabough.

Again the bookmaker squirmed. “I suppose I might as well make a clean breast of it,” he said. “I wanted to get away from the fellows I owed money to.”

“Who is this young woman?” the detective wanted to know.

“My wife,” answered Slaney promptly. “Have you anything against her?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

“Then leave her out of the conversation, you damned muddleheads!”

“It won’t do you any good to take that tone, you know,” retorted the second detective, speaking for the first time. “Where is the pawn ticket?”

“It’s in my pocket. It’s here!” The bookmaker plunged a thumb and finger into his vest pocket and brought out a yellow bit of pasteboard. “Take it,” he continued. “Take it to Rosenthal’s in Halsted Street, and get the brooch. It’s one that belonged to my wife’s mother. I’ve pawned it four times before. It never was Miss Lambert’s. Lock me up, if you like, till you’ve got the brooch; but you’ll never prove murder on me.”

Dellabough, feeling vastly uncomfortable, took the pawn ticket in his hands when the detective had finished examining it. The yellow pasteboard bore a date, and he saw that the date was two days earlier than the date of Miss Lambert’s murder. He called attention to the fact.

“Sure, look it over,” said Slaney. “You haven’t got anything on me.”

“The Andrus girl could have given it to him before” asserted the first detective in a whisper to his companion.

“What?” asked Dellabough.

The detective repeated his whisper. The reporter nodded. “That’s so,” he muttered.

“Well,” said the first officer, at length, “we’ll take you along, Slaney—or Sandow—whatever your name is —just for luck. Maybe you did it, and maybe you didn’t; but we’ll take you along anyway, just for luck.”

The bookmaker, now cocky and assured, shrugged his shoulders. “Go ahead,” he said. “It’ll be bad luck for somebody.”

Accompanied by both detectives, he went after his hat, and Dellabough rushed frantically out of the house to a telephone. When he had made his long report to the office he debated with himself for a moment. He was none to sure about Slaney, hang it all!

There was the police station, and there was Rosenthal’s. At both places there would be news of considerable importance. But Dellabough was about convinced that Slaney had told the truth. That date on the pawn ticket almost proved it. What was needed right then, he decided, was advice. So he flagged a hurrying taxicab and was driven to the shop of G. Washington Troxell.

The bookseller admitted that it was a bit of a mess.

“You’ll see that the police will hold him, though,” he prophesied. “He’ll be suspected until they’ve got somebody else. Don’t waste time being sorry for Slaney, though; he’s probably a first-class crook on several counts.”

“He may be the murderer,” said Dellabough hopefully.

Washington Troxell shook his head. “He may be, but I doubt it—now! Do you realize what that would mean? If Slaney really murdered Miss Lambert, it would mean that you and the police had lighted on the murderer purely by accident! His name was not mentioned until you got it out of Lucy Andrus. He was caught because, as Otto Sandow, he tried to sell a pawn ticket and Gray remembered the circumstance. You supplied the connection of names, and told the police. No, if Slaney’s brooch turns out to be an innocent one, it ought to clear him.”

Considerably agitated, he wheezed to his feet and waddled about the shop in elephantine fashion, smoking furiously.

“Look here, Dellabough,” he said at last, “I’m very much puzzled still by Lucy Andrus’ part in all this. I suggested that she may have deliberately cast suspicion on Slaney, without appearing to. Jealous, perhaps, because he married someone else. I wonder if she had heard of that? Marriage licenses are listed in the papers, and Miss Lambert read the papers with great diligence. She would! She was the kind to read deaths, births, and marriage licenses! She would have mentioned the Slaney license, too, if she had found it. Confound it, I don’t believe Slaney had anything to do with it.”

Dellabough gestured helplessly. “Who did then?” he asked, without expecting an answer.

“I don’t know,” snapped G. Washington Troxell. “But who could have committed the murder, if not Lucy Andrus’ old flame? If the maid is in this at all, Dellabough, she’s deeply concerned. She hasn’t entered a nunnery since Slaney and she parted. She’s a good looking girl, you tell me, and she’s still unmarried. There’s no reason to suppose that Slaney hasn’t had a successor, is there?”

Dellabough whistled softly.

“Wild horses wouldn’t drag his name out of her,” he replied after a moment.

“Nor will wild guessing drag it out of the air,” retorted Troxell. “A bit of adroit detective work, however, might reveal it. Now don’t go off at half cock. You may discover that Lucy does have a young man, who has not yet been mentioned; even so, it isn’t certain that he is a murderer. The point I make is that he may be. It’s a valid line of thought, considering the circumstances. Somebody who was familiar with the apartment and who had a key committed the crime, I think. Either that or he was let in by the maid. Either way, the proverbial finger of suspicion points to Lucy Andrus.”

A great white light seemed to burst suddenly over the reporter.

“Troxell!” he cried. “Do you suppose the maid herself might have done it?”

But the bookseller shook his head.

“Obviously, she didn’t. She can undoubtedly account for her time. She went out after a paper. Spurgeon saw her return. They entered together, and the murder already had been committed. If she had murdered the old lady before she went out, Spurgeon would have caught her leaving the house. But he didn’t. He saw her return, and she was definitely carrying a wet umbrella and a newspaper.”

Mr. Dellabough fared forth into the street. Well, he would drift over to the Bureau and see what had happened to Slaney. Perhaps there would be word from the pawnshop searchers, too.

His mind raced. Troxell had seemed to be hinting at something. What was it? Troxell had seemed to have an idea. Well …

At the Detective Bureau a telephone call had been received from the man who had been dispatched to Rosenthal’s. He had the brooch and was on his way to the station. The office of the chief of detectives was quiet, but it seemed charged with suppressed excitement. Dellabough joined the waiting group.

In half an hour an auto drew up outside the door, and the detective who had recovered the brooch swaggered in as if he had just found the lost books of Livy —although he had never heard of those. His superior snatched the piece of jewelry and devoured it with his eyes.

“That’s it,” observed Slaney easily. He sat quietly now in his chair, as if the spectacle had begun to amuse him. “What did Rosenthal say about it?”

The burly sleuth stared at his interrogator, then scowled.

“Well, what did he say, Burns?” echoed the chief of detectives.

“He said Slaney had pawned it with him twice before,” admitted Burns. “He said his marks were scratched on the under surface, and his books would show the dates.”

“Right,” smiled Slaney. “And the books of Hoyne, the pawnbroker at 1216 Harrison Street, will show two other dates. All earlier than the murder of Miss Lambert,” he concluded pleasantly.

The chief muttered something under his breath, which Dellabough interpreted as “Damn!”

“Well, do I go free?” asked the bookmaker.

The chief considered.

“I suppose so,” he said at last. “We can’t hold you. If it isn’t a part of the Lambert jewelry we haven’t anything to hold you on. You can go in the morning,” he added, “if we don’t get anything else on you.”

“You want to show the brooch to Lucy Andrus, I suppose,” sneered Slaney. “Well, show it to her. It’s my wife’s brooch.” He shrugged.

Thomas Gray was greatly cast down. “Sorry I got you into this mess, Slaney,” he murmured feebly.

“Go to hell!” said Slaney, with a malevolent frown.

Mr. Gray slid quietly out of the door. When he had been gone some ten minutes Mr. Dellabough followed in a state bordering on panic. He fairly ran to the bookshop of Washington Troxell.

Mr. Troxell had been doing some thinking of his own in the meantime, and out of his thinking had emerged a clear-cut idea.

Somebody connected intimately with the house had done it. Somebody connected intimately with the maid, in fact. It was the most plausible solution. If not Slaney, then who? Slaney’s pawning of the brooch had been an untimely coincidence, perhaps. Its connection with the crime had been most timely, however. Gray had been very much on the job. The brooch had been pawned two days before the murder of Miss Lambert. Might not the pawning of the brooch have suggested the murder? Or, if the murder had been planned for some time, might not Slaney’s action have given it a date? Slaney had openly attempted to sell the pawn ticket. How many men had heard him? If one of the men to whom he had offered the ticket had by any chance been considering the murder of Miss Lambert—for her jewels —an opportunity might have been suggested to involve an innocent man in the crime. And who, supposing all this to be true, had seized the theoretical opportunity? Only one man had come forward; a man who knew Slaney—a man who might even have known that Slaney had pawned the brooch before. But did that man know Lucy Andrus? Why not? He frequented a billiard room in the neighborhood, as surely as Slaney did.

“Well, well, well!” muttered Washington Troxell. “It begins to look as if we may have overlooked something.” The we was strictly editorial. He was not thinking of Dellabough.

Then Dellabough burst in.

“Troxell,” he panted, “I think I’ve got it!”

“Hm-m,” said Mr. Troxell cautiously. “What have you got, Dellabough?”

“Who involved Slaney in all this?” demanded the reporter.

“Gray,” said Washington Troxell calmly. “Thomas Gray—not the poet, of course, who wrote the Elegy!”

“Please don’t be funny,” begged Dellabough. “Who also hangs around billiard rooms in the vicinity, and might know Lucy Andrus?”

“Gray,” admitted Troxell. “Gray, as sure as you’re born.”

“Who might have been offered a pawn ticket calling for a diamond brooch, and then have gone out and murdered Miss Lambert?” concluded Dellabough triumphantly.

“Gray—Thomas Gray,” smiled Washington Troxell serenely. “I have just reached the same conclusion myself. It must have been telepathy. Gray is the answer to all your questions. He might even have known that Slaney was planning to skip the town. But you’ve got to associate him with Lucy Andrus, Dellabough! Where is Mr. Gray now?”

“He left the station ten minutes before I did. He heard Slaney practically cleared by the chief, and slid out as if he were ashamed of himself. I’ll bet he’s done a vanishing act himself!”

“I should not be at all surprised,” agreed Troxell.

“I’m off,” said the reporter. “Good-bye!”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. New York, Washington, Paris, Berlin! Wherever Gray has started for.”

“Oh, take it easy, Dellabough,” urged the bookseller. “He can’t have gone far in the time he’s had. And anyway, you’ve got to connect him with—”

He paused. Frederick Dellabough had disappeared.

5.

In leicester, where the fishing smacks put in, there is a small hotel and lunchroom, not far from the docks, which is largely frequented by hearty, sea-blown gentlemen engaged in the capture and sale of fish. It is a picturesque place, with sloping gables and a lamp before the door. The lunchroom occupies the first part of the lower floor, and the sleeping rooms—such as they are—are upstairs, overlooking the water and the tall masts of ships lying in the bay. The front upstairs window, however, overlooks the streets.

From this window it was possible for Thomas Gray to survey the approach to the hotel. Not that he entertained any particular fears; but there was no telling what might happen. He was very glad to be away from it all at last, and particularly to be away from Slaney. The bookmaker’s glance, as his erstwhile acquaintance had left the Detective Bureau only a few days before, had been malevolent to a degree. Gray was certain that Slaney would thrash him within an inch of his life if he ever caught him. On the whole, he was very lucky to have got away as cheaply as he had. Slaney might even have killed him. A bad man, that Slaney! Leicester, fortunately, was a long way from Chicago.

In leisurely fashion he went down to dinner, and afterward quietly smoked his pipe in a corner of the converted barroom. As twilight drew on, he strolled out into the street for a whiff of the sea air and a glance at the pretty girls who sometimes stood around and talked with the young fishermen.

When he had taken four strides beyond the hotel doorway, a rapid step sounded behind him, and he turned. For a moment his heart stopped beating. A heavy hand was on his shoulder; another hand gripped a murderous pistol, the muzzle of which was almost against his breast. A pair of sinister eyes looked into his, from beneath the shade of a soft felt hat.

“Slaney!” he gasped.

The bookmaker’s lips tightened in a smile. “Yep, Slaney,” he replied, and dropped his weapon into his side pocket. “Are you coming along quietly, Gray?”

The prisoner’s lips became a whitish color. “Do you intend to murder me, Slaney?” he asked. “It was a dirty trick, all right, but—that’s going too far, isn’t it?” He licked his lips.

The bookmaker sneered. “What was a dirty trick?” he asked.

“Why—mixing you in that murder. So help me God, Slaney, I thought you did it. I thought I was only doing my duty.”

“Come over here,” said the gambler, drawing his victim out of the center of the road. “One word out of you to anybody who passes, and I’ll drill you.” After a moment he continued: “No, you didn’t think I did it; and you didn’t think you were doing your duty. You know damn’ well who did it, and so do I. Do you think I came all this distance to punch your jaw for squealing on me?”

The informant drew a long breath. “You’ve got me guessing,” he said.

“You had me guessing for awhile, and you’ve got the police guessing yet,” observed Slaney. He added casually: “What did you do with the jewels?”

Thomas Gray squealed like a trapped rabbit. “Good God, Slaney, what do you mean? Do you think—do you think—I—?”

“Sure! I think you croaked the old lady, and then blamed it on me. I figured it all out the night I spent in a cell; and then I knew what I was going to do when I got out. Until the real murderer is caught, the police are going to suspect me; every move I make will be watched. I’ve turned detective, Gray. Get a laugh out of that, if you can! Not official. Nobody knows where I am, or what I’m doing. This is all on my own. But I’ve got the murderer of Miss Harriet Lambert, and to-night I’m taking him back to Chi. Maybe I’ll get a reward; maybe I’ll get a kick in the pants and ‘thank you.’ But the damn’ police won’t be on my neck any longer.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Know how I found you? I didn’t go home when the police turned me loose in the morning. They figured I would, and their man was to pick me up at the house, I suppose, and keep track of me. I crossed them. I went to your house, and I watched you. I followed you to the train. I was on the same train that brought you here. I’ve been watching you for three days—ever since you left Chicago. Now I’ve got you. The police’ll be hunting for me, by this time. Maybe they’ll find us both, but I don’t think so. We’ll take a train to-night, and we’ll go back and give ourselves up. Then they can take their choice.”

“You’re crazy as hell, Slaney!”

“I suppose you’ve got an alibi, eh?”

“Of course, I’ve got an alibi!”

“What’d you run away for?”

“To get away from you.”

The bookmaker laughed sardonically. “Well, I guess you didn’t do it,” he answered. “Have you got the jewels on you?”

“My God, I tell you I didn’t take them! I never saw them.”

“Never knew Lucy Andrus either, I suppose?” “I’ve seen her, that’s all. I never spoke to her in my life.”

Slaney shrugged. He dropped his hand into his pocket and shoved the nozzle of his weapon into the other’s side, through the cloth. “March!” he said laconically. “We’re going up to your room, and you can pack what you’ve got. Be sure to put the jewels in. And remember, one yelp out of you as we go through the hotel, and I’ll ventilate you so quick you’ll never know what hit you.”

The informant threw up his hands with a gesture of despair. The pair moved slowly toward the hotel doorway, where Slaney drew back and pushed his companion before him. “Right through and upstairs,” he warned.

“Good God!” moaned Thomas Gray. But he moved forward as directed.

They crossed the room in leisurely fashion and tramped up the curving stairflight. In Gray’s rooms, the bookmaker calmly seated himself while the other packed.

“That’s all,” said the informant sullenly, at length.

“Are the jewels in?” asked Slaney.

“Everything I’ve got is in. I tell you I haven’t got the jewels. I didn’t kill—”

“Not so loud,” cautioned Slaney. “If the landlord thought you were a murderer there’s no telling what might happen. You might have to stay here, in iail, till you were extradited.”

“You’ll pay for this,” asserted Gray. “I’ve got an alibi, and I’ll prove it when we get back.”

“What’s your alibi?”

“Will you let me go if I tell you?”

“Certainly not!”

“What’s the use of telling you then?”

“Hurry up!” said Slaney. “Ready? All right, down we go. I’ll take the bag. Pay your bill as you go out. Tell the landlord I brought you word that your sister was ill. Something like that. Remember, I’ve still got the gat in my pocket.”

An elderly carriage, of old-fashioned make, stood at the door as they emerged.

“Where to?” asked Slaney briskly.

“Fifty cents to the station, boss.”

“Right!” the bookmaker said. “In you go, Gray. We’re off at last. Won’t mother be surprised to see us?” He laughed heartily.

Gray scowled, but had no reply to make.

With a flourish, they drove up to the station and descended. At the same instant, a young man who had just emerged from the doorway of the place turned a startled glance upon them and hurriedly drew back. A taller man joined him.

“What’s wrong, Dellabough?” asked the tall man. “Seen a ghost?”

The reporter stabbed at the doorway with his finger. “He’s there,” he whispered. “He’s there, and he’s coming in. And he isn’t alone! Grimwood, listen: he’s with Slaney!”

“What the devil!” cried the detective.

“Don’t you see it? They’ve joined forces! They were both in it, from the first. We’re just in time. They were clearing out.”

The big detective grunted. “Things sure happen, once they start,” he muttered. “It’s a good thing we dropped in here to ask questions. Good hunch of yours to follow Gray, too. Easy now, Dellabough! Let ’em get inside. They can’t run far, once they’re inside.”

They slipped behind the door, which stood open, and awaited the coming of the two suspects. Footsteps crossed the threshold, and Gray and Slaney entered the station, the latter lugging the former’s bag. Grimwood stepped quickly out of his concealment and closed the door. At the sound the newcomers halted and whirled.

“Well, boys,” said the Chicago detective genially, “let’s all go back together; you and me and Mr. Dellabough.” He waited for the riot.

But the bookmaker and his companion stood helpless with astonishment.

Slaney’s wits, however, were quick. In an instant he guessed what had happened. Dellabough, too, had suspected Gray, and had found his trail. He had brought Grimwood with him, to make the capture. No doubt they now suspected him again. It was a beautiful burlesque. A slow smile curved his lips under the little black mustache. He staggered to a bench and sat down, dropping Gray’s bag with a crash. He bent over and roared with vulgar laughter. He seemed about to throw a convulsion. Suddenly, while the remaining trio stared, he stopped laughing and stood up.

“Excuse me, Sarge,” he begged, addressing Grimwood with flippant gravity. “But—they don’t do this any better in the movies. It’s so funny, I almost believe Gray didn’t do that little job in Chicago. I shouldn’t be surprised if the old lady wasn’t dead at all. Go back together? I should say we will! Buy the tickets, Grimwood; four of them. Let the city of Chicago stand the expense. Or the Morning Telegram—it’s got plenty of money.”

He slapped the detective boisterously upon the shoulder, and extended his wrists.

“Handcuffs?” he asked jovially. “No need, though! I’ll go along. And say—there’s just four of us, and it’s a long way to Chi. What about a stateroom, and a nice long game of pinochle?”

6.

Meanwhile, in Chicago another great mind had been functioning. The fattest of the bevy of detectives— that is, G. Washington Troxell, antiquarian bookseller —had been thinking again. He regretted the unseemly departure in haste of his friend Dellabough; but that was the way with Dellabough. He was all legs.

When two days had passed into eternity, and still the reporter had not returned, Mr. Troxell, his thoughts as yet his own, decided to act alone. He could hardly take the trail himself. He never had and he never would. Cerebration was his forte, not physical exercise. Had a murder mystery ever been solved by telephone? he wondered.

He shuffled to his instrument, and with great puffing found a number in the only book in his shop that was not for sale. It was the number of the telephone of the late Miss Lambert. He gave it to the operator, and with a sigh settled back in the small chair.

A feminine voice answered.

“Ah—I should like to speak to Miss Lucy Andrus,” said G. Washington Troxell.

The voice said, “This is Miss Andrus, talking.”

“This is a friend, Miss Andrus.” Mr. Troxell lowered his own voice impressively. “Listen! Pack your things and get out of town as quickly as you can. They’ve got Gray!”

For a moment there was a silence of significant portent. It might mean anything. Had she already fled? Then the voice of Miss Andrus, puzzled and vaguely alarmed, replied.

“They’ve got what?” it asked.

“Gray,” said Mr. Troxell. “Tom Gray!”

His quick ear caught her murmured words: “What under the sun?” Aloud, she asked: “What number did you want?”

“Don’t you understand?” cried the bookseller irritably. “Tom Gray has been captured! Arrested!”

“I suppose you think it’s funny to do this,” answered the voice from the Lambert apartment. “There’s a policeman here, and I’ll call him in a minute. I don’t know Tom Gray, and I don’t care if he has been arrested.”

Mr. Troxell heard her receiver click on its hook; then heard the voice of the operator, also feminine, inquiring, “Number, please?” He swore audibly and hung up.

Well, that was that! She didn’t know Tom Gray. What was more, she didn’t. The bookseller was sure of that. If she had known him she would have betrayed herself, even over the telephone, unless she were the world’s greatest actress. He would have liked to see her face. It was a pity he was so unwieldy. He would have liked to make the announcement in person. No, she didn’t know Thomas Gray, and that was certain.

He ambled back to his own chair and slumped into it. Dellabough was on a wild-goose chase; that, too, was certain; another one. When would they end?

Everybody in turn seemed to have been under suspicion, yet nobody had committed the murder. Suppose —suppose—?

Somewhere deep in the furrows of his mind a new idea was forming. With infinite patience, he went over every inch of the case from the beginning. There was only one thing left to investigate. Suppose—suppose—?

Once more he puffed over to the telephone, and this time he called the Morning Telegram. When would Mr. Dellabough be back?

The Telegram didn’t know.

“My God!” moaned Washington Troxell; “must I go myself?”

There were the police, of course. There were always the police. So he called the police. Think of calling the police!

“Send me a good man,” said G. Washington Troxell; “one who knows something about the Lambert case.”

At detective headquarters, the message was reported to the chief. “Troxell?” he echoed. “That’s Dellabough’s fat friend. He runs a bookshop over in Dearborn Street, near the bridge. He solves all Dellabough’s mysteries for him. Wonder what he wants!”

“He wants a detective,” answered the telephone operator.

“Really!” said the chief ironically. “Would you call me a detective, Riley? Because—I’m going over, myself.”

After all, he thought, the old scoundrel might have happened onto something. Dellabough had solved that Logan Square murder, and he had certainly got his “dope” from Troxell. The old villain could think, all right.

The chief of detectives stepped into his private car, gave the necessary order, and was driven to the bookshop. Mr. Troxell met him in the doorway; led him to a chair.

“Glad to see you, Chief,” said the bookseller cheerily. “I’ve often heard of you from my friend Dellabough. Didn’t expect I’d ever see you in my shop, though. I may have something for you, if you care to listen. You see,” he continued, lighting his cigarette, “I’m Dellabough’s brain. Dellabough, to put it in another way, is my legs. I do the thinking; Dellabough does the hustling. When he tries to think by himself, he’s lost; and when I try to hustle by myself, I’m—I’m graveled! Sedentary life, you know—sub-oxidized—and that sort of thing. In short, too fat.”

“What’s on your mind?” asked the chief of detectives, affably enough. Privately, he decided that the old pirate was mad as a lark.

“I’ll tell you the story chronologically, if you don’t mind. I’ll begin at the beginning of the case, and you must follow me carefully.”

The chief helped himself to a cigar. “Fire away,” he said.

Mr. Troxell fired away. Briefly and concisely, he sketched the outstanding features of the crime, and from them proceeded to the processes that had led him to suspect, in turn, Lucy Andrus, Otto Sandow, Oscar Slaney, and Thomas Gray. It was a scholarly recital.

“There was reason for every suspicion,” he argued. “Good reason. But in the end a lot of thinking would seem to have been wasted. After talking with Miss Andrus over the telephone, I am convinced that Mr. Gray had no hand in the murder. Mr. Sandow, or Slaney, is definitely out of consideration. The maid is not. She is still at the bottom of everything. By heaven, I’ve been right about that from the beginning, and I’m right about it now. To-day, for the first time, it occurred to me to question her original story!

“Suppose, Mr. Chief of Detectives, Lucy Andrus lied. Suppose she didn’t see a man emerging from Miss Lambert’s bedroom the evening of the crime. Suppose when she entered the apartment she saw just what she expected to see—the body of Miss Lambert lying on the rug in the sitting room. Suppose that, and what follows?”

“We can’t suppose that,” objected the chief. “If we do, we must suppose that Spurgeon also lied.”

“That’s what follows!” observed Mr. Troxell triumphantly. “If Lucy lied, Spurgeon lied! And if Spurgeon lied—?”

The chief’s eyes were slowly kindling.

“If Spurgeon lied,” he answered slowly, “then Spurgeon himself is probably—”

“The murderer!” said Mr. Troxell. “Why not? He must be a hell of a lawyer to be living in a basement apartment; or else he must be a very clever lawyer, playing his own game. And if Spurgeon lied, you see how everything straightens itself out? Nothing happened as we think it happened. The maid went out: Spurgeon, using a key of his own, but furnished by the maid, let himself in, and killed the old lady. Then he and Lucy Andrus cooked up this beautiful tale between them, and everybody went hunting for a young man who never existed!”

“Of course, there’s nothing to connect him with it, except his proximity,” argued the chief. “He could have done it. That’s all we can say.”

“There’s nothing to connect anybody else with it,” said Troxell. “We’ve tried that, and you see where we’ve got. Spurgeon is all we have left. If we hadn’t been singularly gullible we’d have looked into his life before this. But he told a plausible tale. The maid bore him out—with just enough dissimilarity to make it more plausible—and we all fell for the story. Then Gray came along with his story about Slaney—or Sandow. It was an unfortunate coincidence, but it helped us to forget Spurgeon. And Lucy lied when she was questioned about Sandow. Naturally we were glad to pick on Slaney. He was a gambler, and a man of no standing. But he proved that he had pawned the brooch two days before the murder, and he had to be turned loose. I’ll bet he could have proved an alibi if he’d had to.”

“He did prove one,” said the chief dryly.

“There you are! Then Gray—but why talk about Gray? He was a false alarm.”

“Perhaps,” commented the chief. “Grimwood is after him down East, however.”

“Why did he run away, I wonder? Was he afraid of Slaney?”

“He may be part of the plot,” said the chief. “We’re only guessing about Spurgeon.”

“Nobody’s in the plot but Spurgeon and Lucy Andrus,” snapped Troxell, “and the sooner you get after that precious pair, the sooner you’ll be seeing your name in the papers. Who was bothered to death, daily, by this ridiculous old female, Harriet Lambert? Spurgeon! Who knew all about her old-maid fears and her damned jewels? Spurgeon! Who probably wished her dead a hundred times before he actually killed her? Spurgeon! And, of course, the maid. Why, the old woman drove them both crazy with her tongue. They’d have been justified in murdering her if she hadn’t had a penny!”

The chief stood up, laughing.

“I won’t go that far, Mr. Troxell,” he said, “but I’ll go as far as that apartment, anyway—and right away. Would you care to come along?”

The bookseller hesitated.

“In my car, of course,” added the chief.

“Hang it, I suppose I owe it to Dellabough,” grumbled Troxell. “And, as a matter of fact, I’d like to. All right, I’ll go.”

He shuffled after his hat, shaking his head sadly, while his heart rejoiced within him. “I’m a damned old fool, I guess,” muttered G. W. Troxell.

He found the back seat very comfortable, however, and his talk was a torrent of nonsense until the house was reached.

The chief of detectives ascended the stairs and was admitted by the uniformed policeman in charge of the murdered woman’s apartment, who stared at sight of so great a dignitary of the force. Mr. Troxell followed with what speed he could muster.

“Where is Miss Andrus, Parkinson?” asked the chief.

“She’s here, sir. She’s in the kitchen. Shall I call her?”

“Yes, call her.”

Parkinson called her. She stared at the intruders with hard, suspicious eyes.

“Miss Andrus,” said the chief suavely, “does Mr. Spurgeon intend to marry you?”

Miss Andrus, it appeared, had been steeled against every question but the one that had been asked. She reached out suddenly and seized the back of a chair to steady herself. A wave of color rushed to her face and receded, leaving it white.

“What—what do you mean?” she stammered.

“I should think it would be the least he would do, in the circumstances. He is probably a man of some property, and by making you his wife he would be making you, in prospect, his widow. A man’s widow should be provided for. He will certainly hang for the murder of Miss Lambert.”

Miss Andrus decided to sit down.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said. But she said it poorly.

“Let us go down to Mr. Spurgeon,” said the chief.

“I shan’t move!” shrieked the maid, suddenly vocal.

“Very well, Officer Parkinson will stay with you. Mr. Troxell and I will descend.”

They had proceeded, however, only halfway down the flight to the basement when the girl rushed after them, with Parkinson in close pursuit. She flung herself recklessly down the steps, before any movement could be made to stop her, and, passing Troxell and the chief like a kitten, flung herself in at the door leading to Spurgeon’s apartment. In another moment she had recoiled, gasping and staring, and had fallen unconscious in the doorway.

Looking over her prostrate body into the room whose door she had opened, the chief of detectives and the antiquarian bookseller saw, hanging from a rafter of the low-ceilinged room, the gently oscillating body of a man.

“Spurgeon!” said Washington Troxell.

7.

At the last, at any rate, Spurgeon had been a gentleman. His careful confession, a document covering many pages, exonerated Lucy Andrus. He had forced her to aid him, he said, and she had agreed only because she loved him. There were cynics who doubted it— among them G. Washington Troxell—but there was nothing for the police to do but free the maid.

“She drove them both crazy,” said Troxell stubbornly. “Whose idea it was, in the first place, we shall never know; but they were partners. Lucy Andrus was no meek follower of a master mind, or any of that rot. She knew where the jewels were, you may be sure, and you may be sure that she told Spurgeon. Is he a lawyer, by the way? That should be looked into! Yes, Harriet deserved all that she got, Dellabough. She cried for it until she got it. She wasn’t happy until she got it. There are a lot of women like that… I’ve known three,” he added reflectively.

“I have no doubt she drove Spurgeon crazy,” responded Dellabough. “His confession was the confession of a madman. That knocking on the floor preyed upon his mind and made him mad.”

He had returned the day after the suicide of Spurgeon, and his gratitude to Troxell was pathetic. Troxell had called up the Telegram and had given his paper all the facts.

“Possibly it was a prospective marriage with Lucy that drove him mad,” remarked the bookseller cynically. “That and the murder,” he added. “It was the thumping of the chair legs on the floor, as he drove them down onto his victim, that suggested the ‘knocking’ to him. But his remarks about Lucy were too good to be true. Methought the gentleman did protest too much.”

“Gee, hasn’t it all been a mess, though?” cried the reporter.

“Too many sleuths!” smiled the bookseller. “And too much imagination. Thought is a dangerous business; it is to be practised safely only in a book or in a book shop. What with your imagination and mine, and Grimwood’s and Gray’s—and finally Slaney’s, by Jove!—all working at once, there was bound to be a mess. Did you succeed in buying off Slaney and Gray, by the way? Or are they going to sue you and the city and the Morning Telegram?”

Mr. Dellabough put his fingertips swiftly to his temples. His grimace was eloquent.

“Wow! What a time I had with those two men!” he said.

The Fingernail Clue

1.

The decrepit Ford, which for an hour had been threatening to fall apart and distribute its members and its passengers in the dust, cast anchor at last in a cluster of small shops and houses, and allowed two weary and shaken voyagers to alight.

“Well,” said the first man out, “here’s Cheltenham.”

He received an avalanche of canvas on his shoulders, skillfully tossed by his friend. The heavily laden pair staggered to the nearest shop and dumped their paraphernalia on the straggling walk. In spite of the dust and heat, there was a tang of salt spray in the air, and from the distance sounded the wash and slap of long waves on a gravel beach.

For a moment the two artists stood and listened. Then the door of the shop opened and a lean shopkeeper stepped out onto the sidewalk. “That you, Mr. Delaney?” asked the newcomer needlessly. “Thought maybe it was.”

“Hello, Ducat!” said Delaney. “I was expecting Townsend along to meet us. I wired him we were coming…. This is my friend, Paul Jordan; another of ‘them artists.’ Meet Peter Ducat, Paul. He sells everything but fish—and everybody else sells fish.”

He shook hands with the gaunt shopkeeper, who repeated the solemn performance with Jordan.

“Glad to know you, Mr. Jordan,” said Peter Ducat.

“No,” he added, turning to Delaney, “Townsend won’t be meeting you, this trip, Mr. Delaney. The fact is, he didn’t get your telegram. The fact is, he’s dead.”

“Good Lord!” observed Delaney, startled.

The shopkeeper’s attitude was that of a man bursting with news, but determined to tell it in his own way and in his own time.

“Yes,” he repeated, “he’s dead, all right.” Unable longer to restrain himself, he blurted out the whole tidings. “The fact is, he was murdered!”

The artist’s response to this was the blank silence of surprise that Peter Ducat had hoped for.

“Yesterday!” concluded the shopkeeper.

“Yesterday!” echoed Delaney. “Good Lord!”

“What happened?” asked Jordan. Never having known the picturesque Captain Townsend, the second artist was able to receive the news of his violent death with some composure.

“Murdered,” said Peter Ducat, mouthing the word. “Shot to death, Mr. Jordan, on his own boat. That’s where they found him, anyway. A bullet wound in his head and a revolver beside him in the boat.”

“Suicide?” asked Delaney incredulously, although he had just been told that it was murder.

The shopkeeper pursed his lips. “There’s them as says so,” he replied. With a flash of the eyes, he continued: “But you can bet he didn’t do it hisself. Why should he want to kill hisself? He was happy. Wasn’t nothing on John’s soul.”

“I should think not,” agreed Delaney. “He was the happiest old fellow I knew. But who would want to kill him, Peter?”

Peter Ducat shrugged. “That’s what a lot of us’d like to know. That’s what they’re trying to find out, down by the boat, this very minute. I guess the whole town’s down there—all but me.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Delaney. “This is a mess. The best model in the East! Look here, Peter, you take charge of this stuff, will you? I’m going down to the shore.”

Peter Ducat nodded without emotion. “Thought maybe that’s where you’d be going,” he answered. “Your things is all right. I’ll haul ’em inside if it rains.” He looked casually at the very blue sky. “’Twon’t rain, though,” he added as he turned indoors.

Delaney and Jordan set off on a run for the waterfront. When they had passed the low barrier of hills that concealed the water from the town they saw that Ducat had been right. The entire town had turned out for the grisly ceremony. At its rickety pier swayed the small fishing schooner that had been Captain Townsend’s, and near by the shore was black with people.

2.

That was the way it all began.

The newspapers in the nearest cities gave the incident only a paragraph of their valuable space, but the Weekly Visitor, the leading—and only—news sheet of the immediate community, which was published twenty miles away, spread it over the front page and continued it back among the advertisements. Captain Townsend —Captain John Alden Townsend—was an important man in the neighborhood. Artists as far away as New York and Boston mourned his passing. His features had appeared on heaven knows how many calendars. Faithfully reproduced in oils, he was in two national museums.

However, there seemed nothing that could be done about it. “Death by his own hand,” was the verdict of the local jury, directed by the coroner and the physician from Portage; but nobody in Cheltenham really believed it. As Peter Ducat said argumentatively, “Why should he want to kill hisself? He was happy.”

Returning from the inquest, Delaney and Jordan paused in a cleft of the hills and looked back at the water.

“It’s really a lovely spot,” said the latter, in a low voice. “The blue-green waves and those spindly piers; the tall masts and the gear on the beach. This dunelike background of hill and sky! The hills are rockier than I should have imagined. It wouldn’t surprise me if there were some very decent caves up there. I’m going to have a look some day. Yes, I think I’ll stay on awhile —anyway.”

Delaney nodded and smiled. “Look at that boy,” he said, turning his eyes upward. “Apparently he has the same idea.”

An urchin had suddenly appeared on the hillside at a point where, from below, there seemed to be neither trail nor opening. As they looked upward he vanished again, apparently into the face of the rocky wall.

They returned to the village, and by nightfall were housed in canvas at the foot of the hillside fronting the water. That evening, sprawled before the tent opening, in darkness, they saw a man coming toward them carrying a lantern. His heavy feet crunched the gravel as he progressed. In a little time he stood before them, and deliberately raised the lantern to his face to show them his features.

“I’m Shadder,” announced the late visitor in matter-of-fact tones. “Dave Shadder. Maybe you remember me, Mr. Delaney.”

“Of course I do,” said Delaney cordially. “Sit down, Dave. Glad to see you. Will you have a cigar?”

“Thanks,” answered Dave Shadder, “but I’ve got my pipe. Never cared much about cigars, Mr. Delaney. If you don’t mind, I’ll shut off the light now.”

He extinguished his lantern and dropped down beside them. With incredible rapidity he filled and lighted his pipe.

In the darkness Delaney looked at the man’s bulky outline and wondered if Shadder had come to ask for a job. All of Cheltenham probably knew that he and Jordan would be wanting models. Prompt man!

“Terrible thing about the Captain,” observed the artist after a moment of silence.

The newcomer grunted. “Terrible’s right,” he said. He cleared his throat. “It’s about that I’ve come, Mr. Delaney. You heard what the verdict was, to-day?”

“Yes, we heard. Didn’t like to believe it.”

Dave Shadder grunted again in the darkness. “You needn’t,” he retorted dryly. “Cap’n Townsend was murdered—and—well, you and me are going to find out who murdered him.”

Jordan stirred and sat up on his elbow.

“I’ve got something to say,” continued the young fisherman grimly. “I’m not a detective, but I’m not a fool, either. Jim Kettle and I found the Captain’s body. We testified about it to-day, and we told what we knew. Couldn’t do no more than that. That coroner’s a fool, Mr. Delaney, and the doctor ain’t much better.”

“You may be right, Dave,” agreed Delaney cautiously.

“There was a fight in that little cabin before the Captain was shot. A struggle, anyway. You know— wrassling around! And once the Captain had a good grip on his man.”

“How do you know that?” asked Jordan, speaking for the first time.

“I know it because something the other fellow was wearing got tore. I’ve got it in my pocket.”

“Good Lord!” said Delaney, using his favorite exclamation. “Hadn’t we better have a light, Dave?”

Jordan scrambled to his feet. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ve got a pocket torch.” He dived into the tent and fumbled furiously through his belongings. In a moment he was back, preceded by a thin ribbon of light.

Shadder, groping in his pocket, brought up a folded piece of paper, very crushed and dirty. From the fold he extracted a thin sliver of cloth, hardly more than a twist of thread. “There!” he observed with satisfaction. “What do you make of that?” The tide had turned and was now coming in. He raised his voice somewhat to overwhelm its interruption.

Delaney took the thing in his hand. It was so small that he had to pinch it between his fingers to hold onto it. Jordan turned his miniature torch upon the particle. For a moment they all were silent.

“It’s silk,” said Delaney, at length, “and it’s green.”

“Ah!” observed the fisherman. “I ain’t so good on colors—not when there’s no more than that to go on.”

Jordan agreed. “Yes, it’s green, although only a man trained to recognize color could be sure in this light. What is it, Shadder?”

“That’s what I’m asking you gentlemen,” said Dave Shadder. “Them two little strips of cloth was caught on Cap’n Townsend’s fingernails.”

“On his fingernails!”

“Like as if he’d grabbed hold of something and it was pulled away—see? His nails wasn’t up to much, I guess; he chewed ’em a lot. Kind of rough, you know. They caught in this thing, whatever it was—see?”

Jordan nodded energetically. “I see!” He added quickly: “What did the coroner say about it?”

“He laughed,” answered Shadder placidly. “I’ll admit it ain’t much to go on, and it’s so small that you can hardly see it; but there wasn’t no call to laugh at it. He had his mind set on suicide, that was the trouble. So did the doctor and the detectives. Made less work for them, that way!”

“Hm-m!” mused Delaney. “Maybe we can tell more about it in daylight, Dave.”

“I’ll tell you more about it now,” said Jordan. “It was torn from a tie, Tommy—a necktie. It’s the only thing it could have been. It’s silk and it’s green. Two threads—two and a half, maybe—torn out of a necktie, by a man’s fingernails. Talk about your slim clues!”

Delaney’s excited fingers contrived to light a cigarette. “I believe you’re right, Paul.”

“Sure, he’s right,” nodded Shadder. “That’s what I figured myself; but I wanted you gentlemen to bear me out—see? All right, then! What next? A green silk necktie! How many green silk neckties do you imagine there are in Cheltenham, Mr. Delaney?”

Delaney laughed shortly. “Not many, I suppose. Not many of any color, Dave. But the murderer may not have been a Cheltenham man.”

“I know,” said Shadder; “but he came to Cheltenham. Somebody must have seen him. Maybe he’s a Cheltenham man, at that! How do we know? Cheltenham or Portage, I’ll bet. Nobody came a thousand miles to kill the Captain, I guess. And what’s more,” added the fisherman dramatically, “Peter Ducat had some green neckties last summer! I seen ’em in his window.”

Delaney again cried out to his Maker.

“Well,” concluded Shadder, “that’s that—and that’s what I had to tell you. The question is, what’s to be done about it?”

Jordan spoke quickly. “Let us have those threads, Shadder. You’d only be laughed at if you went around playing detective.”

The fisherman breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s just what I wanted you to say. Now it’s off my mind.”

“Of course, if there was any talk—” began Delaney.

“Our man would light out,” finished Shadder. “I know! Trust me to keep my mouth shut, Mr. Delaney. You know where to find me if you want me.”

He turned away abruptly.

Jordan laughed sharply, with a note of recklessness. His eyes were on the swaying lantern of the young fisherman tramping up the beach. He was thinking.

… An old seaman dead in the cabin of his gloomy vessel … a young fisherman picking his way homeward along the rocky shore, his lantern lighting the upward swing of his heels … two artists at the door of a tent as the moaning tide came in … darkness … and a ravel of green silk thread from a murderer’s tie.

“Yes,” said Jordan irrelevantly, “I think we’ll have a very jolly vacation, Tommy, even if we don’t get a picture.”

3.

Peter Ducat stood at his shop door next morning and watched the approach of the two artists. His face crinkled a welcome.

In the middle of the shop Jordan, viewing the place for the first time, revolved on one heel and looked about him. The chaos and disorder of the place were charming, he decided. There was everything on sale from patent medicines to sailcloth. He seated himself on a barrel.

“Look here, Peter,” he said, going directly to the point, “we all feel alike about this affair. Whatever the coroner’s jury may have decided, Captain Townsend was murdered. Well, you and I and Delaney are going to catch the man who murdered him.”

Peter Ducat was bewildered. “You mean—you mean you know who did it?”

“No, not exactly; that’s what we have to find out. You can help us. The fact is, the murderer was one of your customers. He bought a tie here once; last summer, we believe.”

“A tie?”

“A green silk tie—scarf—cravat—necktie—whatever you call them in this part of the world. You had some last summer, didn’t you?”

The shopkeeper nodded, frowning. “I did that,” he answered. “I remember them very well. They wasn’t popular, them ties. I had a dickens of a time getting rid of them. At that, I only had half a dozen. A slick salesman from Boston wished ’em on me.”

“You only had half a dozen?”

“That’s right. I put ’em in the window, and there they stayed till I thought I never would get rid of them.”

“But you did sell them ultimately?”

“Oh, yes. Jim Kettle got one of them—leastwise, his wife did, and Jim had to wear it.”

The artists were astonished. “Kettle!” exclaimed Delaney. “It was he who was with Shadder when the body was found. That’s curious. We’d better tell Peter the whole story, I think.”

Jordan briefly sketched the history of Shadder’s visit. The shopkeeper’s eyes sparkled. He aimed a lean finger at a row of shabby ledgers over a small desk in a corner.

“See them books?” said Ducat. “I’ve got a record there of every sale I ever made.” Then an idea struck him. “By Jiminy,” he muttered, “it ain’t possible!”

“What isn’t possible?”

“I was thinking of another fellow who bought one o’ them ties. You know that funny old bird that came around last summer, Mr. Delaney? Sort of traveling evangelist? He held services one Sunday on the beach. Well, I sold him one!”

Delaney’s brows went up. “I remember. Funny name—something like Varnish.”

“Farnish!” exclaimed Peter Ducat. “That’s the man.”

He ambled to his desk, brushing a pair of hip boots to the floor as he moved along the aisle. “Le’s see, now,” he murmured. “That’d be about April or May I got ’em; and they didn’t move till along about June.”

He hauled down one of the shabby volumes and spread it, open, upon the desk. The artists joined him, and all three bent over the book with eager interest. Ducat wet his thumb at his lips and whirled the pages. In a few moments he had found the first entry.

“There it is,” he crowed. “And, by golly, it’s a woman, too! Mrs. Cooper—Tom Cooper’s wife. She got that tie for Tom, of course. Ain’t never seen Tom wear it, come to think of it.”

“Hm-m!” commented Jordan. “Well, that’s three.”

“And there’s three more,” said Ducat, whirling again the hieroglyphic pages. His long finger moved swiftly from item to item, while he muttered idiomatic observations under his breath. Presently, there was another outcry. “Got it, by Golly! Well, well, now, I should have remembered that one.” The shopkeeper’s eyes were shining. “Old Frank Condon!”

“Who is Frank Condon?”

“One o’ the fishermen, that’s all. Ain’t much more to say about old Frank. Never wore a necktie in his life, s’far as I know. Anyway, he’s dead.”

Delaney suppressed an exclamation of annoyance. Peter Ducat continued his explorations. The leaves whirled, and again his finger rested upon a name. He frowned and shook his head.

“Somebody else dead?” asked Delaney.

“George Beebe!” cried Ducat. “Might have known he’d get one. Dead my eye! He runs the garage over to Portage. You must have come down in one of his cars.”

“We did,” said Jordan. “He ought to be hanged whether or not he’s a murderer. His cars are terrible.”

Peter Ducat chuckled, then immediately became sober. “We must have missed one somewhere,” he mused. “I remember, George bought the last tie I had.” He began to retrace his steps.

Jordan was jotting down the names of the known purchasers. “Could the other one have been stolen?”

“Wait a minute,” said Ducat. “I’ll bet I know what happened. I didn’t sell that tie. Billy Harris did, and the son of a gun didn’t enter it! He worked for me last summer when I wasn’t feeling well.”

Another half hour of diligent search seemed to confirm his suspicions. There was no record of another such sale.

“It’s awkward,” said Jordan. “Unless Harris can remember who he sold the tie to,” he added, brightening.

Ducat shrugged. “Maybe he could; but that ain’t the whole trouble. He’s gone to Chicago! Left last summer, right after I went back to work.”

“But you have his address?”

“Yes, I’ve got it somewhere around.”

“Then we’ll wire him,” said Jordan, with decision.

Delaney entered the field with a question. “When did Condon die?” he wanted to know.

“’Bout three weeks ago, up to Boston. The Weekly Visitor had a piece about him. Went up to Boston to see his son, and died there.”

Jordan was grateful. “It’s something to have one person eliminated,” he said, consulting his list. “All right now, we have four names—Kettle, Farnish, Cooper, and George Beebe. Condon’s dead, and the sixth purchaser we don’t know yet.”

Delaney had a sensational idea. “Look here, Peter,” he said, “you didn’t sell that other tie to the Captain himself, I suppose?”

Jordan stared. “Oh, come off,” he expostulated. “Why should the Captain have grabbed his own tie?”

“I don’t know.”

They swore Peter Ducat to silence and set off for their own dwelling to talk it over. When they were halfway to the hillside Delaney cried out sharply. “We didn’t send that wire to Harris, after all,” he said.

“Damn!” said Jordan. “Here, I’ll go back.”

“I’ll go myself,” said Delaney. “It has to be telephoned, I suppose. There’s no telegraph office in Cheltenham. I’ll join you shortly.” He turned back toward the village, while Jordan continued his march toward the hillside.

In the cleft of rock that was the passage to the beach the second artist paused to look around him at the natural beauty of the scene. Glancing upward, he was in time to see, again, high on the rocky wall, a slender urchin in the act of disappearing into the face of the hill.

Continuing on his course, he encountered the fisherman called Jim Kettle advancing toward the tent. Kettle appeared to be somewhat embarrassed. Either that or he was laughing up his sleeve, decided Jordan.

“Shadder told me what you fellows was doing,” began the fisherman abruptly. “That’s why I came over to see you.”

Jordan frowned. “Shadder oughtn’t to have told anybody,” he replied. “We particularly asked him not to.”

“I know,” said Kettle, “but it’s all right. I was with him when he found the Captain, you know. In fact, it was me that suggested you fellows to Shadder.” He kept his right hand inside his breast pocket as he spoke.

“You didn’t tell Shadder about your own green tie, however.”

As he made this direct accusation Jordan braced himself for possible trouble. But the fisherman only smiled.

“No,” he admitted. “To be honest, I didn’t know what to say about it. My wife gave me the damn’ thing for my birthday, and I wore it once and put it away. It’s been in a drawer since last summer. Here it is.”

His right hand came out of the breast of his jacket, clutching the green atrocity. Jordan suddenly laughed.

“It is a horror, isn’t it?” he said. “May I keep it?”

“Please do!” begged Kettle earnestly.

4.

In the cool of evening Messrs. Jordan and Delaney, hot upon the scent of their third green necktie, piled into the broken-winded auto that functioned between Cheltenham and Portage and departed for the latter metropolis, a large place with more than five thousand inhabitants. In Jordan’s pocket reposed the hideous halter that had once been Kettle’s, and around the neck of Delaney was jauntily tied the synonymous cravat that had been the property of Thomas Cooper. The artists had visited the shanty of Thomas Cooper during the afternoon and added the second tie to their collection.

“However,” said Jordan, “we can’t tell Beebe any such idiotic tale as we told Cooper, and we can’t offer him a dollar for his tie. Beebe’s a smart man. He may even have talked things over with the doctor—who was from Portage, you will remember.”

A curious fortuity, as it happened, paved the way for their inquiries in Portage. George Beebe was at the garage when they arrived, and was wearing the tie they had come to view. Delaney, at sight of it, nudged Jordan sharply.

Jordan airily explained the object of their visit. “We want to find a man named Farnish,” he said. “An old fellow who used to lecture—no, preach!—on the beach last summer. We thought maybe you could tell us something about him.”

Beebe nodded. “He lives over at Thornton,” he responded. “About eight miles from here. I don’t know him, but his son comes into town occasionally.”

“That’s the man,” said Jordan. “Evangelist, isn’t he? We thought maybe he’d like to—” He broke off with a laugh. “By Jove, Tommy!” he cried. “Mr. Beebe’s wearing your tie!”

Delaney started guiltily, but caught the cue. “Darned if he isn’t!” he said.

“Whose tie?” asked Beebe. “Mr. Delaney’s? What makes it his tie?” His eyes sought Delaney’s throat and he smiled. “Well, well!”

“The color,” chuckled Jordan. “Delaney’s crazy about green ties. Honestly, I don’t see how you fellows can wear them.”

The garage man laughed sheepishly. “What’s the matter with them?” he wanted to know. “I picked this one out myself. I don’t pretend to be an artist, but—”

Jordan roared mirthfully. “But you know what you like,” he finished. “That’s Delaney, all over. He’s not an artist, but he knows—”

“You go to grass!” said the wrathful Delaney.

“What he likes!” concluded Jordan. Stepping forward, he audaciously seized Beebe’s green tie and examined it. “They’re twins,” he declared, looking narrowly at the streamer ends of the green nightmare. “They’re absolutely twins!” He turned Beebe’s over and examined it again, chuckling merrily. “I understand that the fellow who makes them is serving time for disturbing the peace.” He dropped the ends carelessly, and resumed his original explanation. “Don’t mind me, Mr. Beebe. I’m perfectly harmless. Just a lunatic at large. I was saying, we thought maybe he’d like to pose for us. He’s a type, Delaney says.”

Beebe agreed. “He’s a character, all right. Look here, boys: I’ve a car going out to Thornton in a few minutes. Best time to catch him is at night, you know.”

“Fine!” said Jordan. “Lives with his son, you say?”

“With his son and his son’s wife. My driver knows the place.”

He bustled away to see about the expected car, and Delaney looked at his friend, with inquiry in his gaze. Jordan shook his head sadly. His careful examination of the ends of George Beebe’s necktie had revealed nothing incriminating.

The energetic Jordan was somewhat downcast. Nonetheless, he was the first out of the car when it drew up before the neat cottage of the Rev. Josiah Farnish, in Thornton. It was long past twilight, but in the gloom they could see the figure of a man leaning against the gate. They approached and saw dimly an elderly man of benevolent appearance, who was obviously the man they had come to interview.

“Good-evening, Mr. Farnish,” said Delaney. “Do you remember me? Thomas Delaney of New York? I met you on the beach last summer.”

The driver called to them from the road, and was told to return in his own time.

“How do you do, Mr. Delaney,” said the old clergyman. “I remember you, I think, but only slightly. You are—one of the artists, I think?”

“And this is another artist—my friend, Mr. Jordan. Mr. Farnish, we are going back to Portage shortly, and we must be brief. I think we can be frank with you.”

He looked inquiringly at Jordan, who nodded and took up the conversation.

“The fact is, Mr. Farnish, mad as it may sound, we have come to you because, last summer, you bought a green tie from Peter Ducat, in Cheltenham.”

The Rev. Josiah Farnish came a step nearer in the gloom. He peered earnestly into their faces. “It does sound rather extraordinary,” he admitted, “but what you say is certainly true. I did buy such a tie.”

“Do you still have that tie?” asked Jordan swiftly.

For a moment the clergyman was silent. Then he laughed softly, leaning against his gate. “I am bound to assume that you have a reason for asking,” he answered. “Yes, if it is important, I think the tie could be produced. May I ask what you want with it?”

“It sounds wild, doesn’t it?” said Jordan. “It is wild, in fact; but it’s important, too. The truth is, Mr. Farnish, it is just conceivable that a green silk tie— not necessarily yours—may prove a valuable clue in running down a criminal.”

The clergyman was startled. “I don’t understand!”

“The murderer of Captain Townsend,” said the artist in a low voice.

The old clergyman swung open the gate. “This is all very strange,” he gestured. “I don’t understand it—but will you come in? I bought the tie for my son, and I assume he still has it, although possibly it may have been thrown away. It must be a year old now.”

But at the threshold the door was violently opened from within, and a young man stormed out onto the steps. He had been listening, it appeared, or trying to listen, to what went forward.

“Who are these men, Father?” he demanded.

His father stared at him, astonished by his violence. “They’re two young artists, John,” he replied mildly. “I don’t quite understand their business as yet, but I am sure they are all right.”

“What do they want?” continued John Farnish tempestuously.

“Well,” began his father, “the fact is—”

Jordan stepped into the breach. “The fact is,” he took up the sentence, “we were asking about a certain green tie, purchased in Cheltenham by your father. We are sorry to have created a disturbance. Our questions were courteous. We are tracing the tie—”

“So I observe!” snapped the younger Farnish. “Pestering an old man about something that’s none of your business! None of your business, do you hear me?”

“Oh, the whole street can hear you,” said Jordan.

“None of your business!” shrieked John Farnish again. “If my father gave it to me it’s my tie, isn’t it? Do I have to explain to a couple of sneaks—”

“John!” cried his father, scandalized.

“Come inside!” ordered the young man sharply.

“And you two—get out!”

He drew the old clergyman swiftly through the door and slammed it shut with a memorable disturbance. In a moment it opened again, and a savage face looked forth.

“Get out!” repeated John Farnish. “Get out, or I’ll set the dogs on you!”

At the gate, while they awaited the tardy coming of Beebe’s decrepit car, Delaney made a remark.

“I’ve heard of ministers’ sons before,” he said.

5.

In the morning the energetic Jordan dictated another telegram over Peter Ducat’s telephone. The second message was to Boston, and was addressed to the son of the old man named Condon who was reported to have died about three weeks before. It was a blunt message that Jordan sent. “What became of the green tie purchased by your father from Peter Ducat last summer?” it read. “Wire answer my expense.” The artist offered no explanation of his interest. He thought it would do the younger Condon no harm to wonder a bit. The expense of the telegram was charged to Peter Ducat’s shop.

There had been no reply to the wire to Chicago, but within two hours the Boston reply came through. It was as brief as had been Jordan’s query. It read: “Buried Father in that tie he liked it and asked to be buried in it what’s the trouble why not buy another?”

This message was signed by one Joseph Condon, and, reading it, after he had copied it down, Jordon swore thoughtfully, then laughed.

“Well,” he said, “that’s one tie we don’t add to our collection. Of course,” he added, “Condon may be lying, but I don’t know how we’re going to prove it.”

They strolled back to their canvas dwelling and for a time sat looking out to sea. Jordan, who from time to time insisted upon going over the evidence, continued his musings, while Delaney listened.

“There were six ties,” said the artist, “and we’ve run down five of them. That’s progress, anyway. Two of them we own—Kettle’s and Cooper’s. One—Beebe’s —I’ve examined, and it’s all right. Farnish’s is open to suspicion; we haven’t seen it, and probably won’t see it. Condon’s is six feet underground, unless Joseph is lying. I don’t quite know what the devil is left for us to do, Tommy!”

“Why not a jolly little cave hunt?”

Delaney looked upward. “All right,” he said.

Leaving the tent, they walked along the beach for some distance, looking for a point at which they might ascend. At length, in a hill cleft, they found a narrow trail leading tortuously upward, apparently to the summit. It ended, however, in a narrow ledge of rock, with another ledge some feet above their heads. They scrambled to the second ledge, and looked upward to a third. This they reached after another scramble. Then again the trail appeared, and they emerged, at last, upon a little hill path that offered a precarious footing. It was almost a goat path. They looked downward, and were surprised to see the water so far beneath them.

“There’s a big boulder ahead,” said Delaney, puffing. “Looks as if it were the entrance to something.”

They trod carefully to the boulder, when, looking downward again, they saw their own tent on the beach immediately below. They stood directly above it, but at an altitude of some two hundred feet.

“The other way, I think,” said Jordan.

They reversed themselves and cautiously retraced their steps. Reaching the point at which they had emerged upon the path, they continued beyond it, and with a whoop of triumph came upon a narrow cleft in the hillside, standing outside which, they were aware of a current of cooler air. The little breeze seemed to emanate from the interior of the rock.

Jordan, the slighter of the two, wriggled through the aperture and hauled his friend in after him. He produced his invaluable torch, and they looked eagerly at the stone passage in which they found themselves. It seemed to pierce deeply into the hill. The tiny beam of light penetrated only a few feet, and its illumination on the sides of the tunnel was confusing. Jordan snapped it off, so that they stood in darkness, save for the minute particles of sunlight that filtered in from the fissure through which they had entered. Then, slowly, they began to advance into the heart of the miniature mountain. They groped forward, for a time, in darkness, arms outstretched. The fingers of one hand brushed the wall as they progressed, the other was thrust out before them, to guard against obstruction.

After a while the passage widened. They lost contact with the walls. Realizing that they had entered a cavern of some size, they halted. The air was clear and cool, however, as if the cave were moistened by some invisible vent.

Delaney’s voice sounded sepulchrally in the silence. “Your light, Paul!”

But Jordan was listening. His voice came back in a whispered “Hush!” and the second artist heard, somewhere ahead, the shadowy sound of movement. Something tinkled faintly against the rocky wall.

Jordan came groping back. His lips were laid against his friend’s ear. “Did you hear that?” he breathed. “There’s somebody here—with us!”

For some moments they listened intently, but no further sound broke the stillness. Delaney spoke again. “It’s that damned kid,” he muttered; and suddenly raising his voice, he called: “Hey, kid, where are you?”

A clamor of echoes repeated the query in a score of discordant keys, but there was no answer when all sound had ceased. Jordan swore eloquently beneath his breath. He added, half aloud: “I don’t like this, Tommy. I’m going back. I want to think something out.”

They ended their return journey at the fissure in the hillside, and descended in silence by the trail they had used to ascend. In sunlight, the episode of the moving body in the cavern seemed less momentous; they smiled at each other a bit sheepishly.

“What was your idea?” asked Delaney at length.

“It seemed a pretty good one—in there,” answered his friend. “It occurred to me to wonder what would happen if we had blundered onto the hiding place of Captain Townsend’s murderer!”

“Tommyrot!” said Delaney, who had been thinking the same thing.

“Well, anyway,” said Jordan defensively, “I want to think.”

His thoughts had got him nowhere, however, by evening; and as dusk fell the two friends sat silent again before their tent door, staring away across the darkening water. The night was cool and fragrant under the stars. They braced their backs against convenient boulders and smoked interminably. Then they stirred at the same instant. A step had sounded on the gravel beach, and once again, as on a previous evening, the figure of a man bulked in the gloom. Again, as before, Dave Shadder came up and dropped down beside them.

The newcomer began at once to fill his pipe. “Anything new?” he asked easily.

“Mm-m!” said Jordan. It was a noncommittal answer. After a moment he added: “Nothing much, Dave. But there’s a question I want to ask. What can you tell us of Mr. John Farnish?”

He sketched briefly for the fisherman all that had happened since they had seen him last, omitting only the adventure of the unseen cave.

Shadder shrugged his huge shoulders. “He’s just young Farnish, I guess. Comes to town once in a while; not often. Only question is, why does he come? I’m no hand to spread gossip, Mr. Jordan, but between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he came to see a girl.”

“Oh,” said Jordan. “He has a wife, I believe!”

Shadder repeated his shrug. “What of it?”

“Who’s the girl?” asked Delaney.

Shadder scratched his chin. “She’s—ah—Cooper’s daughter, if you ask me. Mind you, I’m not saying that myself. It’s what the gossips say.” He subsided virtuously.

“I hope she’s better tempered than her father,” said Jordan. He rolled over on his back and crossed his legs. Then suddenly he rolled back again and sprang upright.

Delaney and Shadder already had reached their feet, and all three stared up the hillside into darkness. High above them there had sounded a curious crunching and crackling, as if a new fissure had decided to open in the mountain. Then a score of small stones hurtled downward to the beach, followed quickly by a shower.

“Look out!” yelled Shadder hoarsely. He bounded to one side, followed by the two artists, and flung himself behind the largest of the rocks that littered the beach at the foot of the ascent.

The crackling above became louder. Then with a rush and roar that sounded like the breaking of a dam, the great boulder that the artists had seen upon the hill path earlier in the day came out of its groove and rushed downward at the speed of a meteor.

It passed the tent with a sinister swish, in a rain of flying earth, and crashed by its own velocity halfway across the beach. For some seconds the downpour of earth and small stones continued in its wake; then silence again settled over the scene.

The three young men crept from their positions of safety and stood trembling.

Shadder was peering upward into darkness, with frowning brow. In a moment he spoke. “Missed the tent by inches,” he commented. “That was a funny accident, gentlemen. I’ve been around here for twenty years—and I never knew anything like that to happen before.”

Delaney and Jordan said nothing.

6.

Morning brought the expected reply from Billy Harris. Ducat had received it over the telephone and copied it onto a piece of brown paper. It was a sensational message that the fragment of wrapping paper conveyed.

“Sold that tie to old Captain Townsend,” it read succinctly. And, as if to clinch the authenticity of the sale, Harris had added: “He paid cash.”

Jordan groaned. “Can you beat that?” he demanded. “The very thing you suggested, Tommy. And I laughed at you!”

His face was so tragic that Delaney laughed. “Well,” said the second artist, “we had to find out. We ought to be able to find that tie anyway. Who got the Captain’s things? Funny thing, though, that Shadder didn’t know about it.”

Jordan seated himself thoughtfully and spoke no more for several minutes. When he did speak, it was with vigor and some venom.

“We’ve been a couple of damn’ fools, Tommy,” he observed acidly. “The solution of this mystery, as I read it, is right here in Cheltenham. Somebody’s been lying to us. Now, who?”

“Farnish, for choice,” ventured Delaney.

“He hasn’t lied,” snapped Jordan. “He hasn’t spoken. We’ve never seen his tie. We’ve never seen Condon’s. We’ve never seen Townsend’s, it now appears. Well, if we do see it, and it’s raveled—we’re sunk! No, wait a minute! If the Captain’s tie is the raveled one, two men lied. Shadder and Kettle! They found the body; they called attention to the threads. The Captain wasn’t wearing a tie when we saw the body. Did somebody remove it?”

Delaney put a hand to his head. “Madness!” he said.

“Also,” continued Jordan, “who is hiding in the caves? And why? Is it a boy playing bandit, or—somebody else? If it’s somebody else, who is the kid? I’ll tell you who the kid is, Tommy. He’s the bright little messenger who delivers food to a fugitive, that’s who he is.” He added, after a moment: “But why doesn’t the damned fool escape?”

“Ask me something easy,” said Delaney.

They left the shop of Peter Ducat behind them and started back toward the water. But as they swung out of the village main street they saw ahead of them, and apparently proceeding in their own direction, the figure of a girl. It was a familiar figure, and Delaney, observing it, looked quickly at Jordan.

“Yes,” said Jordan, “it’s Judith Cooper.”

“Farnish’s—”

“Sh-h!” interrupted Jordan, for the girl was turning at the sound of their footsteps.

It became apparent in a moment that she was awaiting their arrival. She was a rather large young woman, and she looked formidable. At the same instant, both artists wondered if there was about to be a disgraceful scene in the streets of Cheltenham. They doffed their hats uncertainly.

Miss Cooper was forthright and vigorous. “I’ve been hanging around waiting for you two,” she observed briskly. “I saw you going into Ducat’s. Thought we might walk back together.” In spite of her size, she was easy to look at, Delaney decided.

“Yes, indeed,” said Jordan, secretly glad that the row, if there was to be one, would occur out of sight of the townsfolk.

They fell into step and strolled toward the hill cleft that led to the beach. Their conversation was artificial and calculated to fill a certain amount of time. In the pass, Miss Cooper stopped and turned accusing eyes upon the culprits. “Now,” she asked, as briskly as she had first spoken, “just what is the idea?” She was smiling faintly, but there was a steely glitter in her eye.

“Idea?” echoed Jordan. “Really, Miss Cooper, there isn’t any law against shopping at Ducat’s, is there?”

“You know what I mean, I guess,” retorted Cooper’s daughter. “Why are you collecting—green neckties? Oh, I know you are. You got one from my father, and you—” She stopped. After a moment she continued:

“And I’ve heard you’ve been trying to get others.”

“Who told you that?” asked Jordan, putting her at a disadvantage.

Miss Cooper evaded the question. “I heard it,” she answered vaguely.

The artist took another tone. “Well, what’s your own idea of it?” he asked. Suddenly he added: “Look here, Miss Cooper, if you’ll be frank, we will.”

Her glance fell. She hesitated. There was relief in her eyes, however, which Jordan was quick to see. A great light burst over the artist.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Cooper,” he said quickly. “I’ve just tumbled to what happened, Farnish gave you that tie! No wonder he refused to account for it!”

Miss Cooper blushed furiously, and the pacific Delaney took over the explanation. “Never mind!” he smiled. “Personally, I’m sure everything is all right.” He shook his head at his companion. “On our honor, Miss Cooper, we are interested in that tie only because it is one of six. How you came by it does not interest us.”

Miss Cooper spoke in a low, hurried voice. “Once Mr. Farnish and I were engaged to be married,” she said. “We had a quarrel, and—he married someone else. He’s been trying to get a divorce—ever since. It was a mistake. He oughtn’t to give me presents, I know; but sometimes he does.”

“Of course he does,” said Delaney heartily, as if it were the most proper course in the world. “We’re awfully sorry to have upset you; but you’ve helped us a lot. If we could just see that tie—for a minute—”

“You can have it!” said the girl dramatically. She suddenly produced it from her pocket. “There it is!”

Jordan took it with a helpless little laugh. “Thanks —thanks very much,” he stammered. “You are a surprising young woman.” Nonetheless, he looked instantly at the ends of the green tie before putting it into his own pocket. Finally he said: “Will you present our apologies to Mr. Farnish? And, please, say nothing to anybody else about these ties.”

“As if I’m likely to!” retorted Judith Cooper.

There was an embarrassed silence for a moment, then, with a little nod, the girl turned away. In gloomy silence, the artists strode toward their own dwelling.

“You see where all this sort of thing leads to,” said Delaney at length. “We’ve got to drop it, Paul. It just isn’t our business. We can’t go probing into the private affairs of everybody in Cheltenham.”

Jordan smiled faintly. “Of course,” he deprecated, “murder is a private affair, Tommy. I realize that. Public murders are comparatively few. The best people frown on them. It isn’t done!” He laughed sardonically.

“You and I mustn’t quarrel about this,” said Delaney. “I’ll stand by you, of course, if you insist on going ahead.”

Jordan’s face lighted. “Atta Tommy!” he cried. “There’s only two to go, after all. Then we resume our normal rôles and forget all about green neckties.”

“Two?” echoed his friend, surprised.

“Condon’s, and the one Harris sold to the Captain.”

“Good Lord!” said Delaney. “Condon’s is—! It’s in the grave with Condon!”

Jordan merely shrugged. “Maybe it is,” he answered after a moment.

“You’re not going to Boston?”

“I’m afraid I must, Tommy. You don’t have to go with me, of course.”

The Boston trip, however, was never made. Strolling toward the village that evening, about dusk, the two friends heard a rustling in the bushes that bordered the base of the hill, and saw a small boy emerge from darkness and walk briskly away toward town.

Jordan grasped Delaney’s arm and held his friend motionless. “Don’t move!” he muttered. “He hasn’t seen us.”

For some seconds they waited. Then, when the urchin had been given a fair start, they followed, stepping cautiously to avoid betraying sounds.

“This is the end,” whispered Jordan, pressing his friend’s elbow. “That kid has been the clue to this mystery from the beginning. This time he doesn’t get away.”

At the edge of the village the boy halted and looked furtively about him. The artists were crouching in the shadow of the last cheek of the hill. In a moment the youngster resumed his march, now whistling shrilly.

“Mustn’t lose him,” warned Jordan; and they took after the youngster in a series of little sprints until, at length, they saw him turn off into a side street just before the line of shops began.

But the boy was no longer furtive about his movements. Convinced that all was well, he proceeded upon his way, still whistling his endless melody, as if to guide his pursuers by sound as well as sight. He turned into a white gate at last, and bounded up the steps of a neat white cottage. He crossed the veranda with a skip and entered a door, which in a moment closed behind him.

On Delaney’s face was an expression that Jordan could not read. Amazement, chagrin, admiration, and sheer bewilderment were all blended in that expression.

“What is it?” whispered Jordan, when they had reached a place of safety.

“Peter Ducat’s place!” said Delaney. He added: “My head is spinning. Let’s get back to camp.”

7.

John Farnish came into Cheltenham next day and made a few trifling purchases, then headed directly for the canvas dwelling of Messrs. Jordan and Delaney. The artists, looking up from their tasks of the moment, saw him coming, and went to meet him. The minister’s son came up with outstretched hand.

“I received your apologies,” he said, “and I guess I owe you mine. We needn’t go into any of that. What can I do to help you?”

“What do you know?” asked Jordan promptly. They returned to the tent and sat down before its door.

Farnish shook his head and accepted a cigarette. “Nothing much, maybe,” he answered. “The question is: how much do you know?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Jordan; and he did. The story, from its beginnings, took some time in the telling. Jordan omitted nothing from his recital.

Farnish listened without comment until the artist had finished. “Hm-m!” he observed at length. “Now I’ll tell you something that apparently you don’t know. How it figures in this case isn’t clear yet, maybe; but you ought to know it. Captain Townsend was a picturesque character, a fine old mariner, a tough old salt, and all that sort of thing, wasn’t he? Romantic figure for an artist to paint! Well, up to a point he was all that. He was also a bad actor! Very bad. He had a temper. He killed a man years ago. It couldn’t be proved, and it wasn’t proved; but that’s what happened, in my opinion. The man worked with him on the schooner. They came back from a fishing expedition one night, and the other man was dead. Something fell on his head, Townsend said. I imagine it was a club wielded by the Captain. What the trouble was nobody ever knew. It blew over, and it’s almost forgotten now. But the older people here know what sort of a man the Captain was when he was drinking.”

Delaney gestured unbelievingly.

“Well,” continued Farnish, “that’s that. My father knew about it. He told me. It happened years ago. My father hears a lot of things that he doesn’t repeat. He’s a man of peace—a very fine old man. People trust him. Now Townsend may have been murdered, as you suspect; probably he was. But I’ll bet he had it coming to him. Of course, he loved to be known as a fine old sea dog. He loved to be painted. The artists were all crazy about him. But the artists didn’t know the real Captain Townsend.”

“Ducat must know all about it,” said Jordan.

Farnish nodded. “Ducat is concealing the truth,” he agreed. “That’s obvious.”

“The murderer,” continued Jordan, “must be some relative of the man killed by Townsend years ago— maybe a son, now grown up. He might be any of the younger fishermen around here. You don’t remember the name of the man who was killed?”

“My father remembers it very well. It was Bonner.”

Jordan shook his head. “That means nothing to me,” he said. “Are there any other Bonners around?”

“I never heard of any others.”

“Funny thing that Ducat was so keen about helping us,” muttered Jordan. “He was the first man to say ‘Murder!’”

“Bravado!” said Delaney.

Jordan scrambled to his feet. “Look here, Farnish,” he cried, “will you help? There’s one way left to solve this thing. The murderer of Captain Townsend is hiding in one of those caves up there. He’s somewhere behind and above us at this minute! That kid brings him food, I think. Now, you and I and Delaney—?”

He left his suggestion hanging in the air. Farnish slowly nodded.

“All right,” he said. “I’m not sure that I’m not glad the Captain got what was coming to him. I mean, it’s probably a justified murderer that we’re running down —if murder is ever justified. But if you want to see it through I’ll go with you.”

Jordan vanished into the tent. He came out with his electric torch and a formidable-looking pistol. “I’m glad I brought this,” he said, indicating the weapon.

No whisper broke the silence of the tunnel. Darkness clung about them like a hood and at times it was overwhelming. Not until they had entered the first cavern did Jordan flash his light. The tiny beam played around the walls of the chamber, but it was bare and cold and empty. On the farther side the cave narrowed and the tunnel began again, long and dark and narrow. In inky blackness they proceeded for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then a second cavern yawned before them, as cold and empty as the first. Again the pocket torch flashed, revealing a forked aisle of stone. A decision confronted them.

“To the right,” said Jordan firmly.

They resumed their eerie journey, treading cautiously to avoid unnecessary sound. Somewhere in the distance ahead a faint sound began to be heard. The air was cooler and fresher. They pressed forward softly, and the dim sound became the washing of waves against a rocky base. The tunnel was dipping downward toward the sea.

The rush of waves became louder; the sea breeze was now blowing past them freely, and on its saltness was borne to them the sudden odor of wood smoke. Somewhere ahead a fire was burning.

Jordan put away his torch and brought out his pistol. With the action, he realized that he had never fired one of the things in his life. His heart beat rapidly. The path was widening….

Then a red glow appeared at the end of the dipping trail, and, creeping forward, they saw a man’s figure cross between them and the firelight. It appeared again, and seemed to come toward them. Flattened against the sides of the tunnel, the adventurers realized that the man had stopped at the mouth of the passage and was listening.

A low voice came to them, whispering along the stone walls. “Is that you, Marty?”

The name of the youngster, it appeared, was Marty.

The voice became louder. “Who’s there?” it called sharply. Then the figure disappeared.

Jordan leaped forward as if driven from behind. His voice echoed in the passage. “He’s escaping!” He ran recklessly ahead into a semi-darkness that lightened as he approached the final cavern, and brought up at the mouth with pistol raised. Farnish, a step behind, brushed past him and darted into the chamber.

At the far side was a great window of light—the open mouth of the cavern that overlooked the sea. A man was standing on the very brink of the aperture, poised as if about to leap outward into space. A shrill voice began to scream at them as they hesitated.

“I’ll jump!” it cried. “Get back or I’ll jump! You’ll never take me alive!”

John Farnish, incredulous, put up a restraining hand. For an instant he could not speak.

“Good God!” he said at length. “It’s Billy Harris!”

8.

And that was the way it ended, for twenty minutes later, while the three pursuers were still trying to argue the frantic Harris out of his suicidal intention, Peter Ducat stalked into the proceedings and only the explanations were left to be made.

The shopkeeper looked about him grimly at the incredible scene, and spoke bitterly.

“So you’ve run him down at last, have you, you damned meddlers?” he asked. “Well, now that you know, what are you going to do about it?”

But the denouement had been so surprising to the two artists that they had no answer to make. Ducat’s baleful eyes were turned upon John Farnish.

The clergyman’s son shrugged his shoulders. “Answer your own questions, Ducat,” he replied. “As I understand it, you are as much to blame as anybody for starting this hunt.”

“That’s a lie,” said Ducat, promptly. “Dave Shadder is the man who started it—the damned fool! I tried to steer things another way.”

“Nevertheless,” said Farnish, “this is where your infernal green ties have led us.”

Billy Harris had left his precarious perch, and was crouched beside the fire, still shaking. The boy was badly frightened, but from time to time he turned his grateful eyes to the lean face of the old shopkeeper.

Ducat snorted his rage and disgust. “Green ties!” he sneered. “There hasn’t been a green tie in this thing from the beginning. Only a couple of complete idiots would ever have thought there was.”

Jordan, emerging from his bewilderment, entered the conversation. “Perhaps,” he said mildly, “you’ll tell us now what did happen that night on the boat.”

For a moment Ducat’s eyes continued to blaze. Then he shrugged in his turn, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. “All right,” he said wearily. “I’ll tell you. Maybe that way you’ll let Billy alone.”

He strode to the mouth of the cavern and stood for a moment looking out across the water.

“Ever hear of a man named Bonner?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jordan, “Mr. Farnish told us about him. Did Townsend kill Bonner?”

“He did,” said Peter Ducat. “Well, Billy’s Bonner’s son. Maybe you guessed that.”

“Yes,” agreed Jordan, “we guessed that—but we didn’t know it was Billy then.”

“It was Billy. Billy was my assistant last summer. All his life he’d been trying to find out the truth about his father. When he left me he went to Chicago, as I told you. He hadn’t found out then. I found out for him. Townsend got drunk one night, and came reeling into my shop. We got confidential, and he talked a lot. When he’d finished I knew who had killed Billy’s father. I knew why, too. He wanted Billy’s mother! Know what happened to Billy’s mother? She died when Billy was born—after his father went.”

Ducat spread his hands again. “That was the way it was,” he said. “I told Billy about it—and Billy came back to Cheltenham; to have it out with Townsend. That was about a week before the Captain—before he died. See? You wanted to know what happened on the boat. I’ll tell you. Townsend tried to serve the son the same way he served the father. He was scared. I don’t know whether Billy intended to kill the Captain, and I don’t care. Somehow, the Captain got himself killed. Billy came to me. I tucked him away—here—till everything blew over. See? Sent him food by my nephew, and visited him myself when I got a chance. If Dave Shadder’s fool nose hadn’t got into it I’d have got Billy back to Chicago. But Dave just couldn’t wait to play detective. Had a story to tell, and hustled off with it to a couple of artists, because they’d known the Captain! What’d he know about the Captain? ’Bout as much as Mr. Delaney did!”

He turned to the artist mentioned. “I’m sorry about that big rock that bounced down on you the other night. Billy was scared. It was his way of discouraging you. He didn’t really intend to smash you.”

Jordan stirred and put up a hand. “I guess I understand enough of it,” he said. “I’m willing to quit right now. I’m sorry! Awfully sorry!”

“Of course,” said Delaney, “you never heard anything from our wire to Chicago? You just answered that yourself?”

“Just answered it myself,” replied Peter Ducat. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

“I’d like to know about the green ties,” said Jordan. “You said they didn’t figure in this at all.”

“They didn’t. That’s why, after Shadder’d started you off, I didn’t mind telling you about them. They couldn’t get you anywhere, I figured, and after a while I thought you’d get tired and quit. The last of those ties I never did sell. I’ve got it now at the shop.”

“Well, then,” demanded Jordan, “what were the green threads on the Captain’s fingernails?”

Peter Ducat grinned a toothless smile. “Ever since the artists took up with the Captain,” he answered, “he was a regular artist himself. A considerable damn’ fool, if you ask me. There was green curtains—silk—on the window in that little cabin where the Captain—died. About the same color as them ties. When he—fell over —the Captain grabbed at the curtains and bust the window. Maybe you remember that window?

“And so,” continued Ducat, “I took them curtains down myself, to mop things up with.”

“You!” cried the artist, astounded.

“I was—er—outside the cabin—when it happened.”

Delaney crossed the cavern floor with determined step and stood for a moment at the entrance to the tunnel. “We’ve heard enough of this,” he observed. “First thing we know, we’ll have heard too much. For my part, I am convinced that the finding of the coroner’s jury was very wise. If I never see you again, Peter, and you, Harris—good luck!”

He tramped resolutely into the dark passage, without a backward glance. After a surprised moment, Jordan and John Farnish followed him.

The Woman in Black

1.

Queer folk come to the rooms of Jimmie Lavender, in Portland Street, Chicago. Always they come when they are in trouble. I have seen a great deal of trouble enter that rather dingy corridor across from the Elevated station; have heard it climb the long stairs to the topmost floor, and speculated on its brisk or wavering knock upon Lavender’s panels. It is a grim business, for the most part, that occupies the talents of my friend Lavender, although one might never guess it from the dapper appearance of that debonair detective.

And sometimes grimness and gaiety stalk hand in hand, as in the at once amusing and amazing case of our young friend Volney Kingston. Not that it was really Kingston’s case at all, but at least he began it, in so far as Lavender and I were concerned. It all happened a couple of summers ago, when by every right we should have been at the seashore or in the mountains, and so should all the others concerned in the case.

It was a bewildered and somewhat nervous young man that entered our rooms that late afternoon in August. Amused, too, and agog with a sort of apprehensive curiosity. Nothing of the sort had ever happened to him before. He assured us of that, even before we had learned the object of his visit.

“As a rule,” he explained, “I’m able to solve my own mysteries; but this one has got me stopped, I confess. It’s entirely mad!”

“I think we have met before?” inquired Jimmie Lavender. “I somehow associate you with an explosion in Trafton Street. I am sure you are not Lazzari, who set off the bomb, because Lazzari is in the State Prison.”

Our visitor chuckled, reminiscently. “Your memory’s all right,” he smiled, “although it’s five years since that happened. I interviewed you at that time. I’m Kingston of the Evening Post.”

“So you are,” said Lavender. “You misquoted me in one particular; perhaps that’s why I remember you. However, it wasn’t very serious; and, as you observe, that was five years ago. No more explosions, I hope?”

Volney Kingston (of the Evening Post) raised his eyebrows in significant inquiry, and in response to our nod lighted a cigarette. He flicked the match out of the open window.

“No,” he answered, with a sort of grim laugh, “not yet, anyway. There may be before long. There seems to be a very determined attempt going forward to oust me from my home. They may resort to dynamite before they’re through. Last night it was Greek fire!”

My eyes opened more widely. Lavender, after a swift glance of suspicion, allowed his lips to curve in a slow smile.

“Not really?” he observed. “It sounds interesting. And in all my experience, you are the first newspaper reporter to admit himself baffled by anything. Well, Kingston, I see that you have a story to tell. Let’s have it.”

The journalist grinned without embarrassment.

“Yes, I have,” he admitted. “As I say, I can usually find my own clues, and run down my own mysteries— such as they are—I’m not suggesting that they’re anything like yours—but this one is a masterpiece. I’m all at sea, and I hardly know where to begin it. Maybe it doesn’t begin where I think it does. Maybe the different things aren’t connected. Maybe I’m a damned fool.”

“Begin as far back as you think it may begin,” suggested Lavender. “Of course, I’m assuming that you are not just working me for a newspaper story! It really happened, I suppose?”

“If it didn’t, I’m the Crown Prince of Sweden and ought to be in an aslyum,” retorted Kingston. “No, sir, this is straight stuff, Mr. Lavender, and it’s personal assistance I want. The paper hasn’t a thing to do with it. I’ll start exactly two weeks back, then I won’t miss anything.”

His cigarette followed the burnt match out of the window, and he leaned forward in his chair.

“It was on a Saturday that the first thing occurred. It was a fine day, and I had just come off duty, along about three in the afternoon. I was standing at the corner of Congress Street and Wabash Avenue, watching the cars go by; trying to make up my mind whether to stay in the Loop or go home. I’d had a hard day, and my brain was a bit fogged. Anyway, there I stood, and when about thirteen cars had passed, and still I hadn’t made up my mind, I suddenly felt someone looking at me. Did you ever feel a pair of eyes boring into you?”

“Often,” said Lavender, with a smile.

“I suppose I must have become aware of them gradually,” continued the reporter, “because when I was finally sure of them it occurred to me that I had been feeling ‘looked at’ for some time. Well, the eyes were just burning into my back. I didn’t turn round at once; I’m not such a fool as that. I was smoking a cigar, and first I knocked off the ashes—casually, you know—and then swung around with what I thought was easy carelessness.”

He chuckled infectiously. “It was a woman. I had guessed that much from the way I felt. She was dressed from head to foot in black—the blackest black you ever saw. Of course, I didn’t know her from Martha Washington; no such luck. And as soon as I turned, she turned too; swung like a shot, and began to look into the window behind her. It was a barber shop window, and it occurred to me in a hurry that there couldn’t be anything there to interest her.”

“Perhaps her husband was in the chair,” mildly suggested Lavender.

“Perhaps he was,” grunted Kingston, “but I’m betting he wasn’t. Anyway, it gave me an opportunity to size her up. I’m bound to say that she looked decent. Shabby genteel, middle-aged, apparently respectable. You know? I got her in a glance, then went back to my original position. And in a minute I felt her eyes again. It’s a funny feeling. I wondered if I’d been leaning against paint, or had a bug on my collar. She certainly had penetrating eyes. What I wondered most was when she was going to speak to me and tell me what was on her mind. Well, she didn’t speak. Instead, she sort of glided forward and stood beside me; and next minute she’d shoved a card into my hand. Then she wheeled like a soldier and marched away toward State Street, before I could open my mouth.”

“Very interesting indeed,” agreed Lavender.

The narrator’s chuckle again escaped. “To tell the truth, I was so surprised that I didn’t look at the card for a minute, the woman fascinated me so. It was one of those religion publicity cards like those put out by some society or other. It said: ‘Get Right With God!’ in red letters about an inch high. And when I looked round again for the extraordinary woman, she had passed the alley and was making all speed for the next block.”

The young man’s face was so comic that Lavender and I burst into a roar of laughter, in which, after a moment, he good-humoredly joined.

“It was funny enough, but it was the beginning of a series of adventures which grew queerer as time went on.”

Volney Kingston treated himself to another cigarette. Then he resumed his narrative.

“Well, there I stood, when all of a sudden a big car —a Cadillac, I think—hummed up to the corner and grated against the curb about an inch from where I stood. I stepped back; I thought it was coming right up onto the pavement. There was a woman in the car —a young one, this time—and she leaned down and touched my shoulder. ‘What did that woman give you?’ she asked, and her voice was like the crack of a whip.”

Young Mr. Kingston leaned back in his chair with an introspective smile. “Imagine!” he gestured. “‘What did that woman give you?’ Nothing else! What could I say? What could I do? My wits had gone blooey. I could have asked her—delicately, of course—what business it was of hers. I could have done a lot of things, I suppose; but none of them occurred to me until afterward. What I actually did was give her the card. Yes, I did! Like a well-trained infant, I handed it up to her. And she almost snatched it from my hand.” He paused for a soothing whiff of tobacco.

“She read it, of course?” suggested Lavender.

“Pronto!” said Volney Kingston. “And uttered exactly one word. The word was ‘Oh!’ That was all. Just ‘Oh!’”

“She didn’t return the card?”

“Not for a minute. She dropped back into her seat, said something that I didn’t catch to the big coon who was driving, and away they went after the woman in black, taking the card with them.”

Jimmie Lavender looked across at me with dancing eyes. I could see that he was hugely amused by the queer tale.

“And you, of course, went after them both, I suppose,” he remarked, at length.

“Well, after a while I did,” replied Kingston ruefully. “First, though, I sat down on a fire hydrant that was handy, and pinched myself. After a while, when I remembered that I was of age, and supposed to be a good reporter, I packed off after them; but they were gone. Lost in State Street, both of them. Might as well have looked for that well-known needle.”

“But you have seen them since?” persisted Lavender.

“Not hide nor hair of them,” replied the young man inelegantly. “I’m just hooking them up with what followed because—well, because of what followed, I guess. Of course, I was interested; and next day I went back to that corner, at the same time, thinking maybe it was a hangout for the mystery in black; but neither of ’em ever came back.”

“I see,” said Lavender. “Well, what followed?”

“That was two weeks ago, as I said. Three days later, my rooms were burglarized, and my papers scattered every which way. Nobody knew anything about it, of course. It happened while I was away. When I got home, everything was at sixes and sevens.”

“Anything missing?”

“Nothing that I could spot. But why should anybody go through my papers?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Lavender, “unless it is because you have something that somebody else wants. What was the next chapter?”

“Two days after that, my desk at the office was rifled. It was a quick sort of job, I imagine, but fairly systematic. Again, nothing missing.”

“And then?”

“Then last night. About two in the morning I was turned out of bed by an alarm of fire. I hopped up in a hurry, and sure enough there was a red glare across the front of the apartment that looked like the burning of Rome. I threw on a bathrobe and some slippers, grabbed my trousers from a chair, and skidaddled. The house was unusually quiet; nobody else seemed upset by what was going on, and when I got out into the street nobody was around. I looked up at my windows though, and the whole place seemed to be on fire; so I turned in an alarm, and hustled back to wake up the rest of the house. Pretty soon the fire department came and woke up the entire neighborhood. Then we discovered that somebody had planted a box of red fire—the Fourth of July kind, you know—in my front room. No harm done, to speak about. It doesn’t do much actual burning, you know; but it looks like the devil. And again my things had been overhauled in my absence.”

He slumped back more deeply into his chair, and looked at us with an air of whimsical dismay. “Can you beat it?” he asked, after a moment.

Lavender arose from his chair and took a quick turn across the room.

“It has its points,” he admitted. “Suppose I ask you some questions.”

“Fire away,” said the reporter. “I’ll try to answer them better than I answered my own.”

“Who gave the alarm of fire last night? The alarm that woke you.”

“I don’t know. I won’t swear that anybody did. I seemed to wake up with the alarm ringing in my ears; then I saw the glare.”

“Somebody may have called ‘Fire!’ though?”

“That’s my impression.”

“You have no idea whether it was a man’s or a woman’s voice that you think you heard?”

The youth was puzzled. “No,” he replied, at length. “It didn’t occur to me to ask myself that.”

“Well, tell me where you live, and give me an idea of the layout of your place.”

“I’m in bachelor apartments, out north; corner of North Clark and Grace streets, to be exact. Building’s nearly half a block in length; three stories; long and low. There’s one entrance, and that’s on Grace Street, near the corner of Clark. You go up a flight of steps, inside the street door, make a little turn, and there’s the entrance to the apartments. Inside, all of them open off one long corridor; just two little rooms and a bath in each. There’s a similar arrangement one floor higher; that is, the building has two stories above the shops, which front on the street. All the apartment windows, except the bathroom, look onto the street.”

“Is there a balcony?”

“Yep, every apartment has its own little iron balcony, about big enough to hold a couple of chairs.”

“Do you know any of the other tenants?”

“I do not. I only know Mrs. Harkness; she’s the woman who runs the apartments. She lives next door to me, one way. I don’t care to know anyone else. Not home enough.”

“How are the apartments let? By the week or by the month? Or do you have to sign a long-term lease?”

“They’re let by the month, but I think most of the tenants stay a long time.”

“Have you informed Mrs. Harkness of what occurred?”

“Well, the fire department informed her last night. The whole house was up; the whole neighborhood, I guess. I didn’t tell her about the burglaries, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, she’s a nice old person, and I didn’t want to scare her. Besides, it was my affair, after a fashion. I suspected a connection with my earlier adventures, and I wanted to run it down myself—with your help.”

“How about the rifling of your desk? Could that have been done easily?”

“I should say it couldn’t; it’s almost the most puzzling of the three. How anybody could gain access to the city room of the Post, and calmly loot my desk, is more than I can imagine. There are watchmen and night workers, and a small army of people around most of the time.”

“And you have nothing in your possession, that you know of, that anybody could possibly want? No important notes concerning some impending publicity?

No letters incriminating anybody?”

“Nothing of the sort, either at home or at the office.”

“I see! Well, Kingston, what is your explanation of this curious chain of adventures?”

“I guess it’s pretty vague, but it’s this: somebody thinks I’ve got something important or incriminating, and is determined to get it.”

Lavender nodded and smiled. “I’m bound to agree with you,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

For a moment the reporter was nonplussed. “Well,” he hesitated, “I’m blessed if I exactly know. You see, these attempts upon me, whatever they may mean, have become sufficiently numerous, and sufficiently regular, to look serious. Somebody’s on my trail, and I don’t know what his game is. The next attempt may be on me, myself, personal. But it isn’t protection I’m looking for; I can look after myself well enough. I imagine I came to you because I thought you might see farther into this than I can. I guess what I want is advice, Mr. Lavender.”

Again Lavender nodded, and this time with conviction.

“I can give you that very briefly,” he said. “I think you are right in assuming that the next attempt will be upon your person. My advice is: take care of yourself, particularly at night.”

This immediate corroboration of his fears gave our visitor something of a turn. “Then you have an idea of what it is that is threatening me?” he asked with some hesitation.

“Not an idea in the world that would help you,” answered Lavender, “but a certain danger can be sensed. The situation is very clear. After two almost amusing adventures on the street—in daylight—involving, rather obviously, the exchange of a card, three attempts have been made to obtain something from you. Not the card, certainly, for that was not returned to you. The first two attempts were made in your absence; the assumption being that the thing sought would be either in your desk at home or in your desk at the office. The latest attempt was made while you were actually on the premises, almost in the same room. Why? Because the other attempts having failed to discover the thing in your desks, it was assumed that you carried it with you. Your clothing—except, of course, your trousers, which you carried off—was undoubtedly searched while you were out of the apartment. Again, the thing sought was not found, for the very good reason that you haven’t it—I take your word for that. The next assumption, therefore, will be that you hide it safely at night, but that you carry it about with you when you are not in the house. Obviously, the next attempt will be made directly upon you.”

Volney Kingston stared vaguely out of the window for a moment. He passed his long fingers nervously through his hair.

“All right,” he said at length. “I’ll be careful. How will it come, do you suppose? A hold-up?”

“More than likely,” thought Lavender aloud. “I don’t mean that you will be hurt, of necessity; but I do think you will be stopped, somewhere, some time, and searched.”

The reporter got slowly to his feet. “All right,” he said again. “I’ll be ready for them, whoever they are.”

“I suppose you mean, by that, that you will carry a weapon. Well, I can’t say that I blame you; but be very careful. Usually, when one is held up, the other fellow has the drop on one. Don’t do anything foolish, Kingston. It’s hard to advise in such a matter, but if no violence is offered, or seems likely to be, it might be as well to allow yourself to be searched. You have nothing to lose, you know.”

“I’ll be careful,” replied Kingston belligerently, “but the other fellow had better be careful, too. Any other advice, Mr. Lavender?”

“Yes! Tell your editor all about this, and get him to allow someone to go around with you, particularly if you happen to have any night assignments. Or have some friend that you can trust knock around with you for a time.”

“Wish I could employ you to do that,” retorted the journalist with a grin. “All right, Mr. Lavender, I’ll do everything you say. Would you object if I looked in on you again, and told you of developments?”

“I was going to invite you to do so,” said Lavender. “Be careful, by the way, not to let it be known that you are consulting me. Tell your editor, if you like, but nobody else. Savvy?”

“You bet. And say—thanks a lot! I’ll make this right with you, you know—”

“Don’t worry about that,” smiled Jimmie Lavender. “The press is very useful to me, frequently. I’m glad to be able to reciprocate when I can. Good luck!”

From the front windows, the detective watched the slender figure of the reporter cross the street and climb the steps to the Elevated station. He was very thoughtful, and once he appeared to be about to follow in Kingston’s tracks.

“I’m afraid, Gilly,” he observed after a time, “that our young friend has not yet seen the end of his fantastic adventures.”

2.

With the departure of Volney Kingston, a short period of silence settled upon the Portland Street rooms, throughout which Jimmie Lavender, a pipe between his teeth, sat in a chair and blew clouds of smoke at the ceiling. In exactly twenty minutes, he arose and stretched himself. Then he reached for his hat and stick.

“It’s too bad to leave everything up to that boy himself, Gilly,” he remarked pensively. “We really haven’t a thing in the world to do with the rest of the afternoon. And the affair may be a great deal more serious than at present I am inclined to think. If we should read, to-morrow, in the papers, that a dangerous attack had been made upon Mr. Kingston of the Post, we should both regret our inactivity, I am sure. Yet we can’t follow him about. I suggest, however, a short expedition in his behalf. Probably he will not go at once to his rooms, and I think a brief interview with his landlady might prove to be of clarifying interest.”

“You think she may know something about these affairs at his rooms?” I asked with prompt idiocy.

“I shall be very much surprised if she knows anything of the sort,” said Lavender. “But she probably has some knowledge of her other tenants, and that may prove useful.”

We climbed the steps to the Elevated station, in our turn, and caught a Loop Express.

“I wish, then,” said I, resuming the conversation, “you would tell me exactly what you do think.”

“Well, what is your own idea, Gilly?”

“Frankly,” I replied, “as nearly as I have one, I am inclined to believe that Kingston has too quickly assumed that all of the episodes he described are connected. The three definite attempts to acquire something that he possesses, or is supposed to possess, undoubtedly have a connection. I imagine that the incidents of the elderly person in black and the young person in the automobile have nothing to do with the burglaries.”

Jimmie Lavender beamed benevolently upon me.

“You mean that Kingston’s reportorial imagination has operated to make the affair more romantic,” he retorted. “Well, it’s certainly possible. Kingston is a shrewd youngster, however; and he himself admitted that he might be wrong in connecting the several events. It’s rather too early to say that they are not connected, though, don’t you think? I’m not saying that you are wrong, but my present inclination is to connect everything. Indeed, if the fantastic episodes had been even more numerous than they were, I should be even more strongly convinced of a connection.”

“But what are the possibilities?” I persisted.

“The possibilities are three in number. One has been mentioned: that somebody thinks Kingston has something that he—the other fellow—wants. The others are equally conspicuous: that Kingston actually has something that someone else wants, and doesn’t know it himself, and that Kingston has something that somebody else wants, and does know it. If the latter be true, we, of course, have been deceived, which I don’t believe.”

“I agree with you there,” said I. “Of course, there is an obvious and simple solution,” Lavender went on. “A young lady has lost a billet-doux of—let us say, of passionate interest, the importance of which she probably overestimates. While seeking it, she observes the exchange between the woman in black and Mr. Volney Kingston. A card of an ecclesiastical nature is wished upon Mr. Kingston, which in size and shape resembles the lost letter. She leaps to one conclusion, and Mr. Kingston leaps to another. Each builds an interesing house of cards. A little later she begins to doubt the excellent Kingston, and decides that he did not yield the actual missive that he received. Unknown to him, she follows him and discovers his profession and his residence, and the burglaries follow. How’s that for a simple explanation?”

I laughed. “It covers all the circumstances,” I admitted.

In rather more than an hour we had reached the scene of Kingston’s latest adventure, an unattractive edifice near the uptown business section, and without difficulty we gained the ear of the admirable Mrs. Harkness. When she understood our business, and that it concerned her favorite tenant, she was volubility itself.

“A very fine young man,” said Mrs. Harkness with conviction. “He’s been with me over a year now, and a better behaved, nicer—”

“Quite so,” agreed Lavender pleasantly. “I entirely agree with you. The fact is, though, somebody has been playing tricks upon him lately, and rather than complain to you, he has put up with them. This fire last night, for instance. And a few days ago there was an attempt made to rob his rooms. You didn’t hear of that, did you?”

“I certainly did not!” exclaimed the woman in astonishment. “I shall send for the police at once. I won’t have it!”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about the police just yet,” suggested Lavender. “I’ll take care of that myself, if it seems necessary. Just now I want you to tell me something about your other tenants, if you will. Do you have many transients?”

“No, sir, I do not. You see, I ask for a month’s rent in advance, and—”

“So I understand; a very wise precaution. Now, Mrs. Harkness, who is your most recent acquisition? I mean, who is your latest tenant?”

“Mr. Hunter. He came in this morning. A very fine man. He was with me once before, about a year ago; then he left town. I was very sorry to lose him. His wife is with him, and his little girl.”

“Splendid! And before Mr. Hunter?”

The admirable creature thought rapidly. “There were two last week,” she said, after a moment. “Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Duncan. They are both planning to stay with me quite a while.”

“Also very fine men, I take it?”

“Well, they have that appearance, Mr. Lavender, yes, sir. I can’t say, of course, not having had either of them before, like Mr. Hunter.”

“Which of them has the apartment next door to Mr. Kingston?”

“That’s Mr. Duncan. He moved in on Thursday. His wife is coming on from Florida in about a week. A very delightful man!”

“Young?”

“Very young. Hardly more than a boy. I wouldn’t put him a day over twenty-one, and he looks even younger.”

“Well, well!” exclaimed Lavender, in surprise. “He paid for a month, did he?”

“On the spot! Offered it without asking. A very—”

“And upstairs, immediately over Mr. Kingston? Who occupies those rooms?”

“Ah, that’s Mr. Davis. He’s a lovely gentleman. Been with me nearly two years now. A very nice old man. Works at Marshall Field’s, in the stationery department.”

“Where is Mr. Cartwright’s apartment?”

“Upstairs, and along toward the back. He overlooks the alley. It ain’t as nice as some of the others, so I only charge—”

“I see! Well, Mrs. Harkness, I take it that you haven’t seen Mr. Duncan to-day.”

“No, sir. He’s not around much in the daytime, he told me. I think he goes on trips.”

“I suggest that he has already gone upon a trip. Have you been in his rooms to-day?”

“Not myself, no, sir. But the maid was in this morning, to clean up.”

“Have you a key?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I should like to glance in, if I may.”

“Of course, you may.” She hesitated. “You mean that you think Mr. Duncan has—?”

“Skipped? Honestly, I do!”

With extraordinary agility for a person of her size, the landlady hurried away for her keys. In a moment she was back, dangling them on a metal ring, and in another moment we had entered the apartment. It was a duplicate of Kingston’s, we knew: a small sitting room, a small bedroom, and a bathroom. The sitting room gave onto an iron balcony, most miniature. The place seemed very bare.

“There is no trunk,” commented Lavender, after a swift glance.

“There wasn’t any,” returned Mrs. Harkness; but she was agitated nonetheless. “There should be a couple of bags, though. I saw him bring them in, with my own eyes.”

“I suspect that he carried them out again when your eyes were less busy.”

The detective strode into the second room and pulled open the door to a small closet. It was as empty as a closet can very well be, since it contained not even a garment. Mrs. Harkness’s face was a study in dismay.

“It ain’t possible!” she gasped. “He must have slept here last night. Magnolia would have told me if he hadn’t.”

“Who is Magnolia?”

“She’s my maid—a colored girl.”

“I see! Well, I think he did sleep here last night, Mrs. Harkness. At any rate, he lay down here, and vanished about the time of the arrival of the fire department. I believe there was considerable excitement at that moment.”

The woman was stupefied by all that had occurred. She at once renewed her determination to send for the police.

“My dear Mrs. Harkness,” said Lavender, “what possible use could be served by sending for the police? You have your money for a whole month, and your Mr. Duncan has occupied your apartment for not quite a week, I understand. You are money ahead. And Mr. Kingston has lost nothing. Don’t try to understand it, just yet. Keep your tongue quiet about it all, and leave it to me. In a few days I shall know all about everything—what happened, and why.” The suggestion was that then, instantly, he would come to her and tell her the entire story.

We convinced her, at length, that Lavender was right, and after a final and more careful search of the rooms, and a few more questions, we left the neighborhood. Lavender did not trouble to look into the reporter’s rooms, although earnestly pressed by the landlady to do so.

“Good work, Jimmie,” I said, when we were clear of the place. “You expected to find just what you found, didn’t you?”

“Good work nothing,” he retorted brusquely. “I found what I expected to find, of course; but what is gained? Not a clue to Duncan’s identity. We are certain only that the next-door neighbor planted the fire box, by the simple expedient of climbing from his own balcony to Kingston’s; and that much, in effect, I already knew. The name Duncan, even, would be assumed, so it means nothing. No, I came because it was imperative that I check on my own idea of what occurred—and I have checked.”

“Why do you suppose this Duncan waited until last night to enter?” I asked suddenly. “He must have been there several days before.”

“I don’t know,” answered Lavender carelessly, “and it’s unimportant, Gilly. He may have been establishing a reputation with Mrs. Harkness; or Kingston’s erratic movements may have prevented an earlier entrance. I don’t know. I only know that last night he entered.”

“And what exactly do you think happened? Where was Duncan when Kingston hopped out of bed? Back in his own place?”

“Not by a large majority! He was right in Kingston’s rooms, hiding. He planted his box of fire, touched it off, and then—not too loudly—gave his alarm. Kingston woke up, bewildered, ran out into the corridor, then into the street, and subsequently turned in an alarm. He didn’t go back to his rooms until after the arrival of the department, by which time there had been enough confusion to cover the final departure of Duncan. No, Duncan was watching Kingston from some hiding place in the rooms. He had failed—or somebody else had failed—on the previous attempt to get what was wanted. So he assumed that Kingston kept the thing well hidden. He watched Kingston get out of bed, to see whether he took anything from a hiding place before leaving the room; which is just what Kingston would have done, of course, if he had had anything of value hidden. Duncan also went through the garments Kingston left behind, made another hurried trip through the desk, and finally went back to his own apartment by way of the corridor, the door to which Kingston had left open in his flight. That’s the picture I see, Gilly.”

“It’s well reasoned,” I said. “I don’t see any flaw in it, anyway.”

“There may be several,” admitted Lavender frankly, “but the essential facts are as I have stated them.”

“So Duncan,” I continued, “becomes the problem. Who is he, and what does he want?”

“In effect,” said Jimmie Lavender, “that has been the question from the beginning; but the whole problem is complicated by the number of persons involved. Duncan may only be an agent. There are at least two women, also probably agents. There may be others. It is not certain that it was Duncan who made the first attempt on the rooms; he was not a tenant then. It is not certain that it was Duncan who raided the desk at Kingston’s office. In fact, old man, I guess nothing is very certain as yet, is it?”

We had walked as far as the nearest Elevated station, and shortly were on our way home.

“But the most interesting question of all, Jimmie,” I resumed, when we were seated in the train, “is this: what is this mysterious paper that is the object of all the excitement? It must be something important and valuable to occasion such desperate efforts to recover it. Burglary, arson, possibly assault! Also, how was it lost, and what actually became of it, if Kingston doesn’t have it?”

“You have an uncanny knack of summing up the difficulties, anyway,” said Lavender morosely.

He stared out of the window beside him for some time —at the speeding lines of porches and gables, and the long arrays of marching chimneys. Then he turned and let me have a glimpse of his mind.

“From the beginning, Gilly, one thing has been fairly obvious. Whatever is sought, it is publicity that its seeker fears. Kingston is a newspaper man, and our earnest seeker knows it. Publicity is a terrible thing; a fearful weapon, a constant threat. Murder has been done to prevent it. Yet so many features of the case are so essentially trivial that still I can not quite think that any fatality impends. Kingston may be stopped and searched—probably will be—but I have a feeling that he is in no danger of actual injury. And yet he may be! The women puzzle me enormously, if they are active participants in what is going forward. They are an incongruous pair to be associated, either as colleagues or opponents. If they are not associated, the situation clears slightly, but we can not be certain that they are not.”

“You have no idea what the missing paper is?”

“I have not! I suggested a lettre d’amour, but I don’t really think so. Of course, I could invent a very ingenious and plausible story that would account for everything, including the paper; so could Kingston and he probably will. Yet there has been nothing to suggest the actual nature of the paper that is being sought. The range of selection is wide enough! What do you prefer? Foreign plans? They are always romantic and melodramatic. A chemical secret? A letter incriminating someone of consequence in something illegal? The young woman either failed to get what she sought from the woman in black, or failed to overtake her; and now she thinks that Kingston did not give her the paper that he actually received.”

“That would make the younger woman the principal,” I observed. “She begins to take on sinister proportions, doesn’t she?”

Lavender laughed and slapped my knee. “Well, maybe,” he answered. “It’s more exciting that way. But it depends upon what is being sought, and what the outcome of the search is. I admit that there is a flavor of third-class melodrama in the case. Our search—and theirs—for ‘the papers,’ has a touch of the theater about it.”

“The woman in black, too,” I added. “Don’t forget her. She sounds like a story title.”

“Yes,” said Lavender, “but it’s the young woman who interests me. It’s beginning to get dark, Gilly. I wonder what the reckless Mr. Kingston is doing?”

3.

The afternoon of the next day was well advanced before we knew what the young man had been doing, and what he had done. His second narrative was almost as wild as the first one he had told us.

“It gets crazier every minute!” vouchsafed the reporter, bursting in with his news. “One thing is certain, though; you’re out, Mr. Lavender. Sorry to have bothered you, but it isn’t your kind of a case. I don’t know whether I’m glad or sorry that it isn’t. Glad I’m not going to get beat up, I guess; but sorry that the story isn’t going to be more exciting. As it turns out, it’s just loony.”

“Really?” murmured Lavender, politely. “Elucidate!”

“That’s what I came for,” chuckled Kingston. “Here’s the tale. Yesterday, after I’d left you, what do you think I did? I went right back to Congress and Wabash, again, where it had all begun. I thought if I were lucky the lightning might strike twice in the same place; that is, I thought I might bump into one or another of the women. I drew blank there the day after it happened, but I had to start some place, so I started there. Well, nothing happened. No lightning, no women! No luck at all. But last night I had it in lumps— luck, I mean. And I know all about everything!”

His delight in his own perspicacity was amusingly apparent. Lavender smiled indulgently.

“I hope you are not going to make us wait until you print it, to hear about it,” remarked the detective.

“Pardon me,’ said Volney Kingston. “I’ll really begin this time. It was like this. Last night, after I’d failed at Congress and Wabash, I had a bite to eat, and in the restaurant I ran into old George Weymouth of the Times. He was covering hotels, and as I hadn’t anything else to do, I said I’ll go with him. George and I are pretty good friends, and I remembered what you’d said about keeping a friend with me. I didn’t tell him anything; but I just pegged around with him wherever he went. Well, about ten o’clock we drifted into the Graydon, and there it happened.”

He hugged himself with delight.

“There wasn’t anybody of interest on the blotter, so we stood around at the door of the main restaurant, looking in at the diners. It was pretty gay; a number of parties were going on, and lots of fine clothes were out for the evening. And all of a sudden, who do you think I spotted at one of the tables?”

“The young woman of the automobile,” said Lavender promptly.

Our visitor grunted.

“You’re too darn clever,” he retorted. “Anyway, that’s who I saw. The young woman herself. I could have picked her out of a thousand. There she was, with a party of friends, men and women, and all of them looking like a million dollars.”

“Did she see you?” asked Lavender.

“She did not! I took care of that. But I slipped over to Zimmy—that’s Zimmerman, the head waiter—and pointed her out. And he knew her! Who do you think she is?”

“I am not as clever as you think,” answered Lavender. “I don’t know. But I’m genuinely eager to hear.”

“Jane Allison!”

“By George!” I exploded.

The detective’s eyebrows had raised promptly at mention of the name, but he did not at once express himself. Then a pleased smile appeared on his lips.

“Not really!” he murmured. “That’s splendid, Kingston. I congratulate you.”

“I congratulated myself,” asserted the not over-modest Kingston. “Yes, sir, Jane Allison. You know all about her, of course? Daughter of old John Allison, who’s nearly the richest man in Chicago. Débutante of last year. Prettiest girl in the social set; and so on. I suppose I’ve seen a dozen pictures of her in the paper, and yet I didn’t recognize her in the car. I must have been crazy that day.”

“What else have you found out?” asked Lavender, realizing that the young man’s story would have to be helped along if we were to hear it all that evening.

“Well, that’s the big surprise; but the rest is pretty good, too. This morning I told Durland all about it— he’s my city editor—and he was pleased as Punch. He said he didn’t know what the heck it was all about, but that it looked like a real sensation if I could run it down. He gave me a roving commission to dig up the whole business. I don’t have to show up at the office till I’ve got it. So I began at once. I hustled out to the Allison place right away. It’s on the Drive, not far from Division. Right there my trouble began. The maid wouldn’t let me in. She said Miss Allison wasn’t at home. Maybe she wasn’t; but somebody else was! Oh boy! As I was leaving the steps I looked back suddenly—a little trick of mine—and was just in time to see somebody jerk away from one of the windows.”

“Miss Allison?” inquired Lavender helpfully.

“No!” crowed the enthusiastic reporter. “The woman in black!”

The detective was considerably startled. “The deuce you say!” he exclaimed. “Are you sure, Kingston?”

“Who else could it be?” demanded the happy Kingston. “Old woman, dressed in black, and as soon as she sees me she jerks away.”

“I see,” said Lavender, relieved. “Then what?”

“Well, as I was strolling down the street I had an inspiration. They hit me sometimes. The probable explanation of the mystery flashed over me like—like that!” He snapped his fingers in the air. “Call it a hunch, if you like. Anyway, it worked out. It struck me that this old woman in the black dress was an aunt of Miss Allison’s, or something like that, and that she was a bit off—crazy, you know. I figured that they were keeping her in the house because she was harmless, and that the day she met me she had slipped out when they weren’t looking. So the niece popped off after her in the family car, to bring her back. She overtook her just in time to see her hand me a card; naturally it upset her. She was keen to see what it was. Might be any sort of family secret! Instead it was the God card. Later they got her home, after a little chase.”

“I see,” said Lavender again. “You mean you think she is a religious fanatic, and tries to get out and hand these cards to people!” He smiled.

“Why not? Something like that. Never can tell about lunatics,” observed the reporter sententiously. “Maybe she doesn’t always give these cards. Maybe she hands out hundred-dollar bills sometimes. Wish I’d got one! When she gets out they don’t know what she may be up to, and they don’t want it spread around that they’re keeping a mad woman in the house.”

“Quite a tale,” commented Lavender admiringly. “How much of it do you believe yourself, Kingston?”

“Every bit of it! And why? Because I’ve checked on it.”

“You mean that you’ve proved everything to be true that you have just told me?”

Mr. Kingston backed water a trifle.

“Well, I’ve as good as proved it. This is what followed : I grabbed a train and hurried out to Lake Forest, the country home of the Allisons. There I found a housekeeper on the job, and I questioned her. I did it pretty slickly, and in no time at all I knew everything I needed to know. There is an aunt—a Miss Somers. She is deeply religious. She used to be interested in foreign missions. The housekeeper didn’t know where she was, exactly, but last time she heard of her she was in a sanitarium somewhere in the East. Get that! A sanitarium! Nervous breakdown, she thought. You see how it checks? They’ve brought her here from the sanitarium and they’re keeping her in the house.”

“Extraordinary!” observed Lavender. “One thing, though, Kingston. What about these attempts on your property? Are they made by Miss Somers, the depraved aunt, or by Miss Allison in person?”

“Have a good laugh at me,” grinned the reporter cheerfully. “It might be that Miss Allison is on the trail herself, at that; but I don’t think so. I think something important—maybe a family paper; maybe something they were trying to get out of the old lady—is missing, and they are assuming that the old lady gave it to me. They think I didn’t give it up when Miss Allison asked me. I think it’s something pretty big, too, or they wouldn’t keep after it the way they do. People don’t hire burglars to recover laundry bills. It’ll make a whale of a story.”

“Whew!” vociferated Jimmie Lavender. “All right, Kingston. You’re a smart young man; but don’t be too smart. Take a word of caution with you. Don’t let your paper print anything of what you’ve told me until you’ve proved every inch of it. And then don’t print it without first coming to see me. I may have some details to add to your story,” he finished dryly.

When our breezy visitor had gone the detective sat silent for a number of minutes.

“Gilly,” he observed at length with a quaint smile, “if ever it occurs to you that I am getting too cocky, too sure of myself, just remind me of young Mr. Kingston, will you? It will be good for me.”

“You think he’s heading toward a libel suit?” I asked.

“You heard his story,” said Lavender. “What do you think?”

“From a newspaper point of view, it’s a good enough sensation,” I replied, “and as he tells it, it sounds plausible.”

“Of course his story sounds plausible,” said Jimmie Lavender, “it had to convince him and his editor. His error is in assuming that the woman he saw at the window was the original woman in black. There isn’t an atom of proof that that is the case. His mind jumped to that conclusion, and so everything that he discovers that verifies it, he adds to his collection. Only one item of importance has been brought to light. Kingston undoubtedly saw and recognized in Miss Allison the young woman of the automobile. From that point we begin our own investigation. Do you begin to see a glimmer of light?”

“I do not,” said I. “I understand, however, that you are on the point of calling upon Miss Jane Allison.”

He smiled. “You’re right about that. Very soon, too. We may be of great service to Miss Allison, Gilly, and at the same time save Mr. Kingston from a serious blunder.”

“I think you suspect something,” I told him.

“I know one thing. Miss Allison has lost something of great importance to her happiness, or to her self-respect. But who is endeavoring to recover it? The young woman herself, through her agents, or somebody else who knows that it is lost? And how was it lost? Was it stolen, or dropped in the street? Has an effort been made to get it into the hands of the press, or is the press angle purely fortuitous—an error on the part of Miss Allison, or someone else?”

“Love letters?” I ventured tentatively.

“Most unlikely, I should think. No one but a fool would expect a newspaper to print a series of love letters by or to such a person as Miss Allison, unless they had been made public in a court of law.”

“Well, what?”

“Frankly,” he answered, “I begin to smell a blackmail plot, Gilly; it has very nasty connotations, possibly. I shall at once offer my services to Miss Allison.”

With this, he seized his hat and his stick, and together we tramped down the stairs and into the street. Shortly thereafter, a roving taxi driver had a fare.

It was an imposing pile before the door of which, along toward dusk, our cab dropped us, and up the steps of which we climbed. And our first greeting was of a piece with Kingston’s; it was a rebuff.

“Miss Allison will not see anyone,” the white-capped maid told us.

“But you haven’t asked her about me yet,” Lavender chided her reproachfully. “Just take my card in, please; then if she won’t see me I’ll go away.”

The spotless maid glanced superciliously at the proffered pasteboard.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but Miss Allison really never sees anyone.”

“She’ll see me,” returned Lavender easily. “I’ll guarantee you against trouble. Here, I’ll write a note.”

He hastily scribbled a few lines on the reverse of the card and handed it back.

“If you’ll take that to her she’ll be sure to see me,” he said.

It was plain that the maid doubted this confident assertion, but she took the card and tripped off with it. When she returned she was most respectful.

“Step in, please,” she cooed. “Miss Allison will see you in a minute.”

It was several minutes, in point of fact, but we did not mind. On the table in the little reception hall were a man’s hat and gloves, and a handsome stick stood in the corner. Lavender glanced at these articles with interest, and with a sidelong look at me.

“They’re not Kingston’s,” I observed positively.

His look became one of contempt for my stupidity. A voice broke in upon our exchanges, a clear voice, fresh and young.

“I think I do not quite understand your note,” it said calmly. We got hastily to our feet, and bowed.

She was gloriously lovely. I began to think of Kingston as a pup.

“You say you wish to speak to me about a young man that I spoke to from my auto, the other day.”

“That is correct, Miss Allison,” answered Lavender politely.

“But you are not he!”

“That also is correct,” agreed the detective. “I am James Lavender, as my card told you. This is my friend, Mr. Gilruth. It occurred to me that we might be of assitance to you.”

“Thank you,” retorted Jane Allison coolly, “but really I can not imagine how you could assist me. I am not in need of anyone of your profession, Mr. Lavender. May I ask whether you were sent by—by the young man I spoke to from my auto?”

“We were not. It was through him, however, that we heard of you—and of your difficulties. Shall I be entirely frank?”

“If you would be so good!”

“Please regard me as one who is willing to be your friend. I have no ax to grind, no fee to solicit. I heard of your trouble through no effort of my own. I apprehend, however, that you are in need of such assistance as I am accustomed to render, and the circumstances are such that I should like to help you. Believe me, if anyone should come to me as sympathetically as I come to you, I should hasten to accept any proffer of assistance. Let me tell you everything that I know about your difficulties.”

Briefly and clearly, he sketched for her the entire chapter of adventures as we had heard it from Kingston. She heard him through with an icy calm that made me doubt the wisdom of Lavender’s approach.

“You see, Miss Allison,” concluded the detective, “we know at once too much and too little to drop the case entirely, even if we wished to. And whatever we may do, Mr. Kingston will persevere—possibly to his own undoing, but he will persevere. Now, whether these attempts upon Mr. Kingston’s property are by your direction, or by the direction of another who is conversant with your affairs, makes no difference. You are deeply involved in them; and I should be sorry for both you and Kingston if his unfortunate attempts at interpretation were to get into print. In the resultant exchange of denial and accusation, the true story would have to come out; and that would be too bad.”

For a time the young woman continued to be silent, although her thoughts must have raced. Then she faced him as coolly as ever.

“Without admitting the truth or untruth of what you have just told me, Mr. Lavender,” said Jane Allison, “will you tell me just what it is that you are suggesting? What do you want to do?”

“To help you. On my honor, that is all. The situation is a mess as it stands. You cannot extricate yourself by your own efforts. You are getting deeply into trouble; and you are laboring under a misapprehension that operates at every turn to block your well-meant attempts. Mr. Kingston has nothing that you can possibly want, nor that anyone else can want. The sooner the search is turned in another direction, the sooner the missing— shall we say, letters?—will be recovered.”

Her eyes narrowed in a keen, half-smiling glance.

“You think it is letters that were lost?” she asked.

“I am reasonably sure of it.”

“Well, you are wrong!”

“I am surprised to hear you say so. It appears that I have blundered badly all along the line. I can only assure you that my offer of assistance was well meant and sincere. In the circumstances,” smiled the detective deprecatingly, “I can only vanish from the scene.”

He rose to his feet, and made her a little bow. But Miss Allison rose, too, and laid a quick hand upon his sleeve. She turned a bright and apologetic smile upon him, which ought to have been devastating.

“Please don’t vanish,” she begged very prettily. “I think I can tell a friend when I see one. And you are not very wrong, after all. It is a letter—not letters—that is missing. I think I had better tell you all about it.”

“Please do,” said Lavender warmly, as he reseated himself.

“In another room,” began the surprising young woman, “Gregory Bantock, my fiancé, is waiting for me to return to him. He knows nothing of what I shall tell you, and he must know nothing. It is for his sake, as much as my own, that I have done what I have done— that, to all intents and purposes, Mr. Lavender, I have become a burglar. The actual burglar, I must tell you, was my brother Ted. But I will have to begin at the beginning.”

4.

The story to which we listened was not a new one in the history of the heart’s affairs. I am afraid it was old shortly after the world was new.

“Mr. Kingston’s fantastic story is correct up to a point,” began Jane Allison, with direct frankness. “I did see him receive something from that woman. I did think it was my letter. When I found it was not, I was disappointed. In fact, I was frantic. His mistake was in supposing that I went after the woman in black. I had no such idea. Why should I? It seemed obvious, then, that I had made a mistake. Later, I thought Mr. Kingston had fooled me; hence my persecution of him.”

“That much I imagined,” nodded Lavender. “The letter had been lost on the street, I take it?”

“Yes, and very near to where he stood. But I must go back. A few years ago, Mr. Lavender, when I was a young fool—and I’m not such a very old fool now!—I fancied myself in love with a young man; a young man of very good family, but with very little money. He said he was in love with me. Well, he wasn’t. I learned things about him that I didn’t like, and our foolish engagement was broken. It had been secret, and I thought no one would be any the wiser. I trusted him that far.”

She made a gesture of repugnance.

“It was a purely foolish attachment on my part. No harm came from the experience, but I did write a number of silly letters. They were perfectly innocent, but I know now that they were foolish and imprudent. One, I may as well say, was an acceptance of a proposal of marriage. I had no letters from him except trivial notes, of no consequence; but he was always asking me to write to him. It seemed unnecessary, when we saw each other whenever we liked; but I did it. Now you will begin to see what happened?”

“Yes,” said Lavender, “I understand.”

“But not everything! When I broke the engagement I asked him to return my letters. He returned all but one; the silliest of all, which happened to be the one accepting his proposal. That one he said that he had mislaid, and he promised to return it when it came to light. I believed him. Then, a few weeks ago, I met Mr. Bantock, and we became engaged. And a few days later the other man wrote to me saying that my letter had turned up.”

“A very timely resurrection,” commented Lavender.

“Yes, very timely—and very untimely! Imagine my dismay when I learned what he intended to do. He was hard up, and he intended to turn it over to Mr. Bantock unless I bought it back. His price was five thousand dollars.”

“A very stiff price for an innocent letter,” said the detective. “I think you should have told Mr. Bantock all about it, at once.”

“I’m beginning to realize that. It’s what my brother Ted said when I told him what had happened. He wanted me to tell Gregory at once, but then it was too late, or so I thought. I should have told Gregory as soon as we became engaged, not at the time I was being blackmailed.”

“I understand your point of view,” nodded Lavender. “Still, if the letter was quite innocent—”

“It was mad, crazy, ridiculous—the maunderings of a moonstruck girl! It might have been interpreted almost any way. I simply hadn’t the shamelessness to tell Gregory, before or after. I would still rather pay the money than tell him.”

“Possibly it will be unnecessary to do either. Please go on, Miss Allison.”

“Well, I was horrified by what had happened. I agreed to buy back the letter. He had an office not far outside the Loop, and I went there. And then, to my further dismay, I found that the price of my letter had gone up. He wanted eight thousand dollars for it. I protested, and I am afraid we had a violent scene.”

Lavender shook his head in sympathy. “What a pity!” he said. “What a pity that you had not told Mr. Bantock; then he could have gone with you and thrown this fellow out of his own window.”

“Suddenly,” continued Miss Allison, “I thought of his letter to me. It was a blackmailing letter. I could take it to the police. But in that way everything might come out. Still, I thought I could threaten him with it. So I tried it.”

“You had it with you?”

“It was in my bag; but I didn’t show it to him. I told him that I would take it to the police, though, and it staggered him. Then he laughed and told me I wouldn’t dare, for my own sake. I said I would dare anything. In the end, he yielded. The original price of five thousand dollars was restored, and the letters were to change hands. I started to write him a check; but he had grown wary; he refused to accept a check. He said he must have the cash.”

“He was an idiot,” said Lavender. “The check would have given him another hold upon you. He could then have threatened to show the check to Mr. Bantock, and to insinuate anything that he chose. He is not even a first-class blackmailer.”

“Of course,” Miss Allison went on, “I had no such sum with me. So it was arranged that I was to get the cash, and return the next day. I left the place and started home in my own car, which was waiting for me. And on the way I lost Mr.—I lost the blackmailer’s letter.”

“I see! It was his letter that you lost. Hm-m! Well, you may as well tell me his name, Miss Allison. I shall have to know it sooner or later.”

“I will. His name is Weatherby Dawson.”

“Indeed? I know that name, Gilly; so do you. Dawson has been achieving a small and not particularly enviable reputation as a professional bondsman, of late. Well, well! How was the letter lost, please?”

“From the car, I can only imagine. It was in my bag, folded, and suddenly it wasn’t there. We had entered the Loop when I discovered the loss, and I thought desperately for a while. Then I remembered that I had opened my bag to get a handkerchief, and I supposed it had fallen out at that time. It was not in the car, so it must have fallen to the street in some way. I was lost without it, and I became frantic.”

“It is all very clear now, of course,” interrupted Lavender. “You retraversed the ground you had covered, and at Wabash and Congress you saw a strange woman hand something to a strange young man. It looked like your letter.”

“That is exactly what happened. But it wasn’t my letter, so I continued the search. I didn’t find the letter.”

“You must have turned east into Congress Street. Why did you do that?”

“But I don’t think—No, you are right! We had already turned the corner to get at Mr. Kingston. We were headed east in Congress Street all the time. We drove up a block and circled back to Wabash.”

“That is why Kingston thought you were following the woman in black. It was the way she went. When did you again suspect Mr. Kingston?”

“The next day. You may tell me that it was an error, but you must remember the state of mind I was in. At that desperate moment the only solution of the loss was that my letter had been picked up by that woman and given to Mr. Kingston, and that he had not showed me what he received. He had thought it none of my business, and had given me that silly card. So there was only one thing for me to do, and that was to find that young man again.”

Lavender smiled understandingly. “So you went back to the same corner, at the same time, the next day, where you saw him again?”

“How did you know that?”

“Minds run curiously in the same channels. It is exactly what Kingston did, and that is why you happened to see him again. He didn’t see you; he was really looking for the other party in the mystery, the woman in black.”

“How fortunate I must have been to find him!”

“It was almost a miracle,” agreed Lavender, “but a curious fate seems to operate sometimes in affairs of the sort. A perverse fate. Having started you on the wrong track, the perverse abstraction was making things easy for you.”

“Anyway, I saw him, and I followed him in the car until I saw where he worked, and where he lived. You can imagine my horror to discover in him a newspaper reporter! Everything seemed to check then. I saw myself as the victim of some nightmarish plot, and every day I expected to find that letter in the newspaper.”

“You didn’t go back to Dawson, of course?”

“I couldn’t. I hadn’t his letter to give him. I called him up and told him I was ill, but that I would come in as soon as possible. He was amiable enough; he said to take my time.”

“He could afford to be amiable,” commented the detective sardonically.

“Then I told Ted all about it. Ted is only a boy, but he’s fond of me, and he would do anything for me. Well, he was wild. As I say, he wanted me to tell Gregory, and suggested that he and Gregory go and thrash Mr. Dawson.”

“A very sound idea,” said Lavender.

“I’m sorry I didn’t think so,” smiled Miss Allison. “But I wouldn’t hear of it, and finally Ted agreed to help me in my own way. It was mad, I suppose, but once he had undertaken it Ted was enthusiastic. It pleased him, I think, to play the part of a romantic burglar. He’s only eighteen.”

“He would make an excellent burglar,” laughed Jimmie Lavender.

“I don’t know how he got into Mr. Kingston’s apartment the first time,” continued the girl, “but the second time he managed to get an apartment next door to the one he wanted to enter.”

“That perverse fate again, you see,” explained Lavender. “Because he was headed all wrong, everything conspired to help him. He actually found an empty apartment next door; it wouldn’t occur again in twenty years. How did he get into the newspaper office?”

Jane Allison looked queerly at him. “You mentioned that before. It’s very odd; but he didn’t get in. He couldn’t!”

It was Lavender’s turn to stare. After a moment he smiled. “By Jove, Gilly,” he said, “it’s a perfect comedy of errors. The affair at the office was purely fortuitous, it would seem. That’s a little mystery that Kingston will have to solve for himself. Probably some fellow reporter looking for a pencil, or some cigarettes.” He chuckled delightedly.

“You know about Ted’s trick with the box of fire. Well, that failed, too. I don’t know what we would have done next, if you hadn’t forced an entrance here to-day.” She smiled a bit wearily. “Ted, I suppose, is working out new and dreadful plans.”

Lavender stood up and trod softly about the room for a moment or two. “Miss Allison,” he said at length, “your letter is in the hands of Weatherby Dawson; both letters, that is. He stole his own from you the day you visited him. He is now doubly armed against you.”

Jane Allison was overwhelmed with alarm.

“Oh, no!” she cried with pathetic emphasis. “It couldn’t be! He didn’t know I had it with me.”

“You undoubtedly opened your bag while in the office,” insisted Lavender. “The action would be automatic on your part, and you would not be likely to remember it. Of course, he may have just suspected that you had it, but I don’t think so. Anyway, he has it. In some way he attracted your attention and got the letter. I think you had given him a glimpse of it. Was there anybody else in the office?”

“I certainly saw no one else.”

“Was your bag in your hands all the time?”

“Why, I thought so,” answered the girl, desperately. “I can’t swear to it now. You make me doubt everything, Mr. Lavender. I may have laid it on the desk for a moment.”

“I think you laid it on the desk for a moment before you remembered the letter inside. Before it occurred to you to threaten him. I think you opened the bag automatically—perhaps to get your handkerchief, as you did later—and that he saw and recognized the letter. When you threatened him with it he determined to get it back. His amiability, since then, would suggest that he succeeded. He knows you are at his mercy.”

“But how could he have done it?”

“Did anything fall to the floor while you were there?”

The young woman thought frantically for a time. “My umbrella,” she said at length. “Yes, my umbrella fell, and he recovered it for me. It was all over in an instant.”

“It was on the desk, or leaning against the desk?”

“I don’t know.”

“I suggest that it was leaning against the desk, and that Dawson in reaching for something contrived to knock it to the floor. I suggest that he apologized and came around the desk to recover it, before you could stoop for it. It was at the height of your altercation, I have no doubt. I suggest that he came between you and the desk, and that your bag was at that instant open on the desk, although perhaps turned toward you. In stooping for the umbrella, he rested his hand on the desk, extracted the letter, and as he came upright pocketed the letter on the side farthest from you. He may even have snapped the bag open, although probably he wouldn’t have to. He may have snapped it shut afterward; it would depend upon whether you had replaced your handkerchief.”

The girl sank back into her chair. “You make it all seem very real and very easy,” she said.

“It was not difficult,” agreed Lavender. “You were not expecting it, and you were excited. I could have done it myself, and I assume that Dawson could have done it; that he did do it.”

“And now?” she asked.

“Now, I want you to tell Mr. Bantock all about it.”

“I was afraid you would ask that. I have felt it. Oh, I have wanted to, a hundred times I have wanted to. But must it be done? Is there no other way? If he should misunderstand!”

“He will not misunderstand,” said Lavender quietly. “I should be glad to tell him myself, if you cared to have me.”

She rose to her feet. “Very well,” she said. “I have told you, and I have told Ted, and you have both advised me to tell Gregory. But I would rather pay the five thousand dollars. Oh, if he should misunderstand!”

“He will not misunderstand,” said Lavender again. “Men are queer sometimes, Miss Allison, but they are often most dependable when you least expect it. They do occasionally understand. It is far better that Mr. Bantock should hear of all this now, than later from somebody else; and he might, you know.”

She left the room without further speech, and in a few minutes returned with Gregory Bantock. The introductions were brief, and Lavender at once began to talk.

“You will be astonished by what I have to tell you, Mr. Bantock,” he began, “but I will ask you to hear me to the end before you reply, before you form any judgments. Then I want to ask you to aid us in a little matter that requires attending to.”

The narrative that followed was sympathetically and incisively told. Only once did Gregory Bantock interrupt.

“Pardon me, Mr. Lavender,” he said quietly, at one point, “but do you know who that man is? Will you tell me his name?”

“Yes,” replied Lavender, with a smile of understanding. “Yes, to both questions. But hear me through first, if you please.”

The narrative proceeded to its close. Then Gregory Bantock spoke, rising to his full height.

“Dawson,” he observed with a queer smile. “So that’s his name, is it? Dawson!”

“A beginning scoundrel of the first water,” added Lavender. “In a little while you and I, Mr. Bantock, and Gilruth here, will call upon Mr. Dawson, informally, and terminate the episode.”

Bantock’s hands were in his pockets, and his pockets were curiously bulged. A tight little smile lay upon his lips, which in a moment softened as he turned his eyes upon the girl who watched him.

“Jane,” he said, almost happily, “I wish to goodness that you had told me all this before. I might even have handled it alone. When do we start, Mr. Lavender?”

5.

A little light was burning in the offices of Weatherby Dawson on the seventh floor of the Bowman Building. Blackmailers often work after hours. It was not late, however, as we left the elevator at that floor; only a little past seven in the evening. No doubt Mr. Dawson was thinking happily of a well-earned meal in the not far distant future of that evening.

We strode briskly along the corridor, and it was Gregory Bantock’s knuckles that rapped imperatively on the glass panel. It was Lavender’s hand, however, that was laid quickly upon the doorknob, and Lavender who entered without ceremony and without waiting for a reply. A great deal may occur in a moment or two, and it was not the detective’s idea to allow anything to be destroyed or hidden in the interval between a knock and a response.

Weatherby Dawson sat behind an oaken desk, over which burned a shaded electric light. He looked up in surprise at our insolent entrance, then quickly rose to his feet. I think there was fear in his eyes.

He was a handsome rascal, a bit dissipated in appearance, but surprisingly attractive.

“Sit down, Mr. Dawson,” said Lavender evenly, before the man could speak. “We have come for a few moments of conversation. My name is Lavender; this is my assistant, Mr. Gilruth, and this gentleman you already know by name, I believe. He is Mr. Gregory Bantock. Perhaps you can guess the object of our visit.”

Dawson licked his lips, and faced us with an attempt at a smile.

“Not only can I guess it, gentlemen,” he replied, “but I am glad to see you. You have come for Miss Allison’s letter, and you are very welcome to it. I am sorry I have occasioned her so much anxiety. It was really only a bad joke of mine. I had no intention of carrying it out, you know. I have too high a respect for Miss Allison, and for Mr. Bantock.”

It was, I suppose, a superb attempt to avoid disaster. Bantock immediately stepped forward.

“Just a minute, Bantock,” said Lavender quickly. To Dawson he said, “Where is the letter?”

“It is here on my desk. This is it. I am really very happy to turn it over to you.” He handed across a letter, which Lavender quickly unfolded, then passed to Bantock.

“Is that Miss Allison’s handwriting?” he asked. “Good! Put it in your pocket. Now the other letter, if you please—the one you wrote to Miss Allison.”

Dawson’s handsome jaw dropped visibly. He began to stammer.

“Come, come,” ordered Lavender impatiently. “The sooner you respond the sooner you will be through with us. I want the letter you wrote to Miss Allison demanding money for the return of hers; the one you abstracted from her bag the day she visited you.”

“Suppose I tell you I have destroyed it?” snapped Dawson, with sudden bravado.

“I shall search the place for it, nonetheless.”

“What do you intend to do with it?”

“That is none of your business. However, I don’t mind telling you that I intend to keep it myself, purely as a guarantee of your future good behavior.”

The blackmailer stood for an instant in scowling indecision.

“I’ll give it to you,” he said at last. “I had intended to destroy it. I’m sorry now I didn’t. I know you, though, Mr. Lavender; I know your reputation. If you tell me you are not planning to use it against me, I believe you. There it is.”

He fairly snatched another letter from his desk and passed it to the detective.

“Thank you,” said Jimmie Lavender dryly. “Now, Dawson, there is one thing more. You won’t like it, and I don’t care whether you do or don’t. Under your eyes here I am going to go through your desk and your safe, which stands conveniently open. I shall take nothing that you have a right to own; but I am very much interested to discover whether other letters, similar to Miss Allison’s, exist in your collection.”

He stepped forward as he spoke, and coolly shoving the blackmailer to one side, seated himself in the vacated desk chair. “Mr. Gilruth and Mr. Bantock will hold you, if necessary, to keep you quiet,” he added casually, as he began to shuffle papers and open drawers.

The face of Weatherby Dawson was past all description. He almost sobbed with rage as he witnessed this calm burglary of his office, which he was unable to prevent. He had just enough sense left, however, not to interfere.

Armloads of papers Lavender carried from the safe to the desk and back again, examining them quickly but thoroughly before replacing them neatly where he had found them. A few, from time to time, he laid to one side for further consideration; and at such times Dawson’s features writhed impotently. In half an hour the detective had finished, and rising for the last time he pocketed some two dozen letters and papers that he had reserved.

“I think that is all,” he observed dispassionately. “Your future good behavior ought to be assured by these papers, Dawson. I imagine we shall have no further trouble with you. Since you have been sensible enough to remain quiet throughout this trying ordeal, I shall restrain my natural desire to thrash you within an inch of your life; and I shall ask Mr. Gilruth to be similarly calm. I have no control over the actions of Mr. Bantock,” he added with a little smile, “and I really could not blame him if he were to feel that entire justice had not been done in this case. But that is his own affair. It may be that he will have some words to exchange with you; so Mr. Gilruth and I will delicately step outside until he rejoins us.”

A sudden laugh of pure happiness issued from the lips of Gregory Bantock as we moved toward the door.

I would have given much to have seen that battle; but Lavender, his eyes sparkling with amusement, closed the door promptly upon my dilatory departure. From the sounds and cries, and the heavy breathing, that came from the other side of that door, I am certain that the affair was a masterpiece. At one time, I thought the office furniture was coming out through the wall; and I strolled apprehensively toward the elevator, to arrest any interference from that point.

Then silence fell upon the place, peaceful and profound, and in a moment the door softly opened and as softly closed after Gregory Bantock. He slid out quietly and joined us without a word. He was not unscarred, but he was smiling joyously, and on the whole he presented a very creditable appearance. Beside Weatherby Dawson, I should think he would have appeared immaculate.

“Well,” said Jimmie Lavender briskly, “if you and Dawson have finished with your little chat, we may as well be moving.”

6.

It was in a taxicab, some moments afterward, that my bright idea occurred to me.

“Lavender,” I cried, “everything has been cleared away but the original mystery! For heaven’s sake, who do you suppose the woman in black was?”

“That’s a fact,” answered the detective, “and it reminds me that I must telephone Kingston at once, before he prints anything he will be sorry for. I’ve given that old lady some thought, Gilly, and have even consulted a telephone directory about her. Are you in a hurry, Bantock?”

“Well, perhaps not,” replied Gregory Bantock, with some hesitation.

“I fancy you are,” smiled Lavender. “Let’s see, where are we now? Van Buren Street! It’s pretty close, but I think we won’t detain you, Bantock. Our respects to Miss Allison, if you will. Gilly and I will drop off here, and go back a block, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” said Bantock; “but say, I haven’t half begun to thank you—”

“I hope you won’t say any more about it,” Lavender replied quickly. “I understand, and it’s quite all right. I haven’t been very brilliant, you know. Kingston and Miss Allison—not to mention Ted—both contributed to the outcome. I merely came in at the finish.”

“Well, thanks enormously, anyway,” said Bantock. “I guess you know where to find a friend, if you ever need one. By the way, do you mind telling me what you intend to do with all those letters you took away?”

“Not at all,” replied Lavender. “Except for the blackmail letter, I intend to burn them all, unread. But don’t tell Dawson,” he smiled. “As long as he thinks I have them, he’ll be a good boy.”

“I see,” said Gregory Bantock, with admiration in his voice.

As we walked back to the intersection of Wabash Avenue and Congress Street I was a highly curious individual.

“Do you mean, Jimmie,” I demanded, “that you’ve actually located the old lady in black?”

“Well, I think so,” answered Jimmie Lavender. “I’ve been wrong so often in this case that I’m a bit wary about what I say; but I hope to introduce you to the woman in black in a very few minutes, Gilly. She is really a very estimable old person, I fancy; and I have no doubt that Kingston has somewhat the appearance of an erring mortal, after a hard day’s work.” He chuckled. We had stopped on the corner.

“We are now standing about where the reckless reporter stood on that eventful day. This way, to the right, went the woman in black, after her descent upon the sinful youth.”

He chuckled again, and strode away toward the lights and noise of South State Street’s cheapest section.

“She crossed the alley here, as we are crossing, and Kingston lost her,” continued the detective, helpfully. “And now we approach the street called State. Note the cheap theaters and nickelodeons, the establishments for old clothing. Note the converted gin palaces, the loungers in street and doorway, the fly-by-night peddlers, and the thirty-cent hotels. What else might one logically expect to find in such a section, Gilly?”

“James E. Lavender and his friend Charles Gilruth on a criminal chase,” I answered promptly.

The first-named gentleman laughed. “Good shot, Gilly,” he said. “And one thing else, too. Across the street. Behold! By heaven, Gilly, they’ve even got it on a signboard!”

I followed the pointing finger; and a passing sailor stopped to stare at our antics.

A lighted shop lay in the direct line of our vision, inside of which in rows sat a motley gathering of listeners. Over the door fluttered a great cloth sign, and on it, in huge red letters, I read the solemn injunction, “Get Right With God!” Underneath, in smaller characters, appeared the words, “Midnight Mission.”

I crossed the street at Lavender’s heels, filled with a vast amusement. The detective strode briskly to the door of the mission, and together we peered in.

At a small table near the door sat the mysterious woman in black, surrounded by gospel literature. Prominent amidst the display of tracts and volumes were numerous stacks of little white cards, printed with red characters about an inch in height.

With the woman’s astonished eyes upon him, Jimmie Lavender leaned against the door frame and laughed and laughed and laughed.

The Wrong Stairway

1.

Magazine articles about Chicago always infuriated Michael Hardesty. Particularly when they were sentimental. Some day, he decided, angrily contracting his brow, he would write an article about Chicago, himself.

He relighted his pipe and continued with his reading.

The city’s reputation is not entirely founded upon legend [he read], nor is it undeserved. Yet, in intervals of loathing it, one finds much to recommend the place. It is not unbeautiful, in many of its aspects, and in its swarming streets there is much to interest and to entertain. The variety of its life is extraordinary. Not even London can offer so many studies in contemporaneous contrast. That 99 per cent of its citizens have never really seen Chicago, of course goes without saying.

Michael Hardesty uttered a profound oath and hurled the popular magazine into a corner. Such stuff! It was all right, perhaps, for the credulous idiots who didn’t live in Chicago; but for a man born and brought up in the damned place—! Thought failed him.

He got to his feet and took a turn about the room. He pulled aside his thick curtain and glanced out at the night. Cool and pleasant, but dark as a bag of black cats. Oh, yes, Chicago was a great place—for criminals! If only he were a first-class burglar or confidence man, he had no doubt he would like Chicago very much. He would have money in his pockets then. It was extraordinary how the possession of an adequate supply of money made life tolerable.

He frisked himself, frowning thoughtfully. There remained between him and beggary exactly thirty-eight cents. His room rent, fortunately, was paid to the end of the month. But what a situation for his father’s son!

It occurred to him, with grim irony, that it was partly because he was his father’s son that he now found himself so infernally hard up. The Reverend Andrew Hardesty had been perennially in the same predicament—scratching for a living. The Reverend Andrew, however, had always believed that the Lord would provide—and somehow the Lord always had. Michael Hardesty had, frankly, less faith in the Lord.

Well, he would have to call on Clayton again; that was all there was to it. Clayton—with his ironic smile and his white fatness! Clayton—with his Jap servant and his easy money! Clayton—his elder brother, who had made a fortune in stocks, and whom he hated as he hated things that hissed and crawled! As between Clayton Hardesty and Michael, the latter knew whose life the Reverend Andrew would have approved.

“Nevertheless,” muttered Michael Hardesty, peering out into the darkness again, “I’m a failure. That’s the world’s way. Cheers for the successful gambler, thumbs down for the unsuccessful poet.”

He thought again of his brother Clayton, and a dark anger filled him. Clayton would smile tolerantly and smugly, and would give him fifty dollars. Clayton would advise him to get a job and forget his nonsense. Clayton would toss him a fish, as it were, and then forget him until someone, seeing the name in print, asked if they were related. Then Clayton would puff up like a pigeon and talk fondly of his brother.

“Damn him!” observed Michael Hardesty with brotherly affection. He added: “It’s pretty sickening —but I need his infernal fifty.”

He seized his hat and stick and went out into the night. As he strode toward the car line he began to whistle, for, after all, he was a cheerful soul.

2.

Clayton Hardesty lived alone, except for his Japanese servant, in a tall building that dominated an entire city block. It was one of those enormous structures that gave thoughtful citizens a vague idea of the city of the future—an almost uninterrupted line of colossal cliffs, marked at intervals by lighted doorways and blazing with light from innumerable small windows. The huge structure stood at the intersection of two boulevards, and immediately across from it was another structure of which it was the twin. Beneath the highest windows of the two big rabbit warrens the street lay like a narrow ribbon; the thronging automobiles seemed to be a procession of regimented fireflies. Along the lengths of the two boulevards the street lamps—white and blinding—were searing eyeballs of fire.

Michael Hardesty, alighting from an humble street car two blocks from this inspiring scene, walked the distance to the important intersection, and entered an ornate doorway. In ordinary circumstances he would have hunted around among the bells until he found his brother’s name, and then would have announced his advent in the usual way. As it happened, however, another occupant of one of the expensive pigeon holes was just entering the inner door, and Michael stepped briskly forward and passed through with him. The carpeted stairway lay before him, and on the heels of the other man he began to climb. Clayton’s apartment was on the third floor above the lobby and the elevator seemed a superfluous piece of mechanism to a poet.

At the second floor above the lobby, the other man entered a door and disappeared. Michael passed the second floor and proceeded toward the third. Quite suddenly a vague sense of unfamiliarity came over him, and he stopped and looked intently at a certain spot of wall—a spot low down and near the juncture of the stair, where, once, he had made a rococo design in ink when he had jerked his fountain pen at the wall, the better to induce a flow of liquid. He had wanted to make a note that had occurred to him while descending from an interview with his brother.

The spot of ink was missing.

“Hello!” muttered Michael in surprise. “Have they really cleaned the walls?”

It was evident, however, that they had not. There was only one conclusion. He was in the wrong building. He had entered the wrong doorway.

Not that it was surprising, since all the doorways were alike; but he must have been very absent-minded indeed, he reflected, to have made such a mistake. It was what came of going through the inner door on another man’s buzz, he thought whimsically. If he had rung the bell first—or tried to—he would have discovered his error earlier.

“I’m getting to be a bigger fool every day,” he murmured, and turned to retrace his steps.

At the same instant, the second-floor door opened and the man who had entered a moment before came out hurriedly and ran quickly down the steps. He was breathing hard, and he clutched something in his hand as he ran. Inside the apartment a woman’s voice began to scream, and an instant later a girl—apparently a maid—rushed out onto the landing and collided with the teetering Michael, who had reached the same spot.

At the impact, the young woman cried out in terror and shrank back against the door frame. The bewildered poet stood speechless. Then his wits came to his aid, and he began an apology. Inside, the screaming voice continued its uproar.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Is anything wrong?”

The girl continued to stare at him in mute horror; then, to his dismay, she too broke into a series of shrieks that filled the stairways.

“Thieves!” she cried. “Thieves! Help! Help!”

“For God’s sake, be quiet,” said Michael, “and tell me what is wrong. I’m not a thief. Was that man—?”

But the little maid refused to heed him and continued to scream. And suddenly he realized that he was in for trouble. It was a mess. He was in the wrong building, and in a few minutes he would probably be apprehended as a thief.

“I’ll go after him,” he cried, with quick inspiration, and fled down the stairs after the man who had preceded him. He knew, however, that he would do nothing of the sort. If he got clear of the building he would go at once to his brother’s apartment and stay there until the excitement was over.

A queer thought came to him, even as he ran. He knew that, somewhere, he had seen that girl before. Her face was as familiar as the face of the housekeeper at his own hotel. Did he know her? Was she a maid in a strange house, someone he had never seen before; or was she the daughter of some hostess whom once he had known? The thought made him stop. He turned and stared back at her, uncertainly. It seemed insane for him to be running away when he had done nothing. Surely, there must be an explanation that he could make. He opened his mouth to speak to her—to call back up the stairs.

“Don’t you know me?” he began to ask. And, idiotically, the question was continued in his mind: “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

But the girl was still calling, although faintly, “A thief! Oh, stop him! A thief!”

Michael turned again and reached the first landing in time to collide with another startled occupant. It was a man this time, and the man, although obviously nervous, instantly grappled with him.

“Who are you?” demanded the newcomer; and the tumult from the landing above, gaining volume and encouragement by this evidence of assistance, answered him quite plainly: “A thief! A thief!”

Lord, what a mess it was!

There was only one thing to do, thought the desperate poet. He seized the man who held him, and for a moment they wrestled, panting, on the landing. Then the son of the Reverend Andrew Hardesty saw a red sunset flame before his eyes, and he grasped his assailant by the throat and tried to strangle him.

“Let me go,” he said in a low voice. “Let me go, you damned fool, or I’ll kill you.”

The man released him, and for an instant they stood eye to eye, staring at each other. Then, “I’m not a thief,” said Michael Hardesty tensely. “It’s a mistake. I got into the wrong building apparently. But there may have been a thief here. A man left just before I started to come down. Do you understand, you ape? I’m not a thief!”

The occupant of the first-floor apartment continued to stare at him without reply, and Michael Hardesty swore bitterly and continued his flight down the stairs. In a moment he was outside, and the cool air of evening was blowing on his temples. Shaken, but with calmer nerves, he looked at the number over the door.

It was as he had expected. His brother’s building was next door. Doubtless the police would be along in a few moments. No doubt that idiot of a maid had telephoned for them. If she had not, the man who had attacked him would do so.

Again he wondered where he had seen the girl before. The disquieting thought occurred to him that, if he knew her by sight, she would also know him. She might even remember his name—whoever she was. She would tell the police that he was a thief.

“… and in its swarming streets there is much to interest and to entertain.”

He shook himself together, adjusted his disordered clothing, and entered the doorway of his brother’s building.

3.

Clayton Hardesty had heard nothing of the excitement next door. The walls of the building were thick. He greeted his brother with his usual air of jovial condescension and a clap on the back that seemed to say, “Well, old chap, here you are again. More money, I suppose! Always know what to expect when you appear. Of course, we both know what a humbug you are.”

In actuality, he said: “Hello, Michael! Well, this is a surprise. I was just going out; but come in, anyway. Will you have a drink?”

“Thanks,” answered Michael, almost gratefully. “I will have a drink. I think that’s what I came up to get.”

The Japanese servant grinned meaningly and vanished in the direction of the kitchen. On the whole, he was inclined to like Michael Hardesty. It was so obvious that Michael disliked his brother. The circumstance recommended the younger man to the Oriental, who had no very high opinion of Clayton, himself. He mixed two highballs and returned with them to the sitting room.

Michael was saying: “There seemed to be some excitement next door as I came along. I thought I heard a woman screaming.”

“That so?” asked Clayton. “Somebody drunk, maybe. A bit early for that, though. They don’t tune up until midnight, as a rule. A woman, eh?”

“And a man ran out of the doorway,” continued Michael. “I thought maybe he was a thief who had been discovered in one of the apartments. Anything of that sort going on around here nowadays?”

“Is there?” echoed Clayton. “It’s going on all over town, every day in the week. But if he was next door he’s getting close. I’ll have to lock up my Scotch. He can have my money, but he can’t have my Scotch. Good Scotch is too hard to get.”

This was a florid gesture that Michael knew. The idea that anybody could have Clayton’s money, that he was a careless, generous fellow who didn’t care much about money anyway, was an idea that Clayton liked to foster. Michael also knew that it was untrue. He would have to abase himself to get even fifty dollars.

The Japanese grinned amiably and left the room.

“Well,” continued Michael, going straight to the point, “I’d like a little of it myself, Clayton. You see me much as usual—with expectations, but with no immediate funds. A loan, of course! I’m keeping track of it, whether you believe it or not. Some day you’ll get it all back, with interest.”

The elder brother was silent for a moment, and the poet squirmed unhappily. For all of his humorous attitude, he found it embarrassing to ask his brother for money.

Then the other shrugged. “It isn’t the money, you know, Michael,” he said. “What I’m wishing is that you’d quit this poetry business and begin to think about a future. Naturally, as long as I have a penny you won’t starve; but it isn’t fair to either of us to let the situation continue indefinitely. However, I won’t preach.”

“Please don’t,” said Michael earnestly.

“I don’t carry much money with me, you know,” continued Clayton. “It’s not safe. I could write you a check, but I suppose what you need is cash.”

“Yes,” agreed Michael, “that’s what I need, Clayt.”

“Would fifty help you?”

“Can you really spare that much?”

“For you, yes,” answered Clayton indulgently. He was perfectly aware of the sarcasm in his younger brother’s question, but he chose to ignore it.

“That’ll make an even two hundred,” said Michael “I ought to make that much out of my next book.”

His brother raised a deprecating hand. “There’s no hurry,” he observed. “Pay it if you want to, when you want to.” It secretly flattered him to have his brother come to him for money. It gave him a higher opinion of himself. He took out a wallet.

“Thanks very much,” said Michael, realizing that he was a bit of a dog, after all. He wasn’t particularly grateful to Clayton, who could well afford the money; he knew perfectly well that it flattered Clayton’s sense of generosity to be asked for the money; and yet he also knew that he ought to feel some gratitude to the only man who had the money to give him. It was Clayton’s righteous attitude, he decided again, that made it all so hard.

“Well,” he continued, “I’ll be on my way, Clayt. I didn’t come to make a visit. I guess you know that. Thanks again for the money. You don’t happen to know who lives on the second floor next door, do you?”

“I don’t know a soul in the block except the agent for the buildings,” answered Clayton. “Why?”

“It seemed to me that was where the screaming was coming from.”

“Forget about it,” advised Clayton. “Nobody pays attention to that sort of thing any more. Not even the police. God knows who lives there. Since the segregated district has been abolished, one doesn’t know who one’s neighbors are.”

He uttered this clichè with an air of great virtue.

“Another drink?” asked the elder brother.

“All right, I don’t care if I do.”

“Two more highballs, Yone,” said Clayton. “When’s the book due, Michael?”

“In about a month, I think.”

“Well, good luck to it! By the way, Taggart saw one of your things, a while ago in one of the newspapers. Copied from some magazine, he said. You know Taggart—of Taggart & Bloom. He thought very well of it, he said.”

“That’s nice of him,” commented Michael.

Clayton looked abashed for a moment, and uncomfortable.

“Well, here’s the liquor.”

They drank down the stirrup cups in silence and solemnly shook hands. “Good luck,” said Clayton perfunctorily.

“Thanks,” said Michael. “Thanks for—everything.”

“That’s all right,” said Clayton, and opened the door himself.

In the street, Michael found a slant-eyed, burly man watching the next doorway, as if suspecting that the thief had not yet made his escape. The detective, recognizable as such as far as he could be seen, looked at the poet suspiciously.

“Live in there?” he asked, approaching heavily.

“No,” said Michael, “but my brother does—Clayton Hardesty.”

Apparently the man knew the name, as many people did.

“Been with him long?” he continued.

“You mean just now? About half an hour. Why?”

“I’m from the Hammond Avenue station,” explained the detective unnecessarily. “We had a report that a sneak thief had got into one of the apartments and scared a woman half to death.”

“Here?” asked Michael in astonishment. “I didn’t hear anything, or see anything. What did he get?”

The man from the Chicago Avenue station shrugged. “Don’t know yet,” he replied. “My partner’s upstairs now getting the dope.”

“Next door, eh?” commented Michael. “Not old Mrs. Bartlett, I hope?”

“No,” grunted the detective. “Howard was the name we got.”

“I’m afraid I don’t even know the Howards,” said Michael politely. “Well, good luck, officer!”

“Thanks,” growled the detective. “Good-night.”

The neighborhood appeared to be unsafe. Fortunately, Clayton’s fifty had been accepted in ten-dollar bills. Still more fortunately, a taxicab was rounding the windy cape of buildings and discharging a fare at one of the doorways.

Michael held up his hand and the driver nodded. He climbed in and quickly slammed the door behind him. Through the front window he gave the driver the name and address of a modest restaurant, and sank back thoughtfully on the seat.

4.

To the rest of Chicago, the morning papers were much as usual; but to Michael they were sensational. It had not occurred to him that his brisk little adventure, over in ten minutes, could be so brilliantly exaggerated. He read the varying accounts with fascination.

The yellowest of the morning journals made him out to be a brutal desperado of the most horrendous type. It seemed that he had entered the apartment of Mrs. F. M. Howard, age and address noted, and so terrified that elderly woman that she was still prostrated and under the care of a physician. When she had called out, at sight of him, it appeared that he had half strangled the poor old creature, and then fled down the stairs to the street. She had come upon him within a few minutes of his entering the apartment, but not quite soon enough to prevent him from snatching a jewel case from her dresser. As a result, Mrs. F. M. Howard was in bed, and jewels valued at $30,000 were missing.

Michael’s name was not, of course, mentioned; but the description, to his apprehensive mind, seemed to fit him exactly. Come to think of it, the man who had actually entered the place had been of about his height and build! He remembered the back that had preceded him up the stairs.

“What about the girl?” asked Michael aloud, as if expecting an answer from the newspaper.

There was no mention whatever of the girl. Possibly the press did not care to celebrate maids-of-all-work.

It was a funny thing, though, about that girl. Just as sure as spring followed winter—and both Shelley and Hutchinson had assured Michael that this phenomenon did occur—he had seen that girl somewhere; he knew her as well as—not perhaps as well as his own mother, but certainly as well as the girl in the anteroom at McMurtry’s Monthly.

Michael turned the situation over in his mind. Obviously, he thought, he was in hourly danger of being arrested. It did not occur to him that the description of the actual attacker was one that would fit almost any of some millions of men in the United States. In his mind there was one upstanding thought: that infernal girl had recognized him and had furnished his description to the police. But if she knew him, why hadn’t she given his name? Another dreadful thought entered his mind. Perhaps she had! Perhaps she had, and the police were simply keeping it quiet until they had him laid by the heels—to lull his suspicions, perhaps. They were smarter than people gave them credit for, those heavy-footed, slow-witted fellows.

There was only one thing to be done. As long as he kept quiet he was as good as confessing himself the criminal. The best thing to do, he reflected, was to make a clean breast of his own innocent part in the affair. And the first thing to do was to visit Mrs. F. M. Howard. If she had seen her attacker, surely she would know at a glance that Michael Hardesty was not the man. Then he could safely confront the police. It was one of the remaining relics of his early training— this belief that honesty was, in all circumstances, the best and safest policy. Clayton Hardesty, of course, knew better—but then, Clayton was not Michael.

Michael shaved hurriedly and went out into the world again. He caught a street car at the corner, and in a short time was once more conducting a brief reconnaissance in front of his brother’s block of buildings. A number of men were in view. They might be detectives, or they might be bill collectors. Probably they were detectives; but there was nothing like a bold front.

Michael entered the doorway with complete assurance, and rang the Howard doorbell. There was an immediate response from the buzzer, and he jerked open the inner door and mounted the steps. At the second floor a surprise awaited him.

A large, blue-clad policeman stood in the partly open door, awaiting him.

The policeman frowned. “Well?” he demanded. “What is it?”

“I—ah—beg pardon,” said Michael. “I called to see Mrs. Howard.

The bluecoat looked him over in silence for a moment. Then, “Mrs. Howard ain’t seeing anyone to-day,” he answered. “What was it about?”

Michael took his courage in both hands. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“The fact is,” he said, “it’s about—last night!”

“Ah!” said the policeman. “Information?”

“Well, yes,” said Michael, “information.”

The burly one swung the door open more widely.

“You should-a gone to the station,” he observed brusquely. “Come in, anyway. You can talk to Sergeant Cassidy. He’s here.”

He indicated a front room with a jerk of his thumb, and Michael entered on tiptoe, as if he were entering a sickroom. There was no one in the room, however, and he sat down in a big rocking chair and looked around him. The place was similar to his brother’s place, but held more furniture. The woman’s touch, too, was evident; and everything was a bit old-fashioned. Instead of a radio, there was an ancient piano. Instead of etchings of nude women, there were old portraits. One was that of a man with a beard like General Grant’s, and no mustache. His mouth was shut like a steel trap. It occurred to Michael that Mrs. Howard would look like that—except for the beard.

A brisk, blue-eyed young man entered the room and said, “Good-morning,” crisply. Obviously, this was Sergeant Cassidy. He looked less like a policeman than any of the breed Michael ever had seen.

“Good-morning, Sergeant,” said Michael. “I’ve got something on my mind.” He smiled.

The sergeant smiled, too. In his plain clothes he looked like a pleasant-faced clerk in almost any wholesale house. “I’d like to hear it,” he answered. “Burns said you had something to tell us about last night.”

“Yes,” said Michael. He hesitated. “The truth is, I came expecting to see and talk with Mrs. Howard. I didn’t expect to find the police here. Maybe it’s better this way…. Well, what I have to say is this: I was outside that door last night when the thief ran out.”

The detective sergeant stared. “The deuce you were!”

“Yes,” continued the poet. “In fact, the maid thought I was the thief. It was after me that she screamed. The man in the lower apartment ran out to stop me, and he wouldn’t listen to my explanation, either. I had to choke him.”

Cassidy’s blue eyes were contracting. “It was you that wrestled with Mr. Liddy last night?”

“If that was his name,” answered Michael.

The detective seemed to be struggling with some nameless emotion. After a moment he said: “Tell me all about it. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Michael Hardesty,” said Michael. “It was this way, Sergeant.” He told everything that had occurred from the time he left his own hotel, excepting only the reason for visiting his brother.

As he spoke, the sergeant’s gaze became more and more peculiar. “Well, I’ll be hanged,” he observed at length. “Of course, your brother can bear you out in this—in part of it anyway. You didn’t get a good look at the man on the stairs?”

“I suppose I did,” said Michael, “but there wasn’t anything extraordinary about him. To me, he was just a man—see? He was clean-shaven, if that’s any help to you, and he wore a hat.” He smiled, and Cassidy chuckled.

“If he wore a hat he wasn’t one of the college boys,” said the detective. “That lets out a whole schoolful of fellows anyway, eh?”

Michael laughed outright. “You’re not a bit like the sort of fellow I thought a detective would be.”

“Well, I’ll return the compliment. You’re not a bit like the sort of fellow I expect a sneak thief to be. I can think of some fellows in the department who would lock you up immediately, on suspicion.”

Then his face became grave. “But there’s one thing, Mr. Hardesty! That maid!”

Michael became interested at once. He was troubled about the maid himself.

“Say,” he burst out, “she bothers me. I’ve seen her some place. I can’t think where; but I know her face. Isn’t that funny? She didn’t know me, apparently, or she’d have mentioned me. Eh?”

“No, she didn’t mention you,” said the detective. “In fact, she didn’t mention anybody. In fact, we don’t know anything about her. In fact, there wasn’t any maid here when our fellows arrived, and there hasn’t been any since. In fact,” he concluded, “Mrs. Howard doesn’t know anything about any maid of that kind. The only maid she has is colored and she went home at four o’clock!”

5.

Michael left the building with his head in a whirl. The whole affair began to assume the outrageous proportions of a nightmare.

If the maid had not been there when the police arrived, what had become of her? Of course, Cassidy must be right! She was one of the thieves. She had entered the place only a few minutes before the man that he had seen—just about long enough before to take off her hat and put on an apron. Had she worn an apron? To save his soul, Michael couldn’t remember.

Anyway, the two were in cahoots. That was it. Then the man had blundered. Or maybe Mrs. Howard had just walked in on him while he was looting her bedroom. Where had the maid been all that time? Why did she run to the door and scream? Cassidy was probably right about that, too. The maid had been hiding while Mrs. Howard and the attacker were struggling; she had run to the door afterward, to follow her accomplice; on the landing she had bumped into Michael Hardesty, and her quick wits had solved that situation very cleverly.

But what about the man called Liddy? Funny he hadn’t known there was no maid upstairs! Michael remembered his brother’s words: One doesn’t know who one’s neighbors are. Probably that was true of Liddy.

He strolled quietly toward the car line, deep in thought. Anyway, he had a job at last. It occurred to him that it was a job that Clayton Hardesty would not approve. Cassidy had said: “You say you have seen this woman—this ‘maid’—some place. Try to remember where! She’s our only clue. If you can place her, and we can catch her, the case is over.”

So now Michael Hardesty was a detective! In a small way, of course. There was nothing in it, to be sure, except experience. But it was rather good fun. Who was the confounded woman, anyway?

His mind went back over the years. He tried to remember every woman he had ever known, every woman he had ever met. She simply didn’t fit in any place. Yet her face was as familiar as—as familiar as—well, it was very familiar. Had he seen it in a newspaper? But no! It wasn’t anything as casual as that. It was a face he had seen often. Somewhere, sometime, he had seen that woman, more than once—many times, in fact. Could she be an actress? Had he seen her on the stage? A waitress? Somebody who brought him his coffee and rolls?

He went over them all in his mind, and when he finished he was as far from the truth as ever. In the end, he decided that he must have been deceived by a resemblance, or have just imagined that he knew her. That was the devil of having an imagination!

He got off at his own corner, and glanced casually in at the corner lunchroom. But the Amazonian blonde who was rustling coffee for a pair of teamsters aroused no spark of recognition in his eye. The night girl, he remembered, was small and dark and walked with a slight limp. Nothing doing there, anyway!

In his tiny apartment hotel he dug up the house-keeper—an elderly gray-haired woman with a shrewd face.

“Mrs. Freeman,” said Michael earnestly, “did we ever have a maid here who looked like—like—” He made a profound attempt to describe the maid of the night before.

The housekeeper looked at him as if she would have liked to say, “Let me smell your breath.” She answered: “Not that I remember, Mr. Hardesty. The girl you describe sounds to me like somebody out of the Greenwich Village Follies.” She pronounced the name of that Bohemian-seacoast village “Green-witch,” and Michael turned away with a sigh.

Anyway, his name got into the newspapers. With mingled fascination and distress, he read the accounts next morning of his testimony as rendered to Sergeant Cassidy. Only one fact had been suppressed: that concerning his recognition of the maid. But his wrestling match with Martin Liddy had been played up strongly. The description, “six-foot poet,” delighted him.

One thing was positive. Wherever he had seen the missing maid, it was not far from the general scene of activities. His own small hotel was within a mile of his brother’s more luxurious residence. His acquaintances, such as they were, all lived or worked in the neighborhood of one place or the other. His morning walks rarely took him any farther south than Belmont Harbor, or any farther north than Lawrence Avenue. Roughly, then, he had probably met this girl some place within a radius of, say, four square miles. He supposed it narrowed the search a little, anyway. Once, however, he had lived on the West Side. Possibly he had seen her over there. He became vastly discouraged.

It occurred to him that he might look up Cassidy and report progress. Not that there was any progress to report; but he had taken a liking to Cassidy, and possibly Cassidy would let him prowl round with him.

Michael again boarded a street car and went to the Hammond Avenue police station. He contrived to arrive there as the detective was preparing to have some lunch, and accepted the invitation to join the repast. Together they went to a neighboring lunchroom and climbed aboard adjoining food saddles.

“Here’s the way I figure it,” said Cassidy. “This precious pair of crooks found out that Mrs. Howard was a widow, and lived practically alone. The girl probably posed as a solicitor, or something, and had a look at the premises. Then, a day or so later, along toward evening, she went back—the man with her. He waited outside, or in the front hall, while she let herself in. That would be easy. She’d have sized up the situation the first day she was there. Those places are easy enough to get into. They look solid; but a table knife is all you need to get in. You slip it in, back of the door strip, and shove the latch back. It’s a cinch unless the door is double-locked. I’ve done it myself. The girl got in, and concealed herself. A few minutes later the man followed, and you followed the man. See?”

“Why did they go together?”

“Well, one would have been enough; but they figured somebody had to choke the old lady, in case of trouble. The girl figured she’d be in the kitchen, along about supper time—Mrs. Howard, I mean—and it would be easy to slip into the bedroom. Well, the man got in— the door being left ajar—and entered the bedroom, and the girl was somewhere handy, keeping an eye on the old lady in the kitchen. The girl was probably behind the hangings in the front room. That way, she could look right down the hall to the kitchen. See? But it all went wrong. The old lady came out of the kitchen before the girl could warn her friend, and entered the bedroom. I know that, because that’s what Mrs. Howard said she did. Then the fellow grabbed her and threw her across the bed. When she got her wits back they were both gone.

“Meantime, the girl had followed the man, and was just in time to meet you coming downstairs. She was quick and she raised an alarm, thinking that if you were caught she could escape in the excitement. The old lady’s screams, inside, had her pretty well frightened, but she did her best, and it was enough. You can gamble that she followed you downstairs as quickly as she could after you had finished rowing with Liddy.”

“I wish I had known,” said Michael.

“Well, so do I,” smiled Cassidy. “However, if it hadn’t been for you we’d know less about this case than we do.”

“What’s being done?” asked Michael.

“Damn’ little,” admitted the detective. “I’m going back there now to have a talk with Mrs. Howard’s colored maid. She’ll be on duty at this time, and for all we know she may have had a hand in it. She may have furnished the first information about the old woman’s jewels.”

“I see,” said Michael. “I’ll go with you, if I may.”

“All right. Put away your coffee and we’ll start.”

The distance was not great, and they strolled leisurely to the scene of the sensation. The neighborhood had not changed. No placard appeared on the building, announcing “This place has been robbed,” but a few passers-by glanced up as they passed, as if they recalled the circumstance. Cassidy entered the building in a matter-of-fact way, pushed the bell, and shortly they were tramping up the stairs.

They were let in by the colored maid. Mrs. Howard had taken to her bed and had not left it. They spent some twenty minutes in the apartment, and Michael listened with fascinated interest to the cross-questioning of the dark young woman called, amazingly, Heliotrope. Heliotrope, however, had nothing to contribute to the history of the episode, except that, as Cassidy had surmised, there had been a solicitor in the house several days before the robbery.

“What was she selling?” asked Cassidy.

“Cleanah,” said Heliotrope, sniffing.

“Cleaners?”

“No, cleanah. It comes in cans—little cans with screw tops. You wets a piece of rag with it, then rub it on the spot. ‘Mud, grease, paint, soup—they vanishes like magick befo’ ouah celebrated cleanah,’” quoted Heliotrope sardonically.

“My God!” cried Michael, and clapped a hand to his head.

Cassidy turned upon him quickly. “What is it?” he asked.

“Oh, my God!” said Michael. “I’ve got it! Come on —quick!”

6

Sergeant Cassidy was a fast worker. “Does it justify a taxi?” he asked. They stood outside the building, having almost tumbled down the stairs.

“I think so,” said Michael. “Anyway, here’s a taxi.”

They piled into one of several.

“Broadway and Wilson,” said Michael to the driver, and the car started with a jerk.

Cassidy leaned back and drew a long breath. Then he laughed. “Do you mind telling me now what it’s all about?” he asked. “I take it you’ve just remembered who the young woman is.”

“You bet!” cried Michael energetically. “And I know where she is, too, Cassidy. She’s in a shop window!”

“What!” exclaimed the detective.

“Well,” qualified the poet, “that’s where she was, anyway. In a shop window—demonstrating somebody’s famous cleaner. See?”

“Good Lord!” said Cassidy.

Suddenly Michael went off into a roar of laughter. “Can you beat that?” he demanded. “In a shop window! The whole police force looking for her—me worrying myself sick wondering where I’d seen her—and she’s in a shop window, with a million people passing by!”

Cassidy was not the man to fail in appreciation of a really clever stroke. He nodded approvingly. “Yes,” he agreed, “that’s clever; damn’ clever.”

“It’s like hiding yourself from the police by sitting on the doorstep next door to the police station,” said the poet. “But, I say—do you think she’ll still be there?”

The detective shrugged. “Can’t tell,” he answered. “Why not? It’s as safe as any other place. Almost safer, by George! Nobody’s going to suspect a woman who exhibits herself to the whole world.”

“Do you remember Poe’s story, ‘The Purloined Letter’?” asked the poet.

“Can’t say I do,” said Cassidy. “Was it in a recent magazine?”

”N-no, not exactly. It’s something like this case. A letter was hidden for weeks, in plain view of everybody who was looking for it.”

“Slick work,” commented the detective, “but it wouldn’t fool me.”

“This woman fooled me,” retorted Michael.

Cassidy was noncommittal. “We-ell,” he said, and let it go at that.

They leaped from the cab at the intersection of Broadway and Wilson Avenue.

“It’s about half a block up,” explained Michael. “Maybe she’ll recognize me. Hadn’t we better take the other side of the street?”

“Maybe we had,” said the detective; and they crossed the street and strolled northward with the throng.

Halfway along the block, glancing across, they beheld the usual knot of curious onlookers gathered outside of a show window in which something appeared to be going forward. A young woman in a white apron was recklessly spilling something that looked like ink, on her pinafore, and then removing the spots with a saturated rag. From time to time she paused in her occupation to put up a card for the interested onlookers to read.

Cassidy and Michael crossed the street leisurely, and took up a station behind a parked car that stood at the curb. Peering around its barricade, they were able to read the latest card on the music rack beside the demonstrator. “No more worry! No more spots!” it read in large characters.

“Use Butterscotch’s Guaranteed Cleaner,” said Cassidy sarcastically. “Is that the girl, Mr. Hardesty?”

“Yes!” said Michael, breathing hard. It was obviously his notion that the next step was a forward movement, in force, upon the unsuspecting shop.

Cassidy laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Easy,” he muttered. “Back up a bit. We’ve got to approach this thing from the sidelines. Also, there’s the man to be thought of. I wonder if he’s in the shop, too? Not likely, I’m afraid.”

The girl in the window was an accomplished actress. She lifted a cup of steaming soup to her lips, sipped at it, and contrived to spill some on her apron. An expression of dismay crossed her face; then she brightened. She plucked a card from a heap beside her, and added it to the file on the music rack.

“Never mind!” shrieked the card. “Spotnox Cleaner will remove it!”

She smiled happily, as Spotnox Cleaner instantly removed the stain. The gaping public was immensely gratified, and three women, two of them with babies, entered the doorway.

“Hello,” said Cassidy after a moment, “she’s shutting up shop. Going to lunch, I expect. Now’s our time, Mr. Hardesty. We’ve got to follow her. Keep your eye on the door.”

The young woman was now gathering up her cards, and in a moment she had left the window. Loitering behind the friendly auto, the poet and the detective turned anxious eyes upon the doorway. In a few moments they breathed sighs of relief. The handsome young person, now crowned with a neat turban and wearing a short jacket, stepped out onto the pavement and headed away southward at a brisk walk.

“Good heavens!” said Michael. “No wonder I recognized her! I used to pass her twice a day when I was walking this way. She wasn’t always in that same window. She’s been all up and down Broadway.”

“I hope she goes home to lunch,” growled Cassidy. “I’d like to see her man.”

At a safe distance they trailed the slim figure until it turned off into a less important thoroughfare. There, just around the corner, the girl stopped, waiting. The pursuers halted just in time.

“She’s waiting for somebody,” said Michael. “They go to lunch together, eh?”

“Looks like it,” grunted the detective. “Keep out of sight, Mr. Hardesty. She doesn’t know me.”

They retreated some distance, crossed the street, and came back on the other side, taking up a position in a drug-store doorway, where they could see without being seen. They were just in time, for a man was advancing along the side street toward the waiting figure, his hat in his hand.

Cassidy laid a hand on his companion’s arm. He was frowning ominously.

“I know that fellow,” he muttered. “There’s something about him, anyway—” He stopped without finishing his sentence. The man and the girl were greeting each other, and now they were turning into Broadway. The detective stepped into the street. “Good Lord, Mr. Hardesty,” he exclaimed, a moment later, “do you see who he is?”

“I’m rather short-sighted,” said Michael apologetically.

Cassidy laughed shortly and sharply. “You’ll see in a minute,” he retorted. Then under his breath he added: “Well, I’ll be damned!”

An instant later he had plunged across to the other walk, with Michael at his heels and taxi drivers cursing behind them. The pair they followed had stopped again. Now the man and the girl were entering a restaurant.

Cassidy sighed with relief. “We’ve got them,” he said. “I was afraid they might separate. Wait a minute until they’re seated; then I’ll go in first. You follow right after me. Ready?”

“But who is he?” asked Michael.

“You’ll know him the minute you see him,” said Cassidy, “and this time, don’t let him go!”

He stepped forward briskly and yanked open the door. Bewildered, but ready for anything, the poet followed. The door closed behind them. Cassidy was striding purposefully down the aisle, his eyes focused upon a table halfway along the length of the shop.

Suddenly there sounded the terrified cry of a woman, and all the faces in the restaurant faded away. Michael was looking again into the only face that stood out for him in all that company—the face of the girl who had called him a thief as he fled down the stairway two evenings before.

She had risen to her feet, and a man had risen, too, and was standing beside her. Michael’s eyes wavered to the face of the man—and remained there, fascinated. He was staring again into the eyes of Martin Liddy!

The explanation of everything flashed, knifelike, through the poet’s brain. A clever man, resident in an expensive block of buildings, preying upon his neighbors on every side! A little Napoleon of larceny. A shrewd spider, sitting in the midst of things, and reaching out for all within reaching distance. But—the girl?

For a moment no word was said, no further movement made. A deathly silence had fallen over the crowded shop.

Then the man with whom Michael had wrestled, and whose throat he had squeezed, bent swiftly to the table before him. His arm went up and backward, and something heavy and glittering whizzed through the air. It struck Michael Hardesty squarely upon the forehead.

For a fleeting instant, he felt the stunning force of the impact, then seemed to be blinded by a rain of blood, in the midst of which he sank quietly to the floor and entered into darkness.

7.

Fortunately, poets’ heads are hard, and so are water bottles. In time Michael was able to sit up and look around him.

As he did so, Cassidy rose from a chair and smiled at him. A man—a physician, apparently—who had been kneeling beside the stricken poet, rose also and stood back. The detective smiled again. “All right?” he asked.

Michael looked about him. The shop had been cleared of its throngs, and now was empty save for the persons most concerned in what was going on. His glance fell upon the face of Liddy and the sullen face of the girl. Quite obviously, they were in custody and in no condition to hurl steel girders.

“Yes, thanks—I guess so,” he said. “What happened?”

“Liddy hit you with a bottle,” answered the detective. “We are just waiting for you to come around. The wagon’s outside.”

A gong was sounding in the street, and there was a stirring of many feet outside the door.

Michael Hardesty threw an indignant glance at the captured criminals, and put his hand to his head. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

But the girl still bothered him. It is always so, when one is a poet. At the station he attempted to talk with her; but she smiled a hard smile and turned on her heel.

“Don’t worry about that dame,” said Cassidy wisely. “There isn’t any sympathy coming to her.”

“But—in a shop window!” protested the poet. “It doesn’t seem fair. He lived in luxury.”

Cassidy laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, I guess she didn’t have to work in shop windows,” he answered. “She probably made a very good thing out of it, if you ask me. Soliciting for Liddy wasn’t her only job, you can bet. I’ll bet she met Liddy, first, because she was a good-looking girl in a public window.” He laughed again significantly. “Don’t worry about her. Here’s something better to bite on. The Captain says Mrs. Howard has offered a reward of a thousand dollars for the return of her jewels!”

“No!”

“Absolutely! That’s five hundred apiece, Mr. Hardesty. Believe me, I can use mine.”

The sardonic smile of Clayton Hardesty flickered for a moment on the screen of his brother’s mind. Michael Hardesty broke into a gentle perspiration. After a time he drew a long breath.

“Listen, Cassidy,” he said. “I can use mine, too!”

The Street of Idols

1.

Over the doors were such names as Keshishian and Bhumgara, when there were names at all. For the most part the shades were drawn, and beyond the shades the curtains were swung to. It was nearing midnight.

Once, at a point where the curtains had not come quite together and a shade had not been drawn, Dutton peered through the shop window and saw a dim light burning. When his eyes had accustomed themselves to the light he saw a brown face grinning down at him from a tall shelf, and quickly drew back.

Peering again, however, he saw that it was not a human head, but something queer in the way of an Eastern idol. There were others beside it. There were, in point of fact, several shelves of them—gods and idols, in bronze, in brass, in porcelain, jade, and alabaster. Large gods and small gods, Buddhas, and strange nondescript gods that human beings had worshiped with fanatic respect for centuries.

Young Mr. Dutton smiled. “Well, I’ll be jiggered!” he murmured softly, and moved on with greater interest in his surroundings.

Come to think of it, he had heard of the street before. The Street of Idols! But how had he reached it? He had turned out of Clark Street into one of the numbered thoroughfares not far from the Chinese section, and then had turned again into a narrow street whose name he had not noticed. Finally, he had turned sharply into this still narrower canyon, little more than an alley, because it seemed to fit his wild mood and offer a congenial background for his reckless thought.

Odd, very odd, that a young man upon the brink of marriage should entertain such bitter thoughts. Young Mr. Dutton was cognizant of the paradox.

A light, shining through the red curtains of a basement window, attracted him, for, lettered blackly upon the glass, was a word that he would have understood in any language. Restaurant said the black letters, edged with gold, and immediately a warm glow filled the soul of young Mr. Dutton as he realized that he was hungry. It occurred to him that he had not eaten since morning—since receiving his Uncle Adrian’s preposterous letter.

Lightly twirling his stick, he prepared to descend the three steps to the basement doorway. At the same instant, footsteps sounded hollowly along the sidewalk, and he turned. A man was advancing briskly along the pavement from the north. He also was swinging a stick. At the door of the restaurant they came face to face in the dim red glow.

“Good Lord, Cal,” said a familiar voice, “what are you doing here?”

“Meredith!” exclaimed young Mr. Dutton.

The newcomer came closer to him. He leaned toward Dutton’s ear. “You’re not mixed up in this Rhoidis affair, surely?”

“Roweedis!” said Dutton. “What is it?”

Meredith smiled. “It’s a Greek,” he chuckled softly, “and I’m looking for it—or him, if you prefer.”

“I never heard of the gentleman,” said Dutton. “I was just about to go inside for something to eat.”

“Cheers!” said his friend. “I’ll go with you.”

Young Mr. Dutton stared. “All right,” he agreed, and, descending the steps, he flung open the door of the eating house. It was curious, he reflected, that Meredith should come up just at that moment; but then—these newspaper fellows were all over town on the craziest errands. He supposed it was some sort of an assignment.

It was a pleasant, even glittering spectacle upon which the two young men gazed. Dutton had visioned a sort of converted rathskeller, but there were actually linens upon the tables, and gleaming silverware; and there was an obsequious head waiter who came humbly forward at the sound of their entrance and looked at them inquiringly.

“Two?” asked the floor manager needlessly.

“Just two,” said Dutton firmly.

“Certainly,” said the waiter; and apologetically he added: “This way, if you please, gentlemen.” He led the way down a carpeted aisle to a corner at the back of the long room and deftly plucked back the chairs from their positions at the table. The reporter slid into the seat that faced the long room and the gleaming tables.

“You don’t mind riding backward, do you, Cal?” he asked. “Fact is, I want to look around.” A considerable clatter was going on, but Dutton noted that his friend kept his voice down.

“It’s all right with me,” he answered. “Business?” he asked significantly; and Meredith nodded.

“He’s here,” said the reporter. “I spotted him as we came along the aisle. He’s with the party at the center table. Lucky he doesn’t know me by sight!”

Dutton lighted a cigarette and turned casually. It was his practice to look neither to the right nor to the left during his progress down an aisle.

The place was well filled and, for the greater part, he observed, with well-dressed men and women. Here and there a dinner jacket was in evidence. In almost the center of the room a gay party—evenly divided as to the sexes—was in full evening regalia. Their liquor appeared to be their own, but they were handling it freely. One of the girls was a beauty! Dutton’s eyes came back to his friend. There was inquiry in his gaze. But Meredith slowly shook his head. “Not now,” he whispered. “Not here.”

A new waiter appeared suddenly beside them, and a new voice was saying, “Yes, sir!” and placing menu cards before them. They ordered hurriedly and were rid of him.

“Well,” said Meredith easily, “what’s on your mind?”

Dutton smiled a rueful, whimsical smile. “You’d be surprised, Merry,” he replied. He added bluntly: “Nothing less than marriage!”

“Good God!” said the newspaper man. “Can nothing be done about it?”

“Nothing,” said Dutton. “At least, I can think of nothing. I’ll tell you about it. It sounds like a piece of early Victorian fiction. My uncle—Adrian Dutton of Los Angeles, California, damn him!—has issued a ukase. My allowance is to be stopped unless I buckle down, marry, and get a job.”

Meredith laughed. “Cut off without a penny,” he chuckled. “It does sound a bit theatrical. I’ll try to get you a job on the paper, Cal. What can you do?”

Dutton shrugged eloquently.

“Why not write for the magazines?” continued Meredith. “Everybody else does.” He smiled. “Are you seriously considering marriage?”

“I’ve been thinking it over,” admitted Dutton. “You see, the old boy’s right. Oh, I know it!”

“Is there a time limit?”

“Well, there was something in the letter about expecting an answer—a decision—within thirty days.”

Meredith laughed again. “Thirty days after date,” he said, “I promise to marry— By the way, who are you going to marry, Cal? Or have you decided upon the unfortunate young lady?”

“Go ahead, have a good time,” growled Dutton. After a moment he also laughed. “It’s funny, all right. But if you think I haven’t been serious, look at this.”

He produced an envelope from his pocket, on the back of which he had scribbled a number of names.

“Look at it,” he went on. “There they are—the possibilities! The only girls who, by any stretch of the imagination, might marry me—and whom I might care to marry.”

Meredith read the list, which was made up of first names only: Susan, Isabel, Marian, Grace. “Poor old Cal,” said the reporter.

Dutton colored. “They’re all fine girls,” he asserted defensively.

“Sure they are. Only—you hadn’t thought of getting married! It’s rather a case of ‘this is so sudden,’ but with a reverse English, isn’t it?”

“I started out to walk to-night,” said Dutton, “and wound up here; I don’t know quite how it happened. If there is likely to be any excitement in this matter of yours—well, I’m your man! I feel like running amuck and breaking things.”

The newspaper man grinned appreciatively. “Not a chance, I’m afraid. I’m not advertising my presence. Anyway, I don’t think Rhoidis would have me thrown out. Nobody likes to antagonize the press, if it can be helped.”

“Who is he?” demanded Dutton curiously.

“He’s a—Wait a minute! Hold hard, Cal! I think they’re leaving.”

They were not, however. Something else was happening. Suddenly both of the young men were aware that things were not going well at the center table. Dutton turned sharply in his chair and stared.

At a single table, not far removed from that of the drinking party, sat a lone young woman. They had observed her before, wondering casually at the absence of escort, and then had thought no more about her. It was this young woman who now appeared to be the object of everybody’s regard. At the center table a small man, slick of hair and dark of complexion, had risen to his feet and was staring at the lone young woman. Obviously, he had just made a remark to her, and she was frightened.

“That’s him,” muttered Meredith ungrammatically. “That’s Rhoidis. What the devil is he up to?”

The Greek was beginning to sputter with rage. He strode toward the table of the lone young woman and, standing directly before her, poured forth a torrent of abuse. The girl was cowering in her chair. What it was all about, Dutton had no idea, for the words uttered by the violent man in spiketails were in a language he did not know.

At other tables, people were slowly rising. At the front, the manager of the restaurant was nervously wringing his hands. The lone young woman was gasping a denial. “No, no!” she was crying in bewilderment.

Then the fury of her assailant became brutal, and suddenly he had leaned forward and struck the girl sharply upon the cheek with his open hand. His hand went back for a more vigorous blow.

At this moment Dutton, blind with rage, went into action. With an incoherent bellow, he charged into the picture and, seizing the attacker from behind, spun him about so that they were face to face. Then, with a swinging right from the loins, young Mr. Dutton dropped his adversary to the floor. He dragged him upright and dropped him again, stooped once more and dragged the man upright, and suddenly went berserk. His final act was to pluck the Greek bodily from the floor and hurl him, whirling, at four husky bouncers who came up on the run.

The flying body struck them all as they coagulated for a rush, and they went down like ninepins.

“A strike!” cried Dutton jubilantly, and bowed gallantly to the lone young woman. His outraged emotions had come at last to a head. He was quite mad for the moment. “Mademoiselle,” he continued wildly, “it is my rôle to be heroic and yours to be generous. Will you marry me?”

Meredith was tugging at his coat sleeve. “You damned fool!” he was panting. “Quit it! Cut it out, Dutton! Are you crazy?”

The girl was now leaning back in her chair, laughing hysterically. The waiters, who had regained their feet, were cautiously advancing for another charge. Dutton recovered his sanity, and looked about him, smiling formidably.

“Yes,” he said, “I think we had better get out of here.”

The girl went into another fit of laughter and at length emerged. “I think so, too,” she agreed, and her glance at Dutton was a blend of admiration and dismay. “What under the sun,” she asked, “led you to interfere?”

The four waiters were still teetering, slightly hesitant. The rest of the diners, or such of them as had not escaped without paying their bills, had formed an awed and fascinated circle about the remarkable scene.

“Can you ask?” inquired Dutton, replying to the question.

“It is unsafe for you to leave with me,” said the girl.

“It is obviously unsafe for you to leave alone,” answered Dutton.

She wavered. “You are certainly very strong,” she admitted, “but strength isn’t everything.”

“Oh, come on,” pleaded Meredith. “First thing we know we’ll all be— Hello!” he cried, interrupting himself. “Where has Rhoidis got to?”

The battered Greek had vanished. Not a member of the drinking party now remained upon the scene.

“Give me my bill,” said Dutton to the manager, over the heads of the onlookers. He separated the circle of spectators with a glance, and went after his hat and stick.

Meredith was gloomy and a bit vindictive. “Great heaven, what a wild man you are!” he observed. He was thinking of the vanished Rhoidis.

They entered the quiet street and looked about them. The street lamps, at long intervals, seemed dim and mysterious. At the curb near by stood a purple taxi, and at the door of the taxi stood a solicitous driver. They looked at him with suspicion, and shook their heads. At the corner they managed to capture a less significantly fortuitous vehicle. Dutton bundled his charge in at the door, and quickly followed her. His mind was now functioning with admirable clarity.

“Where to?” asked the second driver briskly.

Dutton looked at the girl he had rescued. She seemed bewildered again; helpless. “I can’t go home,” she whispered. “They’ll be watching for me. I’m sure they know where I live. Somebody followed me last night.”

“Hm-m!” muttered young Mr. Dutton. “We’ll go to my rooms, for a starter. We can make other plans later on. Hop in, Merry!” He gave an order to the driver.

As their cab swung about, a revolver shot sounded, and a man ran out of a darkened hallway, waving his arms. A second shot went wild. The taxi driver seemed frightened; his eyes were bright with anxiety; but Meredith leaned forward and flashed his police card before the fellow’s eyes.

“They’ll be shooting at your tires next,” said the reporter. “Drive like hell!”

Caleb Dutton, leaning back in his seat, was silently laughing in the darkness.

2.

Miss Avis Birdsong shuddered.

In the relative security of Dutton’s rooms at the Chesterton Arms she experienced in retrospect the danger in which she had been placed, and from which she had been rescued. She was a tiny little thing to be mixed up in an international conspiracy, it occurred to Meredith, sitting silently in his corner. The allure of her personality, he admitted, was considerable, although she would hardly win a prize in a newspaper beauty contest.

“Charm without looks,” thought the reporter, whose idea of beauty was a perplexed and mammoth blonde.

“I haven’t told you that I am grateful,” said Miss Birdsong, with an apprehensive glance at the drawn shades. “I am.”

“For that matter,” answered Dutton, “so am I. The truth is, I was simply spoiling for a fight, and you furnished it. I’m not really a quarrelsome animal, though.”

“I realize that I owe you an explanation,” she continued.

Meredith leaned forward eagerly; but his friend shook his head. “Not at all,” replied Dutton, while the reporter glowered. “Tell us anything or nothing, as you please. I won’t deny, though, that I am interested.”

For a moment she sat silent, as if making up her mind. Then she spoke abruptly.

“That man—Emanuel Rhoidis—accused me of spying on him,” she said. “I denied it, and he struck me.” Again she hesitated. When she spoke again, it was defiantly. “Well, I was spying on him. Do you know who he is?”

“A Greek, I believe,” observed Meredith suavely. The reporter was feeling greatly relieved on one score. No mention had been made of his profession. What secrets was he about to hear?

“Yes, he is a Greek,” continued Miss Birdsong, “and a bad one. I can’t tell you everything. It isn’t my secret. But I can tell you this: Emanuel Rhoidis is a leading figure in a conspiracy of considerable size. The apparently happy party at the Armenian restaurant to-night was in reality a meeting of conspirators. It follows, of course, that I am employed by—the other side. I was chosen to spy on the meeting because of my knowledge of modern Greek. Somebody recognized me. Not Rhoidis. He had never seen me before, I am sure. But I was pointed out, and you saw what followed. The wonder is I was not assassinated before your eyes.”

Dutton stared at her in wonder.

Meredith nodded sympathetically. “You’re right, Miss Birdsong,” he said. “You have been very fortunate. I hope you heard all you needed to hear, before you were discovered?”

The long lashes of the slender young woman half veiled her eyes. She said, “Yes,” slowly. “I heard enough,” she added guardedly. Mr. Meredith was disappointed. He did not dare to question her too closely. Nonetheless, she had told him more than she suspected. He himself knew quite a bit about Emanuel Rhoidis and his conspiracy.

“The question is,” said Dutton, “what is to become of you to-night—and until you can communicate with your friends.”

“I have decided,” said Miss Birdsong, “to take a room here, at the hotel. I shall not leave until daylight —broad daylight.”

“A good idea,” agreed Dutton, relieved. He was greatly pleased with this small adventuress, and had been afraid that he was going to lose her before he wished to. “I know the management pretty well. I’ll go with you to the desk, and see that you get a safe and obscure room.”

She nodded a bright farewell to the reporter, and left the room with the possessive Dutton.

When Dutton returned, Meredith was waiting for him. “Well?” asked the reporter.

“Well what?”

“Where is she?”

Dutton’s brow clouded. “Look here, Merry,” he said, “you’re not going to bother that poor girl, I hope?”

“Not before morning, I promise you,” said Meredith. “It’s only fair, however, to let her know, then, who I am, isn’t it? She wouldn’t have spoken at all if she had known I was a reporter.”

“You know something about this Rhoidis yourself,” accused Dutton. “You went to the café looking for him to-night. What’s it all about?”

“It has to do with oil concessions in Mexico, and it isn’t on the square. There’s a new field opening up, and several nations would like to stake out that field. If the present order of things obtains, the United States will get the concession. If a revolution were to occur, and the immediate President were to be deposed, I think certain foreign interests would get the concession. Naturally, nobody has taken the newspapers into his confidence; but we know a thing or two. We’ve got a straight tip on Rhoidis. He’s working for the foreign interests. In the circumstances, I must suppose that Miss Birdsong is in the employ of the American interests.”

Dutton considered this carefully for a few moments. “You mean,” he asked, “there’s likely to be a revolution?”

“Damn’ likely,” agreed Meredith. “Financed, if you ask me, by European money—a lot of it. A big new corporation. We were tipped off that Rhoidis was the agent at this point, and I’ve been watching him, off and on, for some time.”

“Why all the Greeks?” asked Dutton curiously.

“They weren’t all Greeks to-night. Two of the men were; the others were Spaniards from Mexico. The conversation was in Spanish.”

“Hm-m!” grunted Dutton. “You think Miss Birdsong lied then?”

“Just that,” nodded the reporter. “She probably knows about as much Greek as I do. She had to give us some sort of an explanation.”

Dutton clasped and unclasped his hands nervously. “Well,” he said, at length, “if you hear anything definite about—about her connection with it—I’d be glad to know about it.”

Meredith got to his feet. “I’ve got to go,” he explained. “Keep an eye on the girl, Cal. She’s here where you can reach her, and she’s genuinely grateful to you for what you did. You can find out more than I can. I’ll call you in the morning.” He took his departure.

Young Mr. Caleb Dutton sat quite silent for another hour, smoking innumerable cigarettes. It pleased him, and vastly intrigued him, to realize that Miss Avis Birdsong was, in point of fact, in the room next door to his own. He had found that it was vacant and had insisted on her having it. He wanted to be near at hand, in case there were further developments of an exciting nature. He had not had so much fun since he had been in college.

As he tore open a new package of cigarettes an idea occurred to him. He was supposed to be looking for a job. Wasn’t there a job right here, knocking on his door? If he joined forces with Avis Birdsong he would be working, supposing Meredith to be right, for American interests and against European machination. Patriotism didn’t consist in believing that everything American capital did was right, of course. A lot of the things it did were wrong; but it was pleasant to work for one’s country.

Possibly he would ultimately have to go to Mexico, which wouldn’t be so bad. His future might be either in oil or in the Secret Service, if this thing went through. He thrilled at the idea. Well, he would have a conversation with Miss Birdsong in the morning.

He dug up a discarded alarm clock and set it for seven o’clock. She would hardly be up before that. Then he turned in and slept soundly until eleven. He had forgotten to set the alarm lever.

3.

During the process of shaving, Dutton’s eyes strayed again and again to the little note that had been shoved under his door, and whenever he looked at it he kicked himself again briskly.

Dear Mr. Dutton [the note read]: I shall always be grateful to you for your kindness. Thank you, again and again. Sincerely, Avis Birdsong.

Meredith telephoned him about noon, and listened to what his friend had to report. After a few minutes the reporter asked: “You’re not fooling me, I suppose?”

“On my honor,” said Dutton, “it’s just as I’ve said. I pulled a boner, and she’s gone.”

“You’re an idiot!” observed Meredith rudely, and hung up the receiver, just too late to hear Dutton’s opinion of Harold Meredith.

However, Meredith was right. He was an idiot. He knew it. But he would find Avis Birdsong again, or know the reason why. He finished his shaving, picked up his heaviest stick, and descended to a hurried meal, which was a combination of breakfast and luncheon. Thus fortified, he climbed into a taxicab and started for the Street of Idols.

The little thoroughfare looked particularly mean and dirty in the light of day. The shops, however, were now widely open, and he loitered aimlessly for the entire length of the street, which was not great, looking in at doors and windows. There were the queerest things for sale. As before, the numberless gods and idols interested him deeply. Some of them were little incense braziers, some were candlesticks, and some were just gods and idols. They were one and all fascinatingly hideous. Susan, he reflected, would have liked to fill her apartment with them. She was that kind of a girl. But he had almost forgotten Susan, and with her, Isabel, Marian, and Grace.

He entered the Armenian restaurant at last, and was surprised at its daylight ugliness. The place was quite deserted. It throve, apparently, on its night life.

The oily manager recognized him at once, and came forward with reluctance. Dutton smiled inwardly.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “I kicked up a fuss here last night. I’m sorry. I’m willing to pay for anything I broke.”

The manager was amazed. He smiled and spread out his hands. But it was nothing, he said: nothing at all. Many gentlemen, who had been drinking a little— ha, ha!—were inclined to be playful. And the Greek gentleman had been very rude. He—the manager— did not like to see ladies struck by gentlemen in his restaurant. It was bad for trade. No, no, there was nothing to pay.

Dutton leaned idly against the cigar case. “That Greek gentleman,” he said, “do you know him?”

The manager had never seen him before in his life. No, nor the young lady who had been insulted, either. They were strangers—quite, quite strangers.

Dutton was discouraged. However, the oily manager was probably a liar. The thing to do, he supposed, was to come back at night—every night—until he found her. He realized that it was a long chance. The odds were against a return on the part of any of that company. But where else could he look?

He nodded and strolled out of the shop. When he had walked a few hundred feet he looked back and noted that the restaurant manager was standing in front of the restaurant watching him. He stopped and for a time looked in at the window of the nearest bazaar. It happened to be the place he had spied upon the night before. Shelves and shelves of gods and idols! Weren’t they the damnedest things! Still, he supposed people must buy them. Why was that idiot of a manager watching him?

The proprietor of the curio shop came to his door and looked out. He beamed brightly upon Dutton. “Somet’ing for you, to-day, shenelman?” he asked.

Dutton was amused. This fellow was a hell of an Oriental! His appearance was as betraying as his speech.

“How much are these things?” asked Dutton curiously.

“All prices, my dear sir. From a dollar and a quarter up. Id is a large stock, the finest in Chicago. I am glad to have you loog around.”

“Got any cigarettes?”

“Cigarettes? The best in the world, my dear sir. Egyptian, Turkish, Greek—”

“Greek?”

“Imported from Athens, my dear sir.”

“All right,” said Dutton suddenly, “let’s have some.” He entered the shop, followed by the pseudo-Moham-medan, and purchased a package of slim cylinders at an extravagant sum per package. He lighted one, and realized that they were highly scented and obnoxious. Half a mile would be far enough to walk for one of them, he reflected; too far. Idly, he began to inspect the horrible yet fascinating gods.

“You haven’t got an Egyptian mummy, I suppose?” he asked facetiously.

The proprietor spread his fat hands and laughed heartily.

But there were very big gods and idols, he explained; almost as big as a mummy. Would the shenelman like to see them? It occurred to Dutton that it might be amusing, and he said so.

“Then, this way, if you please, sir.”

He passed behind the counter and through a door in the rear of the shop, to find himself in a back room similarly stocked with gargoyles. It had somewhat the appearance, at a glance, of Bluebeard’s forbidden chamber, so many were the life-size, grinning masks hanging upon the walls. Still another room lay to one side, and this he finally entered.

It appeared to be a sort of stock room, and the shopman had been right about the tall gods. They were very tall indeed, and very fat, and altogether very abominable. There were also suits of Chinese and Japanese armor standing about in queer corners, and on wide shelves bales of Eastern silks and satins. It was a miniature museum. Really, all that it lacked was a mummy or two, thought Dutton.

He poked about idly, but with a certain interest. It was obvious that this amiable Jew thought he had captured a possible purchaser of consequence. Dutton began to wonder how he could get out without destroying the flattering delusion, and yet without spending much money.

The proprietor fluttered at his heels like an ungainly butterfly, passing into ecstasies about everything that he displayed. He opened a small door, covered with green baize, and motioned for his victim to enter.

“Id is my private ovvice,” he explained, “where I sometimes sit and smoke. Be good enough to sit down, my dear sir, and led me show you a rare Persian manuscript that I have recently acquired.”

A bare little spot, reflected Dutton, seating himself before a small flat desk. The chair was, however, wide and comfortable, and curious Japanese prints were upon the walls. There was no window; the room was lighted by a small electric lamp, which stood upon the desk.

The proprietor disappeared, closing the door behind him. Then, quite clearly, young Mr. Dutton heard a lock snap into place with a portentous sound that suggested its formidable size.

“Hey!” he called. It was the first thing that leaped to his lips. But it was ridiculous to suppose—!

He got quickly to his feet and tried the door. It was securely fastened, and under the cloth covering he felt the unyielding resistance of heavy metal.

There were times when Dutton went to pieces in a rage, and there were other times when he was calm, and, as the story books say, collected. On this occasion he sat down quietly in the chair he had just vacated and for some moments thought things over. He had been a fool, of course; he realized that thoroughly and completely; but he was not going to be a bigger fool than already he had been. It was possible—remotely possible—that the man would come back. If not, beating upon the door would not help his case. Probably that was what the fellow expected. Mr. Dutton experienced a sinking sensation, nonetheless.

The question was—why? Why had he been made a prisoner? Had he, also, been taken for a spy? Had Rhoidis—wild as the idea seemed—anything to do with this latest outrage? It was the only plausible solution.

Dutton lighted one of his infernal Greek cigarettes and thought deeply. After a time he smiled. There was one satisfying feature about the whole affair; just one. He was on the right side! He was on the side of Avis Birdsong, and definitely against the swarthy Rhoidis.

Oil in Mexico! Greeks and Spaniards in an Armenian restaurant! Gods and idols—and he, Caleb Dutton —in a Jewish bazaar in a nameless Chicago alley! Well, the thing had an international flavor.

He looked at his watch, and figured that he had been a prisoner now for about twenty minutes. As he put the watch back into his pocket he noticed something that caused his eyes to open and his jaw to drop.

In a corner, on a little mahogany stand, stood a telephone !

Dutton eyed the instrument with incredulity. It seemed impossible that it should be there, yet there it was. What conceivable negligence had led his captor to imprison him in a room with a telephone? But it was too good to be true. Undoubtedly the thing was out of order, or was the merest dummy.

Quietly he leaned forward and plucked the instrument from the table top. He lifted the receiver and waited. The unbelievable happened. An operator, somewhere in the heart of the city, was saying “Number, please?”

Fortunately, it was on the tip of his tongue. Without further ado, he gave the number of Meredith’s paper. The operator began to ring, and at the same moment Dutton’s ear, glued to the receiver, heard a minute sound that was intermediate, somehow, to the performance going forward between himself and the operator. His brain functioned quickly, and he smiled.

Somebody was listening in on the wire. Undoubtedly, the proprietor of the bazaar. The fellow had expected this. Indeed, he had planned it. The prisoner was to be a prisoner only until he had telephoned, and his captor had heard what was said. It was information that was wanted.

In a moment Dutton was talking with Meredith’s superior—the city editor of the Morning Telegraph. Meredith, it developed, was not in. Meredith’s friend hurriedly explained.

“You don’t know me, Mr. Blake,” he said. “My name’s Dutton, and I’m a friend of Merry’s. For some reason that I can’t understand, I’ve been made a prisoner by the proprietor of a shop where I went to buy cigarettes. It’s crazy, isn’t it; but it’s true. I must have been mistaken for somebody else.”

He quickly gave the location of the shop, fearful that at any minute the connection somehow would be broken. But there was no interruption, and he finished his message.

“See what you can do to get me out, will you?” he asked. “And if Merry comes in, tell him about it. Tell him I want to see him. But I’m hanged if I know what it’s all about.”

The editor of the Morning Telegraph was amazed, but he readily promised to rescue Mr. Meredith’s friend from his prison. He agreed with Mr. Dutton that probably it was a mistake of some sort. “Sit tight,” he said, “and I’ll send a couple of men over to see what it means.”

“Thanks,” said Dutton, and hung up his receiver. Then immediately he lifted it, and was in time to hear his captor, in the front room, hang up. He smiled grimly. In a moment now, he fancied, he would be free.

He was partly right.

Hurried footsteps sounded beyond the barrier, and the door swung open. The frantic curio dealer stood in the door, apologizing profusely.

“My dear sir,” he moaned. “My dear, dear sir! Gan you ever forgive me? It was the most unhappy agcident. I went for the manuscript, as I told you, and never thought about this dreadful door. Sometimes it gloses itself, and then it locks with a spring that gannot be opened from inside. A gustomer had come in, and kept me in the shop. My dear sir, what gan I say to you?”

“There is nothing you can say,” responded Dutton coolly. “Is that the manuscript you have in your hand? Well, rub it in your hair!”

He tweaked the protuberant nose of the dealer savagely, and strode through the intervening rooms to the front of the shop. “There will be some friends of mine along here soon,” he observed, “and I’m going to wait for them. If I were you, I’d clear out.”

“An agcident, my dear sir! Entirely an agcident,” cried the curio dealer. “Gan you ever forgive me?”

Dutton’s answer was to walk through the door and take up his position on the doorstep. He leaned idly against the door frame, ignoring the other’s protestations. Occasionally he glanced at his watch. When twenty minutes had passed he began to grow uneasy. Blake was certainly taking his time about things.

Then something happened that left him staring.

A taxicab came nosing down the street on the other side, and through its windows he saw the occupants— a man and a woman. The woman was talking to the man, and her head was at the moment averted; but Dutton knew her at a glance. She was Avis Birdsong. He started forward, then hesitated. Then he put his head in at the door of the shop.

“Look here,” he snarled, “I can’t wait here forever. When my friends come, tell them it was a mistake, and that I’m gone away. Tell them the story you told me. Understand?”

He turned again quickly, and as quickly drew back. The taxicab was nearing the next corner to the south, drawing away from him; but a small man had just emerged from a neighboring doorway and was approaching him with an evil smile.

It was Rhoidis, and immediately behind him, Dutton observed, were two thoroughly tough and sinister-looking foreigners.

4.

The taxicab that had been cruising slowly southward in the Street of Idols stopped at length before a dingy little shop, upon the window of which appeared only two words: Baltazar, Importer. The two occupants left the cab and advanced to the door, while the taxi waited at the curb.

The hard-faced, lean young man turned to the girl beside him. “As I say, Miss Birdsong,” he remarked, “I hardly think that this is the hour for an expedition of this kind; but conceivably you are right. If your information is correct, you are certainly right. However, Baltazar may have some news for us.”

He opened the door and walked in, the girl at his heels, and a small man who had risen from his stool at the sound of their voices came forward to greet them. Avis Birdsong looked about her with interest; but there was little that was attractive about the shop. The shelves were well filled with boxes of foreign aspect and with bales of colored cloths; but they all looked old and dusty—as if they had stood upon those shelves for years. It occurred to her quick intelligence that they had been there for years; that they never were moved. This man, Baltazar, was undoubtedly merely an agent operating a “blind.” Why else should Lonsdale come to him for information?

The two men were looking steadily at each other. The swart little man called Baltazar was nodding his head slowly. After an instant he stepped forward and turned the key in the lock of his door. His bright, birdlike eyes were dancing.

“Yes,” he said, “he’s not far away. How did you know? I was just about to telephone to you.”

Lonsdale jerked his head toward his companion. “Miss Birdsong seemed to know all about it,” he answered dryly. “I came at her suggestion.”

The face of the little old man crinkled into a smile. “I have heard of Miss Birdsong.” He nodded brightly. “You were in difficulties last night, young lady, I think!”

Lonsdale was surprised. “I hadn’t heard about that.”

“No,” said Avis Birdsong, “I didn’t mention it. Fortunately, I was not in difficulty for long.” She blushed slightly. “How did you know?” she asked.

Baltazar, Importer, smiled again. “There is little that happens in the street that I do not hear,” he answered. “It is my business.”

“Well,” cried Lonsdale impatiently, “what about Rhoidis?”

“He was around about an hour ago. I saw him for a moment as I walked up the street. Last night he was with a party at the restaurant called Cairo. It was there, I suppose, Miss Birdsong saw him also. There was some trouble, and I did not think he would come back so quickly. No doubt he feels safer in daylight. It is curious.”

Lonsdale nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “We seem always to make our raids at night, don’t we? It’s almost a tradition of the Service. During the day, I suppose these fellows come and go, lost in the throngs of the city. Where is Rhoidis now?”

Baltazar shrugged. “I know where he should be, if he is at home. You know the shop of Volland?”

“He’s the fellow that sells Buddhas, isn’t he?”

“We all sell Buddhas,” smiled Baltazar. “Yes, he sells more than most of us.”

“I know his place.”

“Rhoidis is up a stairway, two houses removed. At the back. He has a room. This information only came to me last night.”

For a moment Lonsdale seemed worried. “Of course, he’s the fellow we want,” he muttered, “but actually we haven’t a thing on him, as yet. Still, if your information is correct, Miss Birdsong …?” He finished with a shrug. Suddenly, with determination, he added: “Well, I’m going after him.”

“Two doors to the south, and up a flight of stairs,” said Baltazar. “A room at the back of the house.”

“And nothing in the room, probably,” growled Lonsdale.

He wheeled to the door. “I say, Miss Birdsong,” he hesitated. “This may be dangerous, you know. No telling what the fellow will do. Hadn’t you better—ah —sit in the taxi?”

“No,” said the girl. “I’m your trump card. He suspects that I heard him last night. The sight of me ought to shake him a bit.”

“I don’t like it,” Lonsdale murmured, shaking his head. “Come on then.”

He closed the door behind them, and in a moment they were inside the cab again. It proceeded southward for a few feet, turned, and began to nose its way back to the northward on the other side of the street. Lonsdale lighted a cigarette. As he tossed the match from the window he gave a quick signal to two men who stood idly on the sidewalk, and, just as idly as they had stood, they began to stroll after the slowly cruising taxi.

“Morgan and Smith are behind us,” he said, turning to the girl beside him. “I told them approximately where to meet us.”

They approached the scene of Dutton’s adventure with the Greek conspirator and rolled slowly past. In a moment they were approaching the curio shop of the man called Volland. Outside the shop were a number of curious loiterers. They were looking in at the door, which stood partly open.

“Wonder what’s going on there,” said Lonsdale curiously. “That’s our doorway, though—two houses away. Villainous-looking place, isn’t it?”

The cab stopped on his signal, and they climbed out, crossing the sidewalk quickly to the doorway indicated. From the partly open door of Volland’s Buddha shop sounded voices in altercation. Lonsdale hesitated. He had nothing against Volland, who, as far as he knew, was a straight enough citizen engaged in a profitable business.

“Just the same,” he muttered, speaking his thoughts aloud, “I’m going to see what’s up.”

He signaled again to the men behind him, and walked quickly toward the door of the curio shop. The two agents took up their positions, as idly as ever, outside the doorway he had vacated.

For an instant, Lonsdale had forgotten Miss Birdsong. She was at his heels as he strode forward. The voices inside became louder. The loiterers outside were broadly grinning. Apparently it was a choice entertainment that was going forward.

Suddenly the door was thrown widely open, with such force that it banged against the window frame outside. A furious voice that struck through the heart of Avis Birdsong like a touch of steel was heard within.

“Out you go, all of you!” it said harshly. “You cheap vaudeville knife throwers! You haven’t got a girl to fight this time, you lousy, flea-bitten movie villains!” Or words to that effect.

There was the sound of a blow, and somebody fell against the other door. Then a struggle ensued, and something that tinkled fell to the wooden floor. The doorway darkened for a fleeting instant, and a human body emanated as if hurled from a catapult. It passed Lonsdale, a whirling huddle of legs and arms, and, caroming off one of the spectators, fell to the sidewalk in a sputtering heap.

Almost instantly a second body followed, falling more heavily. The second man, however, regained his feet quickly, and, snatching a knife from beneath his coat, charged back to the door. He was intercepted by Lonsdale, who again threw him heavily and kicked the knife from his hand.

“What’s going on here?” roared the newcomer savagely. He glared about him, but there was no answer to his pertinent and natural question. There was that about Lonsdale that discouraged reply.

He dropped a hand into his side pocket, and clutching the butt of his pistol, strode through the doorway and into the shop. With a little gasp, Avis Birdsong leaped forward and slid in behind him.

They looked at a surprising spectacle.

A tall young man, with a very red face, was in the act of plucking a third human projectile from the floor. As they came through the door the victim’s feet left the boards reluctantly. Swearing hideously, he went slowly up above the head of the tall young man.

“You’re next,” said the young man grimly, to the cowering proprietor of the Buddha shop. “Get your flying clothes on.” He was puffing only slightly.

A short laugh escaped the lips of the government man. “Just a minute,” he drawled. “Do you mind telling me what it’s all about?”

“It’s Mr. Dutton,” breathed Avis Birdsong, and at the same instant the eyes of young Mr. Dutton looked into those of Avis Birdsong.

For an instant he wavered, still holding the squirming body of his third victim above his head. Then he tossed his burden at the head of the Buddha merchant, and two bodies crashed behind the counter.

“Good God!” said Caleb Dutton. “What are you doing here? Wasn’t once enough?”

He came toward her, and Lonsdale stepped quickly between them. Miss Birdsong uttered a faint scream.

“Oh, don’t!” she cried. “He’s—he’s Mr. Dutton! He’s all right, Mr. Lonsdale! I know him.”

Lonsdale’s arms dropped to his side. His forehead puckered. His eyes became almost pathetic. “Do you mind telling me just what is going on, one of you?”

Miss Birdsong looked quickly to one side. A pair of blazing eyes were regarding the scene from behind the counter. Only the eyes and the top of the head were visible. She gasped and caught at Lonsdale’s arm.

“It’s Rhoidis,” she breathed. “Quick! He’s here!”

The two men turned together, but Dutton was quicker than the government agent. He dived head foremost at the counter, and reaching down behind it, pulled the squirming Greek into the center of the floor.

“You mean, you want this fellow?” he asked.

Lonsdale turned and shut the door on the gathering crowd. Then he passed a hand across his puzzled brow.

“If you don’t mind,” he murmured, almost apologetically, “I think I do.”

Outside there was a grating of wheels against the curbstone, and hurried feet on the sidewalk. Then a thunderous knock sounded on the door. The handle was turned, and three young men burst into the shop, breathless and staring.

“What’s the matter here?” demanded the foremost belligerently. “What sort of monkey shines are you —” He broke off suddenly as his eyes fell upon Dutton and Avis Birdsong. His jaw dropped.

“Oh—you’re all right then!” said Mr. Meredith of the Morning Telegraph, a bit faintly.

5.

The Evening Cry, on the following afternoon, told the public all about it. In a long and briskly written story, signed at the top by Avis Birdsong, it was made known that an important dope ring had been revealed through the activities of the Cry’s special investigator, and that its leader, Emanuel Rhoidis, was under arrest with three of his lieutenants.

Miss Birdsong’s part in the episode was told modestly, with full credit to young Mr. Caleb Dutton and to Frederic Lonsdale of the government forces. But nobody was left in doubt as to the actual discoverer of the ring and its activities. Miss Birdsong, a newcomer to the staff of the Cry, while on a minor assignment, had stumbled onto a foreign restaurant in the Street of Idols, and had, by her knowledge of Spanish, learned of the devious ways by which narcotics were being brought to the city from Mexico.

She had persevered in her investigation, after warning the government, and after a series of thrilling adventures had been present at the arrest of Emanuel Rhoidis, a Greek, two Mexican dope runners, and a certain Abraham Volland, in whose extraordinary curio shop was secreted the forbidden commodity.

A large stock of the narcotics had been turned up in a raid on Mr. Volland’s place, largely as a result of the temporary incarceration there of Mr. Dutton and the timely arrival of Miss Birdsong and Mr. Lonsdale.

It was a thrilling recital, as set forth by the Cry’s young woman reporter, and it was explained that the illegal business had gone forward under cover of shrewd oil propaganda that had deceived a number of investigators—poor Harold Meredith was not, of course, mentioned—into a belief that an “oil revolution” was impending in the Southern republic. Only Miss Birdsong’s intelligence, quick wit, courage, and knowledge of Spanish had been able to penetrate the smoke screen, one gathered between the lines; and the Evening Cry —editorially—was very proud of its young investigator and so was the United States government.

Cheers, congratulations, and exclamation points!

Reading it, young Mr. Dutton blushed hotly and wondered what Uncle Adrian would think. Well, he would send Uncle Adrian a copy of the paper, and let him think what he damn pleased!

There was something else, however, that he was expected to tell Uncle Adrian. He had explained only part of his difficulty to Avis Birdsong.

He turned upon her abruptly.

“Say,” he inquired, “do you suppose I could get a job on a newspaper?”

“I know you could,” answered Miss Birdsong. “Our editor said he would hire you to-morrow.”

“The deuce he did! Hm-m!” After a moment he said: “Do you remember the first question I ever asked you?”

“You asked me what my name was, and when I told you, you didn’t believe me.”

Dutton smiled. “It did sound a bit theatrical,” he admitted. “But it’s no worse than Caleb. That wasn’t the question, though. There was another—in the restaurant—right after I’d tossed Rhoidis among the wine glasses.”

Miss Birdsong jerked suddenly. Her face became a shade warmer. “I remember,” she said frankly. “I was frightened to death.”

“You didn’t look it,” Dutton demurred. “You laughed, I think. You didn’t answer the question.”

“No,” she agreed.

“Is that the answer?”

Miss Birdsong deliberately rose to her feet and crossed the room, to stand behind a nest of chairs, thereby making herself difficult of access.

“No,” she said.

A Volume of Poe

1.

Emerging from a small restaurant shortly after nine o’clock of an autumn evening—for it was his practice to dine later than a majority of his fellow citizens— Allardyce turned northward in Chicago’s Broadway for two blocks, then bent his head beneath an awning, still unreefed, and entered the antique shop of his friend De Gollyer.

Over the door and on the window of De Gollyer’s shop, in addition to the proprietor’s remarkable name, were the words, in large capitals, OLD THINGS. In consequence of this, Allardyce had bestowed a similar appellation upon his friend by the simple expedient of dropping an s.

“Well, Old Thing,” he observed briskly and as usual, when the bell above the door had tinkled twice (once when it opened and once when it closed), “how are—?”

He was about to ask foolishly and as usual, “How are things?” but interrupted himself as he discovered that De Gollyer had a customer. The relative dimness of Old Thing’s bazaar made it difficult at times to be certain that De Gollyer was alone. The antique dealer was not fond of glaring lights; he said they hurt his eyes. A single light, well to the rear of the establishment, was all that he permitted himself. It illumined brilliantly one side of a cabinet of majolica horrors and about half a section of disreputable books, leaving the rest of the shop in an interesting and rather fantastic twilight that became dimmer as it approached the surrounding walls, except at the front, where the lights of the street outside helped the casual purchaser to enter without breaking his neck.

Allardyce, interrupting the jovial greeting, said, “Oh, I beg pardon!”—noting as he did so that De Gollyer’s customer was a woman. A young woman, he assumed from her figure and carriage.

He removed his hat, hung it upon the head of a plaster Arab with striking effect, lighted a cigarette, and listened to what was going forward at the back of the shop. The hat was much too large for the Bedouin, who was merely a bust intended to horrify cultured visitors in middle-class drawing rooms.

“I’m sorry,” the young woman was saying. “I have been told that it is worth at least a hundred dollars. I had hoped to get that for it.”

Allardyce smiled a sympathetic smile. Apparently he had arrived at a critical moment. There was an odd coincidence in the situation. He had been hoping to get a hundred dollars himself for some days past; but a reluctant parent in the East was holding out on him. What under the canopy, though, was worth a hundred dollars to an antique dealer in upper Broadway? He heard the bass rumble of De Gollyer replying:

“I’m sorry, too, but upon my honor, if I had a hundred dollars to spare I’d shut up the shop and take a holiday.”

Which was perfectly true, as Allardyce happened to know. De Gollyer paid his rent each month with old-fashioned punctiliousness, then began to save all over again for that long-deferred vacation.

“It may be worth a hundred,” continued the dealer. “I’m not denying it. But I can’t purchase at that sum, nor half that sum. Look here—I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Leave it with me, if you care to, and I’ll try to interest someone in it. I have one or two customers who might care for it. Are you in a hurry to sell it?”

“I’m afraid I am.” There was something between a laugh and a sob in the young woman’s reply.

Somebody else, thought Allardyce, who needed a hundred dollars. Well, that made three of them—himself, De Gollyer, and the young woman with something to sell. Birds of a feather! He squinted back at her, trying to make out her features in the half darkness, but they were turned from him. De Gollyer’s aquiline beak and high white forehead were all that was notably in evidence.

The antique dealer was answering. “Well,” he was saying, “you’d better take it to one of the larger dealers down town to-morrow. I don’t suppose you have to have the hundred to-night. Try Bancroft. He’s a good man, and he’ll treat you fairly. Here, I’ll give you his card.”

So it was a book, thought Allardyce. A bit shabby of De Gollyer not to have called him into the conference. Books were his own hobby, and he knew something about them, too. But then De Gollyer, after all, knew very well that his friend Allardyce was not carrying a hundred dollars about in his vest pocket.

The fact was, De Gollyer had forgotten that his friend had entered the shop. Suddenly he remembered him. “Oh, I say,” he went on hurriedly, “here’s the very man. He can tell us what it’s worth, anyway. Mr. Allardyce is a collector and an expert.”

The collector and expert moved eagerly toward the light. He nodded his acknowledgment of the handsome introduction, then received the book from its owner’s hand.

A pair of worried blue eyes looked into his own.

“I’ve been told,” repeated the girl apologetically, “that it’s worth a hundred dollars.”

By George, she was lovely! If his own hundred had only arrived that morning he would have been tempted to purchase the book without looking at it. He felt her blush under his admiring scrutiny, and so he dropped his eyes to the volume.

“Yes,” he agreed, after an instant, “there is no doubt of that. I should say it was worth several hundred dollars. Nothing extravagant, you know—but it’s a rare book and its condition is very good.”

It was a slender volume of poems by one Edgar Allan Poe, of the edition known to collectors as the third.

“It was my great-aunt’s,” she explained. “She took very good care of her books.”

“Had it been a first edition, now, instead of a third,” continued Allardyce with a smile, “it would have been worth several thousands.”

“Good gracious!” said the owner of the volume. “You are sure it isn’t a first?”

“Quite sure. There are less than a dozen firsts in existence.” He hesitated. “I think Mr. de Gollyer’s advice is good, Miss—?” Again he hesitated, but she did not supply the name he had hoped to hear. “Yes, I think you had better take it to Bancroft, or leave it with Mr. de Gollyer to sell for you.”

“I would give you a receipt for it, of course,” added the shopkeeper.

After a moment she made up her mind. “Thank you,” she answered. “I’ll think it over to-night, and perhaps I shall bring it in again to-morrow.”

She held out her hand for the book, nodded brightly to them both, and allowed the antique dealer to conduct her to the door. He was certain, he told her, that she would fall over a sofa or something if she attempted the dangerous passage without a guide.

Then again the doorbell tinkled. Allardyce, looking after her, saw her turn southward in Broadway and vanish beyond the line of the window. De Gollyer, standing for a moment at his shop door, saw her cross the street at the nearest intersection and walk eastward in the intersecting avenue. Others, no doubt, saw her, thereafter, without knowledge of what she carried, but with no less interest in her appearance. She was, as Allardyce had decided, a beautiful young woman.

For nearly an hour, then, the two men, so far apart in years, sat and talked in the semi-darkness of the establishment, and wondered why so attractive and respectable a young woman should suddenly require a hundred dollars.

“Do you know,” said Allardyce at last, “I almost wish I had followed her. She may never return.”

De Gollyer laughed in his beard. “It’s this weird array of bottles and brasses and things,” he observed. “These gargoyles and griffins, so to speak. They make romance out of sordid reality—particularly at night. I often feel that way myself. But really, you know, she was only a pretty girl in need of a hundred dollars. The city is full of them, I imagine.”

“They don’t all own copies of the 1831 Poe,” retorted Allardyce, rising to depart. “Well, I’ll see you in the morning, Old Thing. I’m curious to know whether she comes back.”

It was to be some days before he was to find out, however, for in the morning he pushed past a morbid throng outside the door of Old Thing’s shop, to stare in horror at the murdered body of Old Thing on the floor inside, surrounded by tradesmen, broken china, and detectives.

2.

Young Mr. Woolfolk (of the Evening Globe) alighted from his taxicab, paid off his driver, and pushed his way through the same throng, approximately twenty minutes later. Messrs. Slater and Considine (of the North Halsted Street police station) regarded him with tolerant dismay. They looked at each other and said, “Well, here’s Woolfolk!” After which they looked at Allardyce seated in Old Thing’s chair, a bit doubtfully, as if debating the advisability of ordering him under cover. He was their only clue and they were not inclined to share him.

It was Woolfolk’s habit to appear upon the scene of a police activity only a few minutes after the police themselves. Nobody was certain how he did it; that is, how he discovered what was going on. It was assumed that he was more than a little friendly with someone at headquarters. He was an energetic and sometimes discomfiting newspaperman, and he had another habit that worried the police even more than his extraordinary timeliness: he had a habit of picking up valuable clues that the detectives in charge had overlooked. This, of course, in a reporter, is unforgivable.

The body of Old Thing had been removed from the floor and now lay upon an ancient settee that had been one of the antiques offered for sale in his shop. Young Mr. Woolfolk approached the settee and looked down upon the body.

“Well, well!” he observed. And after a moment he added: “Well, well, well!” He turned to Messrs. Slater and Considine. “What’s been going on here?”

The latter shrugged. “It’s evident, isn’t it? His name’s De Gollyer. This was his shop. He was found this way, this morning, by the neighbors.”

“This way?”

“Dead, anyway. Murdered, I guess. There was a knife in his heart. He was on the floor, to begin with. The first men in here foolishly moved the body to this couch.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Woolfolk. “The neighbors looked in through the glass and saw him lying there, eh? Who found him, Considine?”

“The man next door,” said Considine. “His name is Haines. He is a real-estate dealer.”

“Realtor,” corrected Woolfolk. “Robbery?” he asked after a moment.

“We don’t know.” It was Slater who answered. “The front door was open. Anybody could have walked in.”

“Open!”

“Well, unlocked. Apparently he’d never locked up.

It must have happened some time late last night.”

“Hm-m,” commented the reporter. “No telling what might have been in a place like this.” He glanced about him as he spoke. “It looks like a junk pile, but you never can tell. Where’s the knife, Slater?”

“It’s—ah—still in Mr. de Gollyer; but we’ve covered it up. We’re waiting for the coroner.”

“I see! Well, I’ll wait, too.” The newspaperman sidled up more closely to the two detectives. He lowered his voice. “Who’s the pale young man in the rear?”

Considine hesitated, but Slater merely shrugged, then answered the question. Woolfolk would find out sooner or later, anyway, all that they knew. By telling him, they would be saving themselves a lot of questions. Also, when fairly treated, the reporter was sometimes inclined to play fair in return. He might turn up something of importance himself; something that the police could use.

“Charles Allardyce,” replied the detective. “Friend of the dead man. He just happened to drop in. Knows nothing about the murder.”

“So he says, eh? Are you sure?”

“Well, I’m sure enough. He seems honest and his story seems straight. Naturally, we’re holding him for a while. He’s perfectly willing to stay.”

“May I question him?”

“You can’t bulldoze him, if that’s what you mean. But if he wants to answer your questions, it’s all right with me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He was here with De Gollyer last night, until the old man closed the shop. He didn’t actually see him lock up; but De Gollyer was getting ready to close when Allardyce left.”

“Nobody else was in the shop?”

“He says not. Never a great many customers, he says. The old man was in good spirits, and he knew Allardyce was going to drop in this morning. No chance of it’s being suicide apparently.”

“Did De Gollyer have anything of value in the shop?”

“I asked him that. He says he doesn’t think so. It’s mostly old junk, as you say. Nothing in the place worth over ten dollars probably. You can see for yourself.”

“Yeh,” said Woolfolk, “but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s in places like this that you find the missing crown jewels and that sort of thing.”

He directed his footsteps to the rear of the shop and sat down in a chair facing the shocked and bewildered Allardyce, who looked up with a faint smile.

“You’re Mr. Allardyce,” began the reporter. “My name is Woolfolk. Globe reporter. The police don’t mind my talking to you, if you don’t mind talking. May I ask you a few questions?”

The other hesitated. Then his shoulders moved slightly. “If you like,” answered Allardyce. “I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you. I told the detectives everything I know.”

“I’d like to get it all in your own words,” explained the reporter. “You were with Mr. de Gollyer last night, and left just before he closed, you said. Now what time would that be, Mr. Allardyce?”

“I came in a little after nine, and I stayed until about ten, I suppose; maybe ten-fifteen. It must have been ten-fifteen or thereabouts. I walked around afterward, for about half an hour, then went home; and I got home about eleven, I know.”

“There wasn’t anybody else in the shop in all that time?”

“While I was with him there wasn’t anybody—no! Unless somebody was hiding somewhere.”

But Allardyce had hesitated slightly before answering, and, infinitesimal as had been the hesitation, the shrewd reporter had noted it. The police had asked the same question and the repetition had bothered Allardyce, who had answered the inquiry of the detectives with a prompt negative.

“You’re sure of that, are you?”

“Quite sure.”

Why under the sun, Allardyce wondered, hadn’t he told the police at once about that girl who needed a hundred dollars? It was too late now. He must stand by his story to the end. An obscure emotion had decided him to conceal the fact of the girl’s visit: an emotion born of a certain chivalry and of a conviction that she could have had nothing to do with the murder of his friend. She was not at all that sort of a person.

But the police, who had not seen her, would, he knew, take no such view of the situation. There would be trouble for her if he betrayed her and she was found.

He realized, too, that he would be in a troublesome position himself if she were to be discovered. It would then be known that he had lied, and to conceal a stranger. Or would it be believed that they were strangers? Good Lord, what a mess it might be! Possibly, even, the girl herself would come forward, once the story of the murder had been made public.

Well, it was too late now to change his tune.

Woolfolk was eyeing him curiously. “What did you and Mr. de Gollyer talk about?” asked the journalist suddenly.

Allardyce considered. He could hardly answer that question, either.

“A great many things, I imagine,” he replied, at length. “Books, for one thing. There was certainly nothing said to suggest that Mr. de Gollyer was anticipating—this—if that is what you mean.”

“I’ll ask you the question now that is in all the detective novels,” grinned Woolfolk. “Did he have any enemies?”

“None that I ever heard of. He may have had. I suppose everybody does. He never mentioned any to me. He didn’t have a great many friends either. I suppose I was his closest friend—and we just struck up an acquaintance because I liked to drop in here. He was a rather lonely old man.”

The reporter nodded, a gleam in his eye. “Yes,” he said, “that’s it—that’s the mysterious part of it, Mr. Allardyce. Why should anybody want to murder a lonely, friendless old man? Unless—he had something valuable in the shop, and somebody knew it!” He leaned forward and gazed significantly into Allardyce’s eyes. “Eh?”

But Allardyce only smiled. “That’s absurd,” he answered. “I don’t pretend to be an expert; but he was— and I know he didn’t have anything of the slightest value. If he had, he’d have sold it. He was generally a bit hard up.”

“Maybe he had something valuable and didn’t know it,” persisted Woolfolk; but Allardyce again shook his head.

After a few more questions the newspaper man stood up. “Well, many thanks,” he said. “Sorry to have had to bother you.”

But he was not sorry. With the peculiar prescience of good reporters, he had had what he would have called a “hunch.” He was entirely certain that Charles Allardyce was concealing some vital information. That one moment of hesitation had given him the idea, and it was enough. He was not prepared to believe that Allardyce himself had committed the murder—although it would not have shocked him to learn that such was the case—but that Allardyce suspected the identity of the murderer was, at the very least, a plausible notion that he intended to hold. If the police did not already suspect Allardyce, that was their own lookout. It was not Dane Woolfolk’s intention—just yet, at any rate—to put the idea into their heads.

He returned to the detectives, asked innumerable leading questions, few of which could be answered, and at length subsided until the arrival of the coroner’s assistants.

The examination of the body was brief. Suicide, thought the young doctor who made the investigation, was a possibility, but an unlikely one. There was every appearance of murder. The knife was obviously one that had been handy; it was the sort of thing that would be found in an antique shop. There had been a quarrel, possibly, and the knife—on a table near by—had been snatched up and used with fatal effect. The young doctor was somewhat of a criminologist, and the two detectives—all that remained of the original half dozen that had taken possession of the shop—listened carefully.

“Did you ever see that knife around here, Mr. Allardyce?” asked Slater suddenly.

“No, I didn’t.” Allardyce was certain that he had not.

“Well, I suppose it might have been here, just the same,” mused the detective. “I suppose you don’t know everything the old man had around the place.”

Allardyce did not agree with him. He thought he knew Old Thing’s stock almost as well as had Old Thing himself. However, he said no more than was necessary.

There was some further questioning of the several tradesmen who had first entered the place, and at length the body was removed in a patrol wagon. A uniformed policeman was left in charge of the premises, and shortly thereafter Messrs. Slater and Considine also went away, accompanied by Allardyce. Woolfolk had left some time before, to hurry to a telephone.

On the sidewalk Allardyce asked: “What do you want me to do, Sergeant? Mind my own business?”

The detective grinned. “That’s always a good idea. I suppose you can go home. We know who you are and where to reach you. You’ll be wanted at the inquest, if for nothing else. I guess you won’t run away.”

“I certainly won’t. There’s nothing to run from.”

“Well, if you get any ideas about this thing, let me hear them.”

Looking very much like exactly what they were, Messrs. Slater and Considine sauntered off upon their routine inquiries in such matters as murder. The throng had gradually thinned. The shopkeepers had gone back to their business. Allardyce, left virtually alone upon the pavement, felt that a definite era in his life had ended. De Gollyer was dead and gone; the shop was irrevocably closed; and he was standing in sunlight that Old Thing would never see again. It was a bitter enough thought.

He left the sidewalk and cut diagonally across the street to the other side, and at the same instant Dane Woolfolk, who had been watching him from a near-by shop door, left his concealment and followed.

3.

Charles Allardyce felt that, in all probability, he would make no great name for himself as a detective. Reading detective stories of an evening was a pleasant enough pastime, but detective novels, after all, are not textbooks of detection, save of fictional detection.

Allardyce made a small living out of a hired typewriter. He wrote city travelogues and little stories of the streets for a number of down-state papers, and at night he read detective stories with considerable ardor. Occasionally he broke into an Eastern weekly of no great importance, but of select circulation, with a poem that nobody understood. But he had no illusions about his ability as a detective. A reader might guess the name of a murderer on page 13 of a volume of 365 pages and still be a pretty poor sort of sleuth, he realized, in life. His cleverness would consist not in his ability to unravel a living tangle, but in his knowledge of the methods of certain mystery writers.

Nevertheless, Old Thing had been his friend, Old Thing had been murdered, and—in a melodramatic sense—Old Thing’s corpse was crying for vengeance. He, Allardyce, had liked Old Thing. They had talked over mystery novels together, and had conspired together to solve the puzzles concocted by ingenious authors. In the circumstances, it was almost imperative that he, Allardyce, seek the murderer of Old Thing.

Why, then, he asked himself, did his first move in that direction involve the girl of the night before? He was certain that she was no murderess. The answer was that she was the only clue he had. The actual murderer might have been inspired to his deed after the girl’s visit. There were men in the world who would commit murder for a dollar and a quarter, and there were certainly men in the world who would commit murder for a hundred-dollar book.

The questions to be answered, then, were:

Had the young woman of the night before returned to the shop after he, Allardyce, had gone away? If so, it could only have been to leave the volume for immediate sale.

Supposing this to have happened, had there been a third person present on the occasion of that second visit? If so, and that third person did not at once come forward, it was likely enough that he had excellent reason for declining to reveal himself. (If he did come forward, there might be trouble for Charles Allardyce, who, it would be assumed, had lied to the police.)

Had the young woman herself, after her second (conjectured) visit, spoken of the book and its (conjectured) transfer to someone else?

The questions were simple and obvious, and they all involved the girl and the book. If the girl and the book were not, however remotely, connected with the murder of Robert de Gollyer, then he, Allardyce, was on the wrong track and would have to start over again.

The starting point of an investigation was certainly Bancroft. If the girl who needed a hundred dollars had been to Bancroft, then there had been no second visit to De Gollyer. So to Bancroft Allardyce hastened, reaching the bookshop in the Loop shortly after ten o’clock.

He was exactly an hour too late.

“I’m sorry,” said the bookseller, when he had listened to a fraction of the breathless story, “but she was here when I opened up at eight-thirty, and she was gone by nine. I bought her book and paid her for it. She had to catch a train, I think she said.”

“Good Lord!” cried Allardyce. “She was leaving town?”

“So I gathered. She didn’t specifically say so, but she did say that she was in a hurry to catch a train. The inference seemed obvious.”

Allardyce was floored.

Yet, after all, the bookseller’s simple statement had cleared the attractive girl of complicity in the murder, had it not? If she had sold her book to Bancroft, then she had not returned to De Gollyer. Not that he, Allardyce, had ever suspected her of complicity; but the bookseller’s testimony might be useful if ever she were discovered.

Yet, for some reason, this girl was hurriedly leaving town.

“May I see the book?” he asked after a moment.

“Of course,” said the bookseller; “but it’s hardly likely that it’s another book and another girl.”

Allardyce hastily skimmed the yellowed pages. At the title page he stopped, puzzled. There was a small stain in the center of the page that he was certain had not been there the night before. It was a pinkish sort of stain, almost circular, and the exact center was of a heavier hue.

“That’s odd,” he said. “It looks like a blood stain.”

Disturbed, he continued with his explorations, the bookseller looking over his shoulder. “I don’t even know who she is,” confided the investigator. “Well, there’s no clue here apparently. Yes, there is! Here’s a name on the half-title.”

“And a date.” The bookseller smiled a bit sardonically. “‘Christmas, 1832.’ Won’t help you much, I’m afraid.”

The signature was as old, exactly, as the date. Allardyce was silent for a moment.

“Still,” he urged, “it might be her name also. The book was her great-aunt’s, she said, and it may be that the old lady was on her father’s side of the house and had the same name. Odd name, too, fortunately. Courtneige. There can’t be many of them in town. English, I’ll bet.” He asked quickly: “Have you a telephone directory?”

Bancroft brought it out. “The only book in the place that isn’t for sale,” he smiled.

Allardyce fluttered the pages. “Court, Courtel, Courtham, Courtin, Courtledge,” he muttered, scanning the names. “Here it is! There are three of them. Look here, Mr. Bancroft, I’m going to tell you the whole story and see what you think.”

He recounted everything that had happened, while the bookseller’s eyes widened.

“If you had only called me up early this morning,” said Bancroft, when he had finished, “I’d have been ready for her when she arrived. But the very fact that she came, it seems to me, proves that she didn’t return to De Gollyer’s.”

“So it seems to me,” agreed Allardyce, “and yet I’ve a feeling that that damned book is somewhere at the bottom of it all. She didn’t volunteer anything that now looks suspicious, I suppose?”

“Not a thing. However, you d better run down the history of that book. I won’t feel easy about it myself until I know what happened.” He glanced at the directory. “Any of your Courtneiges in the right neighborhood?”

“Yes, there is. One is on Hazel Avenue. It’s an old-fashioned street, not far from where De Gollyer saw her turn. Well, there it is! Anthony Courtneige.”

“You’re in luck,” said the bookseller. “The odds were against it.”

“I’m off at once,” cried Allardyce. “Many thanks, Mr. Bancroft.” He turned and hurried out of the shop.

As he left the door a second young man hastily drew back into a neighboring entrance. Immediately a considerable problem presented itself to the second young man: whether to continue to follow Allardyce or to enter the bookshop and learn the object of the visit.

“Blast it!” observed Dane Woolfolk profanely. But he decided to follow Allardyce. It was the safest bet.

Allardyce was heading for State Street. He was waiting on the corner. Was he waiting for a taxi? Mr. Woolfolk began to look around, himself. No, he was going to board a street car—the piker! Yes, he was taking a Broadway car. Again Mr. Woolfolk thought rapidly. There were disadvantages either way, but he felt that he would be better off in a taxi. He allowed the street car to leave the corner, then turned quickly to look for a cab. Allardyce would be going some distance, no doubt, since he was riding, and it would be easy enough for a taxi to overhaul the car.

A cab came cruising around the corner and he hailed it. In a few minutes he was jogging comfortably along in the wake of the street car, stopping when the car stopped and starting when it started.

It became evident rapidly that Allardyce was going back to the old neighborhood. It was a tiresome ride. The pursued man left the car at Montrose Avenue and walked east, Woolfolk still trailing easily in his taxi.

Courtneige, thought Allardyce as he walked, was a very pretty name, and it fitted a very pretty girl. He wondered what her first name might be and decided that it ought to be something old-fashioned, something like Sally. The name in the old book had been Sally, as it happened; and why should not the grand-niece wear her grand-aunt’s name?

The house was small but charming, a two-story gabled structure of wood and stone, with ivy on its walls and a tiny stained-glass window at one side that obviously marked the landing of a stairway within. There was a handsome tree before the door, and a bit of a yard in the rear, in which some flowers were still blooming. A lantern hung above the front door, and on the central panel there was a small knocker fashioned in the semblance of one of the Lincoln Park lions.

Allardyce lifted the brass doodad and smote the lion in the nose. He had not quite made up his mind what he would say to whoever answered his knock.

As it happened, he said nothing at all for a moment. Instead, he stood and stared blankly at the girl who, he had supposed, was by this time miles removed from Chicago.

Lord, what a situation! he thought.

For an instant she did not recognize him; then quite suddenly she did, and her face flushed. A little knot of puzzlement appeared between her eyes—they were blue, he noted, and disturbing. Then her face cleared.

“Oh, of course!” she smiled. “You have come from Mr. de Gollyer, I suppose.”

Allardyce was staggered. Suddenly he found his tongue. “Good heavens!” he whispered. Haven’t you heard?”

The little frown again appeared on her forehead. “My book?” she asked, a bit anxiously.

“May I come in?” asked Allardyce abruptly. “I assure you it’s important—and very serious.”

She swung the door open more widely and he entered the narrow hall and then, at her direction, passed into a living room at the front.

Without seating himself, he turned swiftly and demanded: “Answer me one question, please. Did you return to Mr. de Gollyer last night, after you had gone away the first time?”

Her face, by this time, had paled. “Yes,” she answered, “I did. I went back about—about eleven o’clock, I should imagine. I told him that I would leave the book with him, and he promised to try and sell it for me today, so that I could have the money to-night. What has happened?”

“Who else was in the shop when you went back?” continued Allardyce hoarsely. “I’ll tell you everything in a minute.”

“There was nobody in the shop but Mr. de Gollyer and myself—nobody that I saw, anyway. Oh, I’m sure of it. He was just getting ready to close when I entered.”

Allardyce sagged from shoulder to heel. He moved slowly to a chair and, without asking permission, dropped into it.

“I’m sorry, Miss— Is it Courtneige?”

She nodded, apprehension in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Miss Courtneige, but I’m afraid we are both in for a lot of trouble. Mr. de Gollyer was murdered last night, shortly after you left the shop, and your book was stolen.”

She too sank into a chair, and for a moment they stared into each other’s eyes in silence. At length, “Tell me,” she breathed; and suddenly a hot flush swept the paleness of her cheek so that it burned. “Do you mean,” she asked quickly, “that they think—that the police—?”

“Think you did it?” he finished. “No, thank the Lord, they don’t. They don’t know anything about you —yet—Miss Courtneige. But—they may later on. I don’t see how it can be kept from them. Listen!”

He told her the story from beginning to end, concluding with a recital of what he had learned at Bancroft’s.

“Of course,” he finished, “it was not you who sold the book to Bancroft.”

“No,” she agreed, “but who was it? What girl would want to murder that poor old man?”

He shrugged hopelessly. “You see the mess it is! You and I may not be the only persons who know that you were there. Suppose—just suppose—this other woman —this other girl—was hiding there all the time. She also might know, and to throw suspicion in another direction she might communicate anonymously with the police, telling them about your visit. You see how it would look! I have already lied about you—by suppressing the fact of your visit. Why, it’s even possible that someone passing the shop saw you the second time, or even the first. Oh, it’s hopeless!”

After a moment he asked: “Why did you need a hundred dollars in a hurry?”

She flushed again. “For clothes,” she replied frankly. “I don’t mean that I’m destitute; but I had been invited to a week-end party in Wisconsin, and I wanted a new outfit. I couldn’t afford it, I felt, but I was eager to go to the party. Then I thought of my book. If Mr. de Gollyer had sold it for me I should have bought my outfit to-morrow and taken the night train. I hadn’t a great deal of time left.”

“It’s too bad,” he observed perfunctorily, but she cut him short.

“I don’t mind about the book—now.” She hesitated a moment, then timidly asked: “Ought I to tell the police myself that I was there?”

“Yes,” he said, “I suppose you ought. My lie to them is going to make it troublesome, but your frankness may save you from annoyance. I will simply say that I was so certain you couldn’t have done it that I couldn’t bring myself to betray you. Anyway, I didn’t know who you were,” he added, a bit argumentatively.

“Oh, I don’t know what to do!” she cried.

An amused voice broke in suddenly, at the sound of which both sprang to their feet and whirled toward the doorway.

“I’ll tell you exactly what to do,” said the voice.

In the doorway leading from the hall to the living room stood a young man smiling an impudent smile.

“Woolfolk!” cried Allardyce.

“Right as rain,” smiled the newcomer easily. “Permit me, Miss Courtneige. Dane Woolfolk of the Globe.”

Miss Courtneige caught her breath. Then her anger burst over him. “How dare you enter this house without knocking?” she demanded.

He smiled again with superb insolence. “Well,” he drawled, “the door was half open anyway, and I thought it was an invitation for me to follow my friend Allardyce inside. Having heard most of what you have had to tell him, I am rather glad I did. But why be angry? You say you had nothing to do with the murder —at least, you suggest it by your attitude—so what is there for you to fear? I have arrived, it would seem, in very good time. You are both in doubt about the course to pursue, and here am I, a highly resourceful fellow, prepared to answer your doubts.”

Allardyce stepped forward angrily. “Shall I throw him out, Miss Courtneige?” he asked.

“No, don’t do that,” answered the reporter with another grin. “In the first place, you might not be able to do it; and in the second place, what good would it do either of you? I would simply step to a telephone, tell the Globe everything I know, then let the police know about this new and very valuable clue.”

“If I go to the police myself—at once—” began the girl, looking at Allardyce; but Allardyce shook his head.

“No, it wouldn’t do. He’s right. He’s got the drop on us, so to speak. All right, Mr. Woolfolk, we are in your hands. What do you propose?”

Mr. Woolfolk rubbed his hands gleefully. “This,” he replied. “I want a story—a good one—to-day. You two are the story. Now, I don’t mind saying that I believe neither of you had anything to do with the murder of old De Golyer. But for one day—to-day—I want it to appear that I have a warm clue, dug up exclusively by the Evening Globe. I will print one story about you, telling merely the facts, and letting the police and the public draw their own conclusions. I’ll tell about Miss Courtneige’s two visits to the antique shop, about Mr. Allardyce’s gallant falsehood to protect the young lady, and about the disappearance of the book. Nothing libelous in that. For one day, it will appear that the Globe has run down the murderer. To-morrow I shall tell the Bancroft side of it. Miss Courtneige will be seen by Bancroft, who will say positively that it was not she who sold him the book. Obviously, then, it was not she who murdered De Gollyer, and a nation-wide search begins, conducted by the Globe, for the young woman who impersonated Miss Courtneige in the Bancroft bookshop. The murderer, or murderess, will be run down and all will be well. I am, in other words, offering you all the facilities of the Evening Globe—a great newspaper—in clearing yourselves, in return for a story, the printing of which will place you for one day under suspicion. What do you say?”

A hot retort was on the lips of Allardyce, but the upraised hand of his companion stayed it.

“And if we refuse?” asked Miss Courtneige.

Woolfolk shrugged. “Well, I’ll telephone the office, at once, everything that I have heard pass between you, this morning, and the police can dig up Bancroft for themselves.”

The girl turned to Allardyce with an appraising glance at his tall frame. “Can you throw him out, Mr. Allardyce?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Allardyce.

“Then please do!”

4.

Come what would, thought Allardyce, as once again he made his way toward the bereft antique shop, he had gained something fine from the bloody tangle. If he had lost one friend, certainly he had gained another. Her first name, he had learned, was not Sally but Stella, and she was—well, she was wonderful!

Even now she was on her way in a taxicab to the North Halsted Street police station to tell her story. It had seemed the only thing to do. To wait until Woolfolk had broadcast it would have been madness. No doubt he, Allardyce, would now be arrested on suspicion—but what if he were? A man might lie to protect a girl without being a murderer, surely.

Would he be allowed to enter the shop? he wondered. Doubtless the uniformed policeman was still in charge. And if a clue to the murderer of Old Thing existed anywhere it was in the shop. The detectives had been lax enough; he had watched them. It was absurdly perfunctory, the way they poked about. Obviously, it was to them an unimportant murder.

Well, he owed it to Old Thing to make this effort. He owed it to Stella Courtneige, who might, after all, be held suspect, in spite of her blue and disturbing eyes. By George, he owed it to himself. There was no telling! One Charles Allardyce himself might be languishing behind iron bars by evening.

Inside the shop door, upon a rickety chair, sat the policeman who had been left in charge. He looked forlorn and unhappy. An expression of interest crossed his face as Allardyce approached the door.

“So it’s you,” he observed, as the bell tinkled and tinkled again at the entrance of the investigator.

“It’s me, again,” said Allardyce ungrammatically. “I want to look around a bit, if you don’t mind. De Gollyer was a friend of mine, you know, and I’d like to get an idea whether anything is missing.”

“Got permission?” asked the bluecoat.

“Slater told me to try out any ideas I had. This is one of them.” It was almost true. The detective had not intended, however, that De Gollyer’s friend should reënter the shop upon a hunt for clues.

The policeman shrugged. “Hop to it, buddy,” he said; “but if you can tell whether anything’s missing from this place, you’re a wonder.”

Allardyce glanced down at the spot where Old Thing had fallen. The stain on the pine board made him shudder, and suddenly he was thinking again of the stain upon the title page of the volume in the down-town bookshop. Could it have been blood?

Certainly not De Gollyer’s blood. How possibly could a single drop have fallen in the mathematical center of a page, when all else around had been imbued with Old Thing’s life stream? There had been no sign of it upon the volume’s cover; no sign on any other page. And again he would have sworn that the spot upon the title page had not existed the night before.

He recalled the appearance of the circular stain. Almost a perfect circle in its deeper hue, but splashed and somewhat lighter at its edges. Almost as if— By George, almost as if it had been blotted! Suppose it had been….

A swift picture of what might have happened after the murder came to him, born of his imagination. Suppose—just suppose—the murderess herself to have been slightly wounded in the scuffle, or touched by some of De Gollyer’s blood.

The book safely in her possession, wherever and however she had got it from the antique dealer, what would be her first thought? The big room was beyond all question in darkness, except for such light as might have filtered in from the street. How could she be sure that she had the right book?

Obviously, she would carry it to a light and look at the title page. And then, bending over it, suppose a drop of blood—?

Allardyce walked swiftly to the rear of the shop, where Old Thing’s desk sat in its obscure corner. Even in daylight it was dark in that corner. He switched on the electric desk lamp, while the policeman at the front screwed about in his chair to see what was going on.

The papers on the desk had been jumbled and tossed chaotically by the desultory detectives, but none had fallen to the floor. Allardyce lifted and piled and piled and lifted. At length he found what he was looking for.

It was a yellow blotter and the stain upon it was very faint, but it was there. The stain that corresponded to that on the title page of the book of poems.

“What is it, buddy?” asked the fat man at the front. “Found something?”

“I’ve found a blotter,” said Allardyce. “Take a look at it. I want you to know that I found it here—on Mr. de Gollyer’s desk. See it? Well, there’s a blood stain on it. There!”

“Hm-m!” mused the fat man. “It might be blood.” He added after a thoughtful instant: “What of it?”

“Nothing yet; but I was looking for it. That’s the point—I was looking for it. I’m taking it to Slater, see?”

“Take it along, take it along,” said the policeman wearily.

But what, after all, he asked himself in the street, had he proved? Merely that the murderer (or murderess) had spilled a drop of her blood upon a book? Was all human blood alike, he wondered, or was the blood of every individual distinctive and different? It was a point upon which his detective reading had not informed him.

Well, there was one other thing. He would have a talk with this realtor, Haines, who had found the body. His reading had informed him that the reek of perfumes was potent and powerful. Haines had been the first inside the shop. The murder had been committed by a girl. Might it not be that some lingering odor might have associated itself with Haines’s entrance? Reminded of it, might not Haines recall the very odor? It was of such trifling clues as odors and bloodstains on yellow blotters that solutions were often builded.

At the door of the real-estate office next door he saw consciously for the first time that the name in gold upon the glass was not Haines but Dalgeish. He stared. What error was this? Possibly, however, Haines was merely one of the juniors. At any rate, this was certainly the place, for, glancing through the half-open door, he saw the very man he wanted.

Haines was seated at a desk, writing. His head was bent, but at the sound of the opening door he raised it. Yes, it was the very man, thought Allardyce. He recalled his face now, perfectly—a long face, a bit thin, a bit sallow, the eyelids slightly drooping, as if heavy with sleep. He recalled even the bit of court plaster that the man was wearing on his rather high cheek bone, although no single detail had stood out during the morning.

Good God! The bit of court plaster!

The idea struck Allardyce so suddenly and with such force that he stopped short in his tracks.

Was it possible? Oh, it was madness! A girl had committed the crime. A man might wear a bit of court plaster without being a murderer, just as a man might tell a falsehood without being a murderer. But a terrible conviction was growing in Allardyce’s mind.

Haines, the man who had found the body of De Gollyer, stood beside him.

“Oh,” he said, suddenly recognizing the individual who had entered. “You are—?”

“Mr. Allardyce, yes—you saw me this morning. I’m sorry to bother you, but—I was a friend of Old—of Mr. de Gollyer, you know, and I’d like—Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

The real-estate man hesitated. “I’m fairly busy,” he answered, “but in this particular case, why I guess I can take some time off. What was it you wanted to know?”

Allardyce had by this time recovered his wits.

“Frankly,” he explained, “I’m playing detective— with the permission of the police, of course—and I have a queer idea. I’m wondering if, when you entered the unlocked shop this morning, you were aware of any peculiar aroma or perfume?”

Romancing quickly, he explained his idea in more detail and waited almost respectfully for the man’s answer.

But Haines had noticed nothing of the sort, and said so rather brusquely.

“Then I sha’n’t bother you,” said Allardyce, “for it appears that I’m wrong. You see, a woman did this thing, and—”

“The deuce!” cried Haines. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“Very few have heard it yet,” said Allardyce, “and I must ask you to keep it a secret, if you don’t mind; but that’s the fact.”

“Of course. I won’t say a word. But who—if I may ask—is the woman? Or is that a secret, too?”

“It’s so deep a secret,” said Allardyce, “that—but no, I can say nothing about it. Please don’t ask me. And thanks very much.”

He left the shop hurriedly and almost ran to his small hotel, a few blocks distant, leaving the real-estate clerk staring up the street after him.

Once safely locked in his own room, the amateur detective rummaged frantically in a drawer until he had unearthed a long darning needle; then, standing before his miniature bookcase, he slowly drew forth a slender volume of Poe’s Poems. It was not a rare edition, but in size and format it was not unlike the copy that had belonged to Stella Courtneige.

For a moment or two he practised opening the book to its title page and bending over it, as if to verify a date. Then, with an anticipatory grimace, he strode to the small mirror over his basin and plunged the bodkin into his cheek at the point where the bone was most prominent. For an instant he stood and watched the slow drop gather on the wound. When it was of sufficient size, as he judged, he again seized the volume and opened quickly to the title, bending over the book as before. An instant later the drop had fallen to the white page.

Allardyce waited another moment, then carefully blotted the spot on the page that he had marred. After that he stood back to admire his demonstration. He had not exactly reproduced the stain in Bancroft’s book, but he had approximated it with surprising accuracy.

He pasted a bit of court plaster over his tiny wound and smiled at the effect in the glass. What a start he might give Haines by striding in on him, just that way, and slapping the volume of Poe down under his nose, its stained title page exposed to his guilty eyes!

But who was the woman?

Then his telephone bell rang sharply, and the voice of the clerk at the desk, when he had answered, rang like a death knell in his ears. “Two men are on their way up to see you, Mr. Allardyce. They told me not to announce them.”

Slater and Considine! There could be no doubt about it. He was about to be arrested as—as what? Murderer, accessory, witness, or simple liar?

He hung up the receiver without speaking and strode to the door. He flung it open. Slater and Considine were advancing up the hall.

“I thought it might be you,” said Allardyce grimly.

They entered the room and he closed the door behind them.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Well, why not?” countered the detective called Slater.

Allardyce shrugged. “It’s all right with me. Only I didn’t do it.”

“Nobody thinks you did,” observed Slater.

“Then why am I under arrest? For failing to tell you about that girl?”

The detective smiled. “You’re not exactly under arrest,” explained Slater. “The fact is, we were sent over to give you hell for concealing important information, and then to ask you what else you had up your sleeve. The captain thinks you know more about this De Gollyer than you’ve told anybody yet.”

“Where is Miss Courtneige?” asked Allardyce bluntly.

“She is off to the Loop, with one of our fellows. She’s being taken to Bancroft’s. Of course, if he says she isn’t the girl who sold him the book there’ll be no difficulty for her. Nobody thinks she did it, either.”

Allardyce was relieved. “But, honor bright, I haven’t an idea who killed the old man,” he insisted. “The fact is, I’ve been working on the case myself.”

“Umph!” grunted Considine. “Well,” added Slater, “we’re to take you to the captain, anyway.”

Allardyce thought quickly. “Look here, Slater,” he cried, “while you’re taking me, the man who did it may be escaping. Maybe I’m an idiot, but I’ve got an idea about this murder, and it’s this: a woman didn’t do it!”

He burst out with the whole story while the detectives listened with mingled amusement and interest.

“Now,” he concluded, “what do you think?”

“Haines, eh?”

“Yes!”

“Of course, he’d say he cut himself shaving.”

“Rot! He couldn’t cut himself that high up—not unless he was pretty nervous. And if he didn’t commit the murder he had nothing to be nervous about.”

“What do you want to do?” asked Considine.

“I want to confront him with this book. Slap it down under his nose and see what he does.”

Slater grinned. “It might work, at that—if he’s guilty, that is. What do you think, Tim?”

Considine thought there could be no harm in trying. “But I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Listen!”

5.

Seated in a taxi, with steam up ready for departure, Considine and Allardyce waited for the reappearance of Slater. Across the street about three hundred feet distant was the office of the Dalgeish Realty Company. On the corner beyond it was a drug store. Into the drug store, a few moments before, the two in the taxi had seen Slater disappear.

Five minutes later the second detective came out and the taxi riders caught his signal. They transferred their attention to the front door of the realty company.

Then the door opened and a young man rushed out, carrying his hat in his hand. He looked wildly up and down the street for a taxi. It was an emergency that had not been overlooked. There was one waiting for him—directly ahead of that occupied by the detective Considine and his companion. The driver was instructed. He caught Haines’s signal and swung his car across the street. Haines, cramming his hat onto his head, was seen to speak quickly with the driver and pile into the cab, which started southward at once.

“He’s off to Bancroft’s, all right,” said Considine. “That settles it. He’s our man. In half an hour we’ll be hearing what happened last night.”

They picked up Slater at the opposite curb and started in pursuit.

“Got him,” said the other detective laconically, as he dropped into his seat. “I told him I was Bancroft, and it gave him quite a shock. What did I want? he asked. I said a young woman, who had given his name as a reference, had sold me a book this morning—a rare book—and it had turned out to be a fake. I said I wanted it taken up and my money returned quickly, or I would call the police.

“He didn’t dare doubt it. He realized that there was only one thing to do: get Bancroft his money as fast as he could and take up that incriminating book.”

At Addison Road the leading machine turned westward at a high speed, and the pursuing car followed at the same rate. Haines was obviously nervous. He kept looking back at the other taxi.

At Halsted Street the big bulk of the police station pushed itself up, and with a grinding of brakes the leading car stopped at the curb, to be instantly surrounded by a circle of men who ran out from the station.

Haines collapsed in the taxi. He almost had to be carried inside.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asked later.

“Hang you, I hope,” responded the captain pleasantly. “Who was the girl who was your accomplice?”

“I won’t tell you that. She’s gone where you’ll never find her. But I’ll tell you something else. She murdered De Gollyer!”

“Quit your kidding!” said the officer in charge.

“She did,” insisted Haines. “I only stood in the alley, at the back. She went inside. I owed her some money, for—for something—and I couldn’t give it to her. I tried to borrow some from old De Gollyer last night, and he said he didn’t have it. She was pushing me pretty hard. Well—I decided to rob the old man. I thought he was lying about not having any money. The girl was waiting for me. There’s a window at the back of the antique shop that looks out on the alley. It’s always open. De Gollyer slept in the shop. I was going to get in there, knock the old man unconscious, and take his money. But as I stood beside the window, listening, a girl came in. She had brought him a book to sell for her—a valuable book. They talked about it awhile, and he told her a bookseller named Bancroft would give her more money; but she said she’d trust him—De Gollyer —to sell it for her.”

He shrugged. “It looked easier than swiping his money. I went back and told the girl about it, gave her my flashlight, and boosted her in through the window when we thought the old man was asleep. He wasn’t asleep. He was smoking his pipe, in the dark, up at the front of the shop. He heard her coming and spoke to her. There was nothing else for it, and she grabbed a knife from a rack of things close by and let him have it. I was sore when I heard about it, but it was too late then. I told her what to do with the book, and how to get out of town. This morning I thought it would be a good idea to find the body myself and make the first report. I don’t know how you heard about the book,” he concluded bitterly.

“We’ve heard of a lot of things,” answered Slater. “When you looked at that book last night, Haines, to be sure you’d found the right one, a drop of blood fell from your cheek onto the title page. De Gollyer had struggled with you and gashed your cheek with his nail. You’ve got a piece of plaster on it now. You carried the book to the old man’s desk, and it was there the drop of blood fell. You hunted for a blotter and blotted the spot of blood. This is the blotter you used. Here is the corresponding stain. There may have been a girl with you in the alley—I don’t know—but she had nothing to do with killing De Gollyer.”

“It’s a lie!” screamed the clerk. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“Well,” said the captain, “I guess we’re succeeding. There are two other points, Haines. The knife wasn’t in De Gollyer’s rack, for there isn’t any rack, I believe, and anyway Mr. Allardyce knows everything he had in the place. Finally, when Sergeant Slater telephoned a little while ago I sent a man around to the undertaker’s near here to check on something. He ought to be back at any minute.”

The door of the private office opened and a plainclothes man strode in. He nodded significantly, and the captain continued his monologue.

“Finally, Mr. Haines, the small strip of your skin that De Gollyer gashed out of your cheek has just been found under the right thumb nail of the man you murdered.”

A few minutes later, when they had taken the dejected murderer away, the captain turned upon Allardyce. There was a vast sternness on his countenance.

“So, Mr. Allardyce,” he said, “I understand that you have been maltreating one of the city’s most famous reporters!”

Allardyce flushed. “I’m afraid that’s true,” he admitted. “But, on my honor, he had it coming to him.”

The captain’s frown deepened. “You took the law into your own hands, I suppose you know, and can be punished for assault and battery?”

Allardyce stammered. “Well—he had no right in Miss Courtneige’s home, and so I—”

“Did you throw him out on his ear?” snapped the captain.

“I’m afraid I did.”

“Did you hit him first?” persisted the officer.

“Y-yes, I did. You see—”

Suddenly Captain Costigan was grinning amiably and rubbing his hands with an ecstatic washing movement.

“Well,” he asserted, “that’s the best news I’ve heard for a month of Sundays. You know, for years I’ve been wanting to take a poke at that cocky reporter, and have been afraid of what his damn’ paper would do to me. I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to shake the hand that smashed Dane Woolfolk. Any time you want any favors around here, the station is yours.”

Allardyce laughed joyously. “There’s one I’d like now. You won’t hold Miss Courtneige any longer than is absolutely necessary, will you?”

“Miss Courtneige,” said the captain, looking at his watch, “has been at home now for nearly an hour. We released her as soon as Bancroft gave her a clean bill.”

Then he watched the figure of Charles Allardyce passing rapidly through the front door.

“Well,” he muttered, “that young man is in a hurry.”

The Skylark

1.

Young Mr. Llantrisant shaved and dressed that morning quite as joyously as if he had no more than a tea in prospect. He sang and whistled at his ablutions when the perils of shaving and the exigencies of tooth scrubbing did not forbid it. His repertoire, like Mr. Weller’s acquaintance with London, was extensive and peculiar.

In rapid succession he quoted melodically from Scott and Wordsworth, Campbell and Edgar Guest, Laurence Hope and the Greenwich Village Blues. When words failed him he extemporized cleverly and a bit profanely, but he was never at a loss for music: there was always a church tune that would fit anything.

Invariably, he came back to Campbell:

“A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry!

And I’ll give thee a silver pound

To row us o’er the ferry.’”

For some reason it ran in his mind.

Once he stopped and peered from behind his drawn shade into the still darkened streets. It was a dim and deadly morning, and he turned away with a little grimace to resume his dressing, glancing as he did so at the clock that ticked on his table. It was just four in the morning.

“‘Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?’

‘O, I’m the Chief of Ulva’s isle,

And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.’”

A smile crossed his face as he caroled the last line. Lord Ullin’s daughter, he fancied, was at the moment somewhat similarly engaged: but was she singing? He rather doubted it. Nor was she shaving, of course, either. It was no doubt a distraught and anxious Marian that packed her bag and listened for strange sounds in the unfamiliar hotel bedroom in which she had awakened. For she would listen. Not Lochinvar himself would listen more poignantly for pursuing hoofbeats than would Marian Strang.

Reminded again of the dashing Scottish fugitive, young Mr. Llantrisant once more burst into low-pitched melody. For a change, he chose the less widely known version of the ballad, accredited to Eugene Field:

“Oh, Young Lochinvar is come out of the West,

With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest;

And the width of his hatbrim could nowhere be beat,

While his number ten brogans were chuck full of feet.”

Would Carlstrom be ready for them? he wondered. If not, so much the worse for Carlstrom. He had had all night in which to prepare. And would there be sufficient help at the field? Three mechanics certainly ought to be enough. There would be suspicion, anyway, and the fewer there were in it….

Well, well! No use beginning to worry now.

Young Mr. Llantrisant continued vaguely to worry, but at last he was ready. He yanked open a closet door, dragged forth a laden satchel, and began to stuff in yet further possessions that he considered necessary to the adventure.

Hello! What about his little copper kettle? There it sat, looking at him reproachfully. It had been with him for years and he entertained a warm affection for it. Yet already he had burdened himself with more than actually he had any right to take—and no doubt another copper kettle could be acquired. He picked the thing up and looked at it as if he were seeing it for the first time.

“His belt it was thrust full of pistols and things,

And he flourished a handful of aces and kings.”

Llantrisant shrugged and returned the copper kettle to its place on the table he was leaving.

Again he glanced at the clock, again peered into the silent, deserted street. He slipped into his overcoat. Then snapping the satchel shut, he extinguished the light and turned to the door.

In the street he directed his steps toward a cab stand, turning his collar up against the weather. It was a gray morning with a fog blowing up from the water. Here and there in the tall buildings were dull blobs of light, indicating, no doubt, the presence of early scrubwomen at work in marble halls. The idea suggested the “marble halls” song and lent to it a splendid irony.

Somewhere out and beyond a foghorn was wailing now, beginning hopefully and ending in despair. Nearer shore, an ore boat was asking its position—nervously—in short, staccato blasts…. “Where—am—I?”

The lonely quality of the cry struck through him and made him for a moment absurdly sentimental. He stepped into the cab that approached and sped away through the darkling thoroughfares.

Marian, of course, was waiting. They had timed their meeting to a hair. He saw her slim figure at the curb as the car rounded the corner. Like himself, she was well wrapped against the white blight of November.

“Is everything all right?” she whispered.

“Quite all right,” he smiled, “and we don’t really have to whisper, I imagine.”

In the cab he kissed her and told her of his doubts about the kettle. After a time—it could have been predicted—he again burst into song. Inevitably it was Campbell:

“‘And fast before her father’s men

Three days we’ve fled together,

For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.’”

He smiled again. “There is a sort of medieval flavor to the episode, isn’t there?”

At the flying field three sleepy mechanics were routed from their slumbers.

“Good Lord!” muttered the foremost, shaking the sleep from his eyes, “it’s the Skylark!”

As one man they began to protest. “Oh, I say, Mr. Llantrisant, you ain’t going to start this morning!” “My God, have you looked at the barometer?” “It’s going to storm all day, sure as shooting!” “We didn’t expect you before ten o’clock.”

“Yes, I’m leaving at once,” said Llantrisant. “As soon as you fellows decide to help me, anyway. I know what I’m doing, I guess; and I don’t need the advice of three flea-bitten mechanics on the subject of weather. The plane’s ready, isn’t it?”

He grinned amiably at the flea-bitten mechanics, who looked wildly at one another and shrugged in unison, like a vaudeville trio.

“Oh, it’s ready, all right,” muttered the foremost. “We worked all night on it.”

“Well, where’s Carlstrom?”

A fourth mechanic ran hastily out of the sleeping shed, adjusting his garments as he ran. “That you, Mr. Llantrisant?” he called. “Just ready for you!”

His eyes belied it, however, and again Llantrisant laughed.

“Don’t you try to discourage me now,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I have full and private advices about the storm area, and my chances of getting through are better to-day than they will be at any time this month. Once past this immediate and local disturbance, I’ll have clear weather all the way to Ireland.”

The original three shrugged again, as often they had shrugged before. The vagaries of this man they called the Skylark were, they knew, beyond all human comprehension.

The man called Carlstrom threw a furtive glance toward the waiting taxicab. He thought he had seen a figure move inside. “You ain’t goin’ alone, are you, Leftenant?” he asked plaintively. “I ain’t quite awake yet, maybe, and p’raps it’s just as well, at that; but just you say the word and you’ve got a mechanic. Ireland or—” He hesitated. “Ireland or Heaven,” he finished. “I’m your man!”

“That’s darned decent of you, Carlstrom,” admitted Llantrisant, “but I’m not flying alone. Grady is going with me. He’s in the cab—ah—talking to the driver. Remember what I said to you last night!”

He drew the fourth mechanic aside and spoke privately into his ear for a moment, ending by clapping him upon the shoulder. Carlstrom nodded understanding and turned away toward the hangar.

In time the laden plane was ready, a ghostly birdmonster in the dusk, its great wings spread for flight.

Llantrisant climbed into his seat and tested the controls. He ran his flashlight over the instrument board. He glanced at the luminous hands of his wrist watch and climbed down again. The morning air was chill and. damp.

“Ready?”

He ran hastily toward the taxicab, signaling, and a slight figure in heavy flying garb slipped out and sped to him across the flat.

“In you go, Grady!” said young Mr. Llantrisant with a grin.

He winked solemnly at Carlstrom as the slender figure climbed to the rear cockpit and sank, breathless, into the narrow seat.

The Skylark clambered leisurely into his own pigeonhole and again tested his controls. He looked back inquiringly.

Carlstrom nodded his head.

“All right. Contact!”

The three mechanics, hand in hand beside the propeller blade, swung sidewise in a rhythmic movement that had somewhat the characteristics of a dance figure. On the third movement, the man nearest to the propeller seized the blade and drew it with him on his outward swing.

There was a flash and a roar. A violent, sucking wind began to blow. Llantrisant adjusted his goggles and again looked back.

The roar rose to a high and snarling crescendo, then dropped. The pilot raised his hand. On the instant, the blocks were jerked from the wheels and the two men who stood now at the wing ends jumped for safety.

Once more the engine roared. Blue flame needles shot from the exhausts. The wind pressure became immense, terrifying, almost tangible. The heavy plane lumbered forward. It sped down the runway, gathering velocity as it progressed. It roared across the flat and down the length of the field. It ripped off two thousand yards in seconds and fractions of seconds. Then the dark earth began to drop away. They thundered over a cluster of low roofs and chimneys and zoomed upward against the eastern sky.

Banking sharply for a climbing turn to the north, Llantrisant swung his head for an instant and looked back at the huddled, white-faced girl in the cockpit behind. He caught her faint smile and grinned back a message of cheer. His lips moved, and although her ears could not hope to catch his words, she knew that he was singing.

In point of fact, he had reached the sixth stanza of his interminable song….

“‘And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry:

So, though the waves be raging white,

I’ll row you o’er the ferry.’”

To himself, the singer added: “‘They’ll have swift steeds that follow,’ quoth Young Lochinvar.”

They flew outward over the water, into the rising dawn.

2.

It was, of course, a sensation in the press. At first the reports had been confused. Carlstrom, answering only such questions as were asked of him, laconically described the arrival of Llantrisant and his almost immediate departure. Llantrisant’s favorite mechanic, Grady, he asserted, had been the aviator’s companion. They were now—God help them!—somewhere out over the Atlantic.

The weather reports were alarming.

Later, the disappearance of Marian Strang was noted and the press headlines became frantic. An enterprising news gatherer dug up the mechanic Grady at the home of a sister, and immediately the fat was in the fire. Llantrisant’s attentions to the daughter of the railway magnate were sufficiently well known to make the sum of two and two an easy matter.

In the end, Carlstrom admitted the truth. Thereafter the newspapers outdid one another in feats of headlining, and the radio inquiries of W. Morton Strang flashed to the uttermost crests and eddies of the Atlantic.

It was like talking into a dead telephone. From the wastes came back no single voice of hope. There were, of course, responses. In the supposed path of the flyers had labored at least a dozen ships, and each responded according to its master’s mind; but of actual tidings of the flight there was none at all. No whisper of the plane’s motor, no single beat of its propellers had drifted down through the rain and mist of morning or the mist and rain of afternoon, to indicate the passing of the world’s most reckless performer in the sky lanes. It was as if, whirling outward and upward like the feathered creature from which he had derived his popular name, Llantrisant had been swallowed in the uncharted realms of space, and with him the slender beauty whose hand had been denied him.

The situation was romantic, and, as suggested, the press made the most of it.

It is not to be supposed that W. Morton Strang did nothing but fume and shudder in a wireless room. As president of a colossal railroad system and brother of a United States Senator, his resources were many. The swiftest and most powerful steam yacht in captivity put to sea within twelve hours of the tidings of the flight, and it was shortly followed by the most famous of government destroyers. Nothing, however, came of this enterprise. When Llantrisant was exactly twenty-four hours overdue above the Irish coast Strang collapsed and took to his bed, a broken man, for in his heart he knew the bitter truth.

Thereafter he listened apathetically to the reports of his efficient subordinates, who still carried on. The four winds carried an incredible cargo of rumor, as always. Blue lights appeared and vanished in the heart of a Canadian forest and Indian runners told again the old tale of a mysterious explosion in the dead of night. A belated tramp steamer made port with a tale of floating wreckage at a point far north of the missing plane’s assumed course, and simultaneously came word of further wreckage near the coast of Ireland. The blue lights, as usual, were shown to be a natural phenomenon, the Indian runners to be men of superstition and imagination, and the widely separated débris to be nothing of the slightest consequence.

For a time the idea persisted that the runaway lovers had been picked up by a vessel without wireless, bound for the antipodes or some place equally remote; but this also faded with the dwindling rumors. At the end of a fortnight the world had reached the conclusion first reached by W. Morton Strang, and there was some talk in letters to the press of a suitable memorial to the dauntless Llantrisant.

At about this time an illuminating idea entered the mind of young Mr. Pendarvis of the System’s investigation department. He carried it to his chief, an ogre with a bald head, who looked at his subordinate in astonishment, then invited him out to luncheon.

In the tiled and crowded aisles of a “one-arm” restaurant, where they were unlikely to be overheard, the older man turned almost savagely upon the younger.

“Now, what the devil put that into your head?” he asked.

Pendarvis shrugged.

“What puts anything into my head?” he asked pertinently. “I read the newspapers, for one thing. Miss Strang’s engagement to Bulstrode had been announced, and although no date had been set for the wedding, it’s likely that the Old Man was pressing her. Oh, I don’t know what gave me the idea, Chief. Maybe the old story of the white horse.”

“What white horse?”

“You don’t mean to say you haven’t heard it! An old white horse wandered away from home one day, and didn’t return. Maybe it got lost. Maybe it just didn’t want to return. No telling about horses—particularly white horses.” Pendarvis cocked an impudent eye at his superior. “Nobody could find the beast for a long time; then the village idiot went forth and in a few hours was back with the horse. He explained where he had found the animal, and everybody was surprised. ‘How did you happen to think of looking there?’ he was asked. ‘Well,’ the boy said, ‘I just asked myself where I would go, if I was a white horse; and I went there, and there he was.’”

“Hmph!” said the ogre.

“I’m the village idiot, you see,” added Pendarvis.

His chief picked up his coffee cup and set it down again. “Look here, Pendarvis,” he said, “I’m going to turn you loose on your hunch. Personally, I think you are an idiot; but, frankly, the Old Man’s going to pot, and we can’t afford to pass up a bet. Certain as I am that you are an old white horse, not to say a thistlefeeding ass, your idea would haunt me if I didn’t try it out. But I warn you, those ‘rocky, barren islands, off the coast of Labrador’ have been visited, if it’s there you plan to look. Evidently you believe yourself to be some sort of a story-book detective. Well, that’s all right. I used to think I was, until I lost my hair. Come to me when we get back to the office, and I’ll see that you get your expense money and whatever transportation you need. I don’t have to tell you to keep your mouth shut.”

“No, you don’t have to do that,” observed Pendarvis thoughtfully. “What I’m hoping, Chief, is that Llantrisant kept his open.”

“Indeed? And what do you mean by that, now?”

“It’s part of my hunch,” explained Pendarvis. “Leave me something to surprise you with when I get back.”

His expenses and his credentials attended to, he went at once to Carlstrom and, subsequently, to Grady. Both mechanics were somewhat out of favor at the moment for having assisted the world’s most popular aviator out of the world; and both talked volubly. They furnished the investigator with such information as he required, and with much that he did not require, about Llantrisant, the weather, the sea, the inner ramifications of an airplane, and the probable course the aviator would have followed if he had been spared long enough to get really started.

“Of course, there’s no possible doubt, I suppose, that Miss Strang was with him?” inquired Pendarvis at length, addressing Carlstrom.

The mechanic looked at him in astonishment.

“Good Lord, no!” he answered. “I saw them start, I tell you. I thought everybody knew that by this time.”

“I see. I mean, there can be no doubt that the person you saw depart with Llantrisant was actually Miss Strang and not somebody intended to be mistaken for Miss Strang?”

Carlstrom tossed his arms upward in despair.

“Well, well,” said Pendarvis pacifically. “It’s a point on which I had to be certain.”

He made a hurried trip out of town, visited a number of country justices, and the next morning spent some time poring over large-scale maps of various sections of the North American continent. At six o’clock he dined leisurely, and at eight-thirty caught a train whose schedule promised, after several switchings and changes which probably made it upon arrival another train, to set him down at a small town across the Canadian border and not too far from the sea.

In the morning he alighted at the unimportant township in question, checked his bag at the station parcel room, and at once began his investigation.

3.

There was a man in Cappadocia, a noted liar, who had been in print on the subject twice. Cappadocia is a small Canadian outpost, and you will look for it in vain upon the map. The Cappadocia man—his name was Grimwood—lived at the edge of a forest, as charcoal burners always do in fairy tales. But Grimwood was no charcoal burner. If one had asked Grimwood what he did for a living he would have answered that he fished. Certainly he had a boat and an assistant, and it had been remarked that some uncommonly good Canadian whisky had reached the thirsty nation to the south from the general vicinity of the cove that was Grimwood’s anchorage.

For all of which reasons, and for others, Pendarvis went to Cappadocia and saw Grimwood. The alleged fisherman was happy to retell his tale.

“Them newspaper fellows got me all wrong,” asserted Mr. Grimwood. “I didn’t say I saw an airplane that mornin’. Bless yer heart, I couldn’t ha’ seen nothin’ if I’d tried, it was that thick with fog. But I heard one, mister, and that’s God’s truth. It was flyin’ low and not too fast, and I heard it plain. Over the treetops it was, and early in the mornin’. It couldn’t ha’ been more’n a few hours, maybe, after they’d left the field.”

“Over the treetops, eh?” repeated Pendarvis. “Do you mean they were flying inland?”

“Mister, I don’t know. I ain’t a flyin’ expert and I don’t pretend to be. I only know I heard an airplane. Maybe it weren’t the one you’re lookin’ fer—but it was an airplane, and that’s God’s truth. I heard it plain.”

“Does it strike you as odd, Grimwood, that nobody else seems to have heard it?” asked Pendarvis.

“Not a bit, it don’t. God’s truth, who could ha’ heard it but me, sir? There ain’t so many folks around this part o’ the world, I guess. Up to the town, everybody would ha’ been in bed, or just gettin’ up, or havin’ their breakfast or somethin’; and anyway it ain’t certain he flew over the town. It’s a pity my man Jake’s away or he’d ’a’ heard it too.”

“It couldn’t have been an automobile going by on the road, I suppose?”

“No, sir, it couldn’t. I drive a little car of my own, sometimes, and I know the difference between the noise an auto makes and the noise a plane makes. Besides, it was over the treetops I heard it, as I told you, and there ain’t any auto yet that’s got wings.”

“That, I believe, is quite true,” said Pendarvis. “Well, I incline to believe you, Grimwood. But I wish you could give me an idea of its direction. It wasn’t flying out to sea, was it?”

“All I can say to that,” asserted Mr. Grimwood, “is that it was goin’ north. But whether it was goin’ northwest over the trees, or northeast over the ocean, I don’t know, mister, and that’s God’s truth.”

Pendarvis sighed. “It’s something,” he admitted, and pressed a coin into Mr. Grimwood’s unreluctant palm. He hesitated and plumped another question: “Of course, you heard no voices? You didn’t hear a man singing, for instance?”

“Voices! Not a voice, sir. Who could? There was the sea beatin’ on the rocks, and the trees talkin’ among themselves, and all the rest of it. Bless yer heart, they was lucky, up there, I figure, if they could hear themselves speak.”

It was Pendarvis’s own opinion exactly. But as he returned to his rented car, standing at the roadside, he added to himself: “Yes, it’s something. At least, they were still going when they reached here. Well, I’ll continue to play the old white horse. … Or is it the village idiot that I am?”

He drove back to town through a pale sunlight and arranged to keep the car for an indeterminate period.

Inland, an Indian had seen blue lights over a forest, and in another forest there had been an explosion. He recalled the newspaper accounts. But both phenomenons had been adequately investigated. His own idea took no thought of either. It was a good idea, too, he decided for the one hundredth time. Simple and startling. Wasn’t it always the simple explanations that were most startling? The trouble with the detective business was that its reasoning processes were all cut and dried. They ran in channels worn deep by years of organized, filed and card-indexed thinking. What the profession lacked was imagination of the village-idiot kind. The constabulary mind was a terrible thing. An airplane scheduled for Ireland and wrecked in Baffin Bay would, inevitaably, be supposed to have lost its way. But suppose its pilot to have been aiming at the pole!

On the whole, Pendarvis decided, he would stick to the coastline, as nearly, anyway, as possible…. He drove into the charming village of Bannockburn and again made inquiry at the water’s edge. A little later, at Cooper’s Landing, he repeated his inquisition. At Cannonball he filled his tanks, listened to a succession of dreary negatives, and again drove on to the north. He lunched thoughtfully at Millpond, and took the road for Gaylord slightly discouraged…. Could the Indian runners have been right, after all?

For a week he drove steadily northward, as the Canadian winter threatened. His inquiries were at once frank and infinitely cautious. It was not his plan to reveal his secret thought. The investigation was strictly his own. He had no wish for such dubious assistance as might be furnished by newspaper publicity, either in Canada or at home. Besides which, false hopes might be raised. Certainly new lies would be told. It was astonishing the effect newspaper reports had upon the popular intelligence. People at once began to remember things that had never happened…. Meanwhile, he familiarized himself with the Canadian coastline, and when opportunity offered asked casual questions about its conformation.

Only an inn landlord at Millpond had been of the slightest assistance. The landlord at Millpond—whose astringent misnomer, he had discovered, was Whistler—had mentioned a headland that pushed out into the sea some miles beyond the town. It was said to be a spot inaccessible by man from the sea and unvisited by man from the land. Quite possibly it might prove to be an admirable spot for a mishap.

North of Millpond there had been nothing significant. Since he had left the furtive Grimwood behind him at Cappadocia, indeed, there had been no human soul to testify to anything.

Satisfied, at length, he returned to Millpond and arranged for lodgings. That evening he leaned against a pine bar, as men had once lounged in his own land, and addressed the landlord.

“This headland that you spoke of, Mr. Whistler,” he observed. “Is it difficult to reach?”

Mr. Whistler spat with great accuracy across the room. “Well, no, it ain’t,” he responded. “It ain’t so difficult, you know. It’s just this: nobody ever goes there.”

“Why not?”

“Why should they?” asked Mr. Whistler amiably. “They ain’t nothing there.”

“Ah,” said Pendarvis, and he lifted his eyebrow mysteriously, “but what if there should be a wreck there?” He lowered his voice. “The wreck of an airplane—maybe the Skylark, eh?”

“Go on with ye!” said Mr. Whistler.

“Upon my word, it’s possible,” argued Pendarvis. “Look here, now, I’ve been thinking it over. Put yourself in that pilot’s place for a moment, Mr. Whistler. Suppose you were bound for Europe and something went wrong with your plane—along this coast—before you’d reached your turning point for Ireland. Suppose you had to come down and get started all over again. What would you do?”

Mr. Whistler pondered this remarkable situation. “I suppose I’d come down,” he answered at length.

“Of course you would! You’d have to. But where would you come down? You’d realize that you had to take off again. You’d realize that your plane was not a seaplane, so you couldn’t land on the water. You’d realize that you didn’t know what was inland—exactly; forests perhaps and God knows what. And probably you’d realize that you had to make up your mind pretty quickly. I’ll tell you what you’d do. You’d fly low and keep a sharp lookout for anything that looked like a good landing place; and if you saw something big and black and flat and solid sticking out into the ocean, you’d be pretty glad. Wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe I would,” said Mr. Whistler, a light in his eyes. He could, in fact, see himself doing it.

“Well, I think that’s what Llantrisant did,” said Pendarvis. “He was heard at Cappadocia, and he hasn’t been heard of anywhere north of there. What’s the answer to that? The answer is: either he turned off over the ocean after he passed Cappadocia, or he came down shortly afterward. If he came down, where did it happen? Nothing’s been found in the water. He came down someplace where he could take off again. But suppose he tried to take off again—and couldn’t! Suppose he wrecked himself trying to get away?”

“He’d be in a bad way,” agreed Mr. Whistler. “Well, well, so that’s what you think!”

“That’s what I think, and I think also that if I were a shrewd fellow living at Millpond, with a likely headland like yours sticking out into the ocean, I’d look around a bit and have a try for the reward.”

“Hm’m!” said Mr. Whistler.

“I’ve half a notion to go it alone,” added Pendarvis. “Could I find it without a guide?”

“It’s a long way, and a stiff climb,” said Mr. Whistler. “Look here now, Mr. Pendarvis, why shouldn’t you and I do this together? I can get a guide that’ll keep his mouth shut for a few dollars—and you’ve got a car.”

Pendarvis stroked his chin. He reached a weighty decision.

“I’ll take you on that,” he said with a slow wink.

They shook hands across the bar.

4.

The search party comprised Pendarvis, the landlord, and a local constable who knew the region and was no stickler about duty. The constable, it was revealed, had been hilariously named Whewell, a more difficult performance upon the lips than Whistler. He was a morose and singularly silent man.

They piled into Pendarvis’s car after breakfast the next morning, and publicly announced their intention of searching the forests surrounding Millpond for traces of the missing plane. It was as well, they thought, not to have the entire population of Millpond—597 souls, by the census of 1890—congregated on the headland. A frank declaration might send them all into the forests and keep them from following the car.

In his conversation with the Millpond landlord Pendarvis had not been strictly truthful, yet he had told no outright falsehoods. Everything that he had hinted might, for all he actually knew, be the veritable case. Before committing himself to anything final, indeed, he realized that he must investigate the headland. It was not remarkable, he reflected, that no search as yet had been made at that point. No rumors of Llantrisant’s passing had come out of Millpond, or out of the immediate vicinity. The Canadian government’s investigation had been careful and reasonably intelligent, but its flyers had skimmed the forests, inland, on the trail of blue lights that were only natural phenomenons. No boats had searched the waters near Millpond.

It was pleasant to know that he was breaking fresh ground; that no one had been ahead of him messing up the trail. Not that he expected to find the Skylark’s plane in ruins upon the Millpond headland. He expected nothing of the sort. It was his plan, if feasible, to look farther out; if necessary, to charter a boat and scour the neighboring ocean for flotsam. But the headland itself might tell the entire story.

The journey was difficult enough, and at the base of the steep incline of bare rock they deserted the car and continued on foot.

The promontory at Millpond may be said somewhat to resemble the famous North Cape. A map of the region in bas-relief would show it as rising from the lower land, steeply at first, then gradually, to a height of perhaps two hundred feet. At this altitude it began to resemble a rather long loaf of bread, thrusting some hundreds of yards into the water which raged at all times around its lower edges. It was a magnificent spot for a disaster, and, at the same time, as Pendarvis was quick to observe, a magnificent spot for a take-off.

Mr. Whistler thought so too. He offered an observation.

“It comes to this,” he said. “If he smashed here, they’re both dead. If they weren’t, we’d ’a’ heard of them before this, even if they’d got lost in the woods. If the bodies are in the woods, our people’ll find them. Did you say there was a reward offered for the bodies?”

“Dead or alive,” Pendarvis assured him.

They had reached the plateau, panting. A vicious breeze swept in from the sea and they buttoned themselves tightly against it, pushing forward across the flat. But already Pendarvis had discovered a part of what he had come to find: two large and heavy stones, one on either side of the natural causeway, and almost equi-distant from its sides. The winds and rains had been unable to dislodge them. Their size and position were eloquent. They were capable of withstanding an angry storm or of bracing the straining wheels of an unleashed plane.

Other stones upon the headland were less fortuitously fallen, less mathematically placed upon the surface of the rock.

Yet there should be other indications, surely, thought the investigator. Nothing ridiculous, of course! He did not expect to find a cuff link or a monogrammed handkerchief. Something, perhaps, deliberately left to show that a landing had been effected? Why not?

It had been still morning, no doubt, when they came down, and not many hours after their departure. They would alight, of course, facing the land. The great machine would have had to be turned. Quite a task for a slim pilot and a slender girl, Pendarvis fancied. But no doubt it could be done.

He walked the long length of the headland, slowly, his eyes on either side of the track. Then for a time he stood at the windy peak and stared outward at the bleak expanse of heaving water. He looked downward to the wave-swept base, and the depth and the white smother of foam and spray made him dizzy.

He strolled back to his companions.

“Their wreckage, of course,” he said, “would drift back to land, sooner or later, and depending upon how far eastward they flew. That is, if they took off again at this spot. Well, they were here!”

Mr. Whistler suddenly screamed. “You think they were here?” he repeated in shrill falsetto.

“I’m certain of it,” said Pendarvis. “Still, I should like a little more proof, I confess. Did you ever hear the story of the white horse and the village idiot, Mr. Whistler? Or did I ask you that before? Not that it makes any difference! They didn’t stop off at your inn, I suppose, for cigarettes and coffee?”

“Cigarettes and coffee!” cried Mr. Whistler. He turned his bewildered eyes upon the silent constable.

“Well, if the horse were cold he’d want a cup of hot coffee,” argued Pendarvis, “and if he’d been without a smoke for some time he’d want a cigarette.”

Mr. Whistler had no words to say.

“What kind of cigarettes do you smoke around here?” pursued the investigator. “Quite seriously!”

It appeared that several brands were smoked, and that the favorite was called Crown Sweepstakes. Pendarvis had heard of none of them. Obviously, American cigarettes were unknown. And it was inconceivable that Llantrisant, given opportunity, had failed to smoke a cigarette or two. If he had smoked them upon the headland all traces were, of course, gone forever; but if the wind blew that morning on the headland as it was blowing this morning upon the headland, the smoking had gone forward elsewhere.

Pendarvis began a careful descent of the path by which he had ascended, followed by his companions. At an advantageous point some fifty feet below the summit he seated himself upon a boulder and looked backward and upward along the trail. To the left, as he faced the height, a ledge of rock formed a slight footpath that led nowhere in particular. It ended, indeed, in a blank face of stone at a distance of about thirty feet; but midway there was a fissure that was significant.

He strode upward again and navigated the ledge. In a few moments his companions below saw him wriggle swiftly into the fissure and disappear within the face of the rock. A moment later his head was thrust forth and his voice addressed them.

“Yes,” said Pendarvis, “this is where they came to smoke. And probably to warm themselves. The stubs of their cigarettes are still here, and also the stubs of their matches. Both American, as I had supposed.”

The head vanished as Whistler and Whewell began a frantic scramble for the ledge. In the narrow cave—barely six feet in depth and even less in width—they discovered him on his knees, flashing his pocket torch in all corners of the stone closet.

“You see?” Pendarvis indicated the four stubs that lay in the palm of his free hand, and the six match ends that lay beside them. The stubs—three of them —were quite plainly marked with the name of the cigarette, while the fourth had obviously been smoked wrong end to. The matches, torn from a paper packet, were readily identifiable.

“It was easy,” explained Pendarvis, “because I had already made up my mind what had happened.” To Whewell he observed: “It’s really the only sensible method to follow. Well, score one again for the village idiot.”

He was raving mad, of course. Whistler was certain of that, and so was Whewell. His conversation proved it. Yet somehow he had found something tangible and important.

“They smoked here for a time, warmed themselves, and then returned to the plane,” said Pendarvis. “What happened after that would seem to be obvious. I suggest that the plane is out there beneath the water—probably not very far out, either—and that in time some parts of it will drift ashore. Why not get a boat—hire a tug or a battleship—and comb these waters until you find something, you two?”

The constable, Whewell, broke his remarkable silence. “You mean you are withdrawing, sir?”

“Yes, I’m through. It may take weeks, after all, and I can’t wait that long. You needn’t mention me at all, if you like.”

He was magnificent.

Then Mr. Whistler looked at Constable Whewell and Constable Whewell looked back at Mr. Whistler. It was Mr. Whistler who spoke.

“There’s John Barney’s boat we could get,” he said thoughtfully, “but we’d have to tell John what we wanted it for.”

The constable nodded morosely. “Better that than nothing,” he answered.

It was reluctantly decided that John Barney would have to have a slice of the reward.

5.

Driving westward out of Millpond, Pendarvis looked thoughtfully at the railroad station, then shook his head. Llantrisant would not have taken a train. Not at Millpond, anyway. At Falconbridge he stopped and sent a long wire to his chief which, decoded, informed the ogre that in a short time he might expect to hear that the wreckage of Llantrisant’s plane had been found off the Canadian coast. He added, “Don’t let it alarm you,” and suggested that a suitable reward be paid the salvagers. The signature was simply “Old White Horse.” Then for a time he sat very still and turned things over in his mind.

Llantrisant would probably buy a car. It was what, in the rôle of Old White Horse, he would have done himself. Purchase of a ticket at a railroad station might betray a destination, and Llantrisant was no fool. He would be bound to consider the possibility of a chase, however safe he might feel. And, of course, there might be no destination in Llantrisant’s mind. He might just drive and drive and drive until he decided to stop. Decidedly, he would buy a car and avoid the railroads.

Pendarvis went to the leading automobile agency in Falconbridge and drew a discouraging blank. It was the only agency in town. However, there was a garage man who sold cars at second hand, and the garage man remembered Mr. Pendarvis’s friend very well. His name was Smith, wasn’t it? Pendarvis agreed.

“About three weeks ago it was,” said the garage man. “I sold him a nice little car at a bargain. Yep, he was alone all right. I had quite a chat with him. He said he was goin’ up north for some shootin’—up Balaklava way.”

“Happy sort of cuss,” contributed Pendarvis. “I’ll be glad to see him again. Always singing!”

“That’s him,” said the garage man. “He was singin’ to himself kinda while he was lookin’ over the car.”

“Thanks very much,” nodded Pendarvis, and hastened back to his car.

There were two roads out of Falconbridge, a north road and a road that ran southwest. Llantrisant had said he was going north, so without hesitation Pendarvis swung into the southwest road and sped merrily toward the next township.

Was Llantrisant’s remark about some shooting up north really a blind? Pendarvis believed it was. Certain, no doubt, that he was perfectly safe, the aviator was, nonetheless, covering his trail like a good and resourceful man. It was what Pendarvis would have done himself. But the next town would tell the tale, perhaps. No, the next town but one! In the next town Llantrisant would have been a fool to leave a trail, since it would betray too early the game he was playing.

Pendarvis sped through Newcastle without stopping. At Canterville he began to entertain qualms. There was still no trace of the “singing fool.”

Beyond Canterville the road forked—an awkward situation—and the second road was no mere bypath but a broad highway sweeping away to the north with the curve of a river. The main road continued as ever, westward and slightly southward, and lined as always with interminable pines. Happily, a shanty squatted at a small distance from the crossroads, and Pendarvis descended and approached it.

In a cleared space behind the shack a thin woman was removing a straggly washing from a line.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” apologized the investigator, “but a friend of mine came through here about three weeks ago, and I’m rather afraid he lost his way. He must have passed your home, I figure, some time between eight and nine at night. You don’t remember anybody stopping to ask directions, I suppose?”

The thin woman removed a clothespin from her mouth and for a moment was silent. Then she shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” said Pendarvis again. Then his face brightened. “Perhaps you heard him singing then? Somebody driving past and singing? You’d be sure to remember that.”

The woman’s eyes opened wider and suddenly she smiled.

“Mister,” she said, “I thought you were making game of me until you said that. But I did hear someone singing, one night two or three weeks ago. And between eight and nine o’clock, just as you say. My husband heard it, too, and we both looked at the clock. We were just going to bed. We thought it was a drunken man. He was going by in an automobile.”

“That was my friend,” said Pendarvis solemnly. “Was he singing loudly, Mrs.—er—?”

“My name’s Schofield, and he was singing loudly,” said the thin woman. “He was singing at the top of his lungs. I’ll tell you what he was singing. He was singing, ‘Glory, glory, Hallelujah!’”

“He must have been drunk,” agreed Pendarvis. “Which way was he driving, Mrs. Schofield?”

“Well, sir, he turned north, right here, and that’s a fact. I remember very plain now. You see, this house’s a little closer to the north road and you can hear things plainer. He turned north and came past the house, still singing, and making a loud noise with his automobile.”

“A loud noise?”

“Like he was dragging a lot of chains or old iron,” said Mrs. Schofield.

“Cut-out open,” nodded Pendarvis. “Well, well, what a racket he must have kicked up. You didn’t notice whether he was alone, I suppose?”

“I couldn’t say as to that,” asseverated Mrs. Schofield. “He went past pretty fast-like.”

Pendarvis removed his hat again. “Thank you very much,” he said. “You have helped me a great deal.”

As he returned to his car Pendarvis told himself that he was a good detective. “A long shot, ladies and gentlemen,” he grinned, seating himself at the wheel, “but a bull’s eye! The beggar’s leaving a false trail across Canada as sure as I’m a democrat!”

He pushed his foot against the accelerator and moved westward along the highway, while the helpful woman who still watched him pointed wildly northward, certain that he had misunderstood her directions. He was somewhat inclined to venture the Hallelujah song himself.

Llantrisant, of course, after his spectacular performance before the shanty, had returned quietly to the southern road. What a painstaking beggar he was, to be sure!

The road held little traffic and Pendarvis drove rapidly, his thoughts spinning as swiftly as his wheels. The trail was plain enough, and its purpose was clear. Here and there, as he fled westward, the aviator was dropping hints intended to lead a pursuer astray. They were clever hints, but they were not clever enough. All a pursuer need do was disregard them or turn them inside out. But it could not continue thus indefinitely, for once the hound had realized the game, the hare was lost. Possibly the hare had also considered that contingency. Perhaps in time he would actually drive northward, while the shrewd hound, sardonically smiling, followed the westward track.

But for another day Pendarvis followed the western highway, and ever and again there were whispers of the man who preceded him. It was a thorough job that Llantrisant was doing, leaving a spoor that pointed constantly northward yet never permanently left the western road.

Beyond Lethbridge, when he had been journeying for two days, Pendarvis saw an inner tube by the roadside. It lay not too far from a small gatehouse that was the entrance to an estate. He slowed down and after a moment returned to it. The thing looked guilty. It was as if Llantrisant had autographed it and dropped it overboard. He descended and picked it up. Examination told him nothing, and he turned to the gatehouse.

There was a caretaker in charge of the place, an elderly fellow with pleasant features and snow-white hair, who recalled the incident perfectly. A tire had been exchanged there about three weeks before. A young man and a young woman had stopped at the roadside for nearly an hour.

“I trust that the incident did not annoy him,” observed Pendarvis ironically. “I venture to suppose he was happy about it.”

“Happy?” echoed the old man.

“I have observed,” explained the investigator, “that there are two kinds of auto drivers: those who swear while they are exchanging a tire and those who sing. My friend was the singing kind.”

The caretaker chuckled. “Then I’m afraid this wasn’t your friend,” he said, “for he did some powerful swearing. Not in front of the lady, I must confess. She was walking in the road—probably to stretch her legs.”

“Were her—ah—legs enclosed in breeches and gaiters?” asked Pendarvis. “My friend and his wife had been away on a hunting trip.”

“She was dressed like a—a lady,” said the caretaker, “and I saw no guns.”

Pendarvis nodded his thanks. “Then no doubt I’ve lost the trail,” he agreed.

As he sat again behind the wheel he glanced out casually at the length of wire that ran in from the roadway and disappeared at an angle of the small house. There was a telephone within. Just what, he wondered, had Llantrisant told this engaging old liar of a caretaker? And would the old man, as soon as he was out of sight, put through a warning call? The whole episode appeared to be a trifle deliberate and considered.

He drove westward slowly, revolving his thoughts. But the trail had vanished. Town after town he strung upon his thread without result. The days went by and still the length of Canada stretched before him.

A thought came to him one evening at dinner, and he slowly set down his coffee cup and stared for a long time at a grease spot on the hotel ceiling. He had gone wrong, at last—he had been led astray. Now he must return to the point at which he had been betrayed.

What was that point?

In the morning, bright and early, he took the back trail at a clip that threatened to overturn the car.

6.

Two miles west of Lethbridge Pendarvis halted his machine and looked around him. He drove on more slowly and at length ran the car into a narrow lane and parked it where it was unlikely to be seen.

He was on foot when for the second time he approached the gatehouse. Avoiding it, he crawled through a fence and stood listening, for an instant, on private grounds.

The main dwelling—a hunting lodge, deserted for the winter, perhaps—was set well back in the wooded land. He pushed his way through a tangle of untamed trees and found a coiling footpath leading upward. For half a mile he followed the footpath, and struck at length into a broader road. On every hand still towered the great trees.

Then through the interstices appeared the shoulder of a house. A chimney was suddenly visible and a curl of smoke. He shrank into the deeper shadow of the trees.

After a time he moved cautiously again and toilsomely made a circuit of the lodge, coming upon it from the rear. Here another chimney was visible and another twist of smoke. There were sounds, also. Faintly at first, then more clearly, he made out the clink and clank of metal striking upon metal, and quite suddenly a man’s voice began to sing:

“Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,

Where are you now, who lies beneath your spell?

Whom do you lead …”

It came from a rambling shed that lay behind the lodge. He stepped into the open and cautiously approached. The door of the shed stood partly open. Inside a man was busy at a workman’s bench, and the clink and clank of metal sounded in the intervals of his singing. Pendarvis heard the remaining words of the song:

“Pale hands, pink-tipped, like lotus buds that float

On those cool waters where we used to dwell,

I would have rather felt you ’round my throat,

Crushing out life, than waving me farewell …”

It was a melancholy thing that Llantrisant sang. Could it be significant?

Pendarvis moved forward, and his footfall rang sharply on the hard earth. The man at the bench turned, then strode to the door. For an instant the two stood eye to eye.

“You’ve given me a long chase, Llantrisant,” said Pendarvis at last. He was calm enough, now that his moment had come.

“It was—ah—my intention,” answered the aviator. He smiled faintly. “I rather expected you, sooner or later.”

“The old man at the gate, I suppose?”

“Yes. We rather hoped we had seen the last of you when you went on.” The Skylark hesitated. “Was all this really necessary?” he asked.

“You must have known that her father would move heaven and earth,” said Pendarvis.

“I have been kept informed,” said the aviator. “I believe he has quite given us up.”

Pendarvis shrugged. “That is true,” he admitted, “but his subordinates have carried on. In a way, I’m sorry. It was a splendid idea.”

“What?”

“To marry Miss Strang and depart ostensibly for Ireland on a transatlantic flight. To be lost apparently at sea, but actually to wreck your own plane and hide yourself away in Canada. The plan occurred to me because it is what I might have done myself in the same circumstances. I found your traces on the headland, you see—the stones that had braced your wheels, the cigarettes and matches you left in the cave.”

“They were intended to be found” said Llantrisant dryly.

“So I supposed; but they told me another story than the story they were intended to tell. It was not certain, of course, until I struck your trail in the villages. My first thought was that you had carried a dummy with you, and that Miss Strang would join you by rail when you had found a sanctuary.”

The aviator nodded. “I considered that,” he confessed.

“Frankly, Llantrisant, I think you made only one error.”

“Really? What was that now?”

“You should have flown to some island far off the track of ships.”

“No,” said Llantrisant. “It was necessary, you see, that the plane should be found.”

“Then it has been found? I had not heard.”

“It was found shortly after you left Millpond, I fancy. Old Thomas, whom you met at the gate, got the news for me. He walks a few miles every day for the papers.” He smiled. “Besides, I know of no such islands as you describe, in the Atlantic. In the Pacific, perhaps.” He smiled again. “Won’t you sit down?”

Pendarvis entered the shed. Still eyeing each other warily, they lighted cigarettes and continued their discussion.

“I think it was that idea that occurred to me first,” said Pendarvis. “Those fellows who were lost over the Pacific—that young woman, too, you remember? Suppose, I thought, they were flying from justice or from injustice. There are many scattered islands in the Pacific—some even in the Hawaiian group, I believe. Lost islands, forgotten islands, Crusoe islands, eh? And if they loved each other, a pair of them—you see? The world need never know!”

Llantrisant nodded his head. “Frankly, I wish I had tried the Pacific,” he laughed. “We were married, of course, before we left the States.”

“I know. I suspected it, and so I scouted around the smaller townships until I ran that down. It wasn’t difficult. The difficulty was to keep it out of the papers, I presume.”

“It cost us quite a penny,” admitted the aviator. “A clergyman, of course, wouldn’t have listened for a minute; but we found a local justice whose scruples were not great.”

“I found him, too,” said Pendarvis, “and it cost me a pretty penny … to make him come across.”

They laughed together as if it were an excellent joke.

“I suppose it is your purpose, now, to reveal the fraud and take me back?” inquired Llantrisant pleasantly. “I wonder if we can’t come to terms abou that, too. What do you say? The opposition to our marriage was considerable; our wish to be married was great. We are very genuinely in love, you know. Does that mean nothing to you? I shouldn’t think of offering you money; but must you make it awkward for us? Mr. Strang deserves no such consideration. He showed us none whatever.”

“Was it your plan to disappear forever?” asked Pendarvis.

“Oh, no! Indeed, I think I can promise you that within—say a year—we shall return and make our own confession. I’ve invented a motor—a rather good one, I think. It isn’t ready yet. When it is, it means a great deal of money and complete independence of W. Morton Strang. In the meantime, we have enough. But I’d like to go ahead with my motor. It’s there on the bench, part of it. I’ll explain it to you, if you like. But stay with us a day or two, Pendarvis. I’d like you to meet Mrs. Llantrisant.” He smiled and added: “She is very charming. You’re not a bad fellow, yourself, you know. You confessed that you were a bit sorry to have found us.”

Pendarvis looked worried. “Suppose I feel that I must refuse?” he said.

“Upon my word, Pendarvis, I’d hate to do it; but I’d do my best to overpower you, and then I’d leave you under lock and key until we had moved on again. You wouldn’t find us so easily the next time, perhaps. My dear man, you don’t want to continue this chase indefinitely!”

Pendarvis smiled. “Do you really mean to return, I wonder?” he mused. “Or are you putting me off? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. I have small sympathy with Mr. Strang, I confess. I’m thinking of my reputation. If I return without you, and say nothing, it is simply failure for me. I’ll have to admit it.”

“You have been exceedingly clever,” said the aviator. “Only a very clever man could have followed us as you did. We had no idea we would be followed, actually. I left the trail merely ‘in case.’”

Pendarvis grinned and bowed.

“And when we return,” continued the aviator, “we shall both be happy to refurbish your reputation—although I doubt that it will greatly suffer. At least, let Mrs. Llantrisant add her entreaties to mine.”

But Pendarvis was still only half convinced. Had it not been for Marian Llantrisant, perhaps …

She was all that her husband had asserted. She was very charming. Her eyes opened widely.

“Why, Mr. Pendarvis!” she cried. “Of course you won’t betray us!”

Pendarvis sighed and smiled. She was quite right, of course. He would not betray them. Things happened that way. But would he dare to tell the miserable truth to his chief? Would that bald-headed ogre understand? Somehow, Pendarvis thought that he might. And a year was not so long a time to wait. Better perhaps to keep his own counsel, accept the blame and the failure, hang his head, take his medicine. But he was a good detective. After all, one’s own convictions were all that mattered.

He would have to wire the chief at once.

Meanwhile, he was talking happily enough to the fugitives and planning to accept their hospitality. Oh, yes! A fine detective he was!

“Can I get a wire off to New York, I wonder?” he asked at length.

“Certainly. You can telephone it to Lethbridge, where it will be relayed,” said Llantrisant.

“Then I think I’ll write one—,” said Pendarvis, and he wrote:

Hawkins, Interailco, New York. Sorry report failure my search old white horse. Home shortly receive your gentle reproof. Have you an assignment in Kamchatka for about a year? Truly rural.

He hesitated and signed the message “Village Idiot.” There was no need to code it. It was sufficiently absurd as it stood.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Llantrisant, once Marian Strang of national celebrity, was humming and rattling cups and saucers in a cabinet. Somewhere about the premises the Skylark was shouting something rollicking and triumphant.

After all, what was failure and what was success? Did anybody know?

Pendarvis listened for a time, and a smile curved his lips. “The singing fools!” he muttered, almost affectionately.

The Ace of Clubs

1.

Popinjay, had it been his good fortune to live in other days, would have ridden with Prince Rupert. He would have barged it up the Nile with Antony and Cleopatra. He would have stormed the breach at Badajos or carried the good news from Ghent to Aix. Listen, my children, and you shall hear! He would gladly have changed places with Paul Revere, on the evening of that memorable gallop.

So, at least, it had always seemed to Popinjay. The only trouble was that he had been born too late for real adventure. Even the great war of the nations had left him in the backwash—a middle-aged widower with a daughter in college and a nearsightedness that would have rendered him unfit, perhaps, for the Grand Army of the Republic.

And so, instead of performing epic deeds, Popinjay read them diligently in books and dreamed them in his slumbers. His preference was for romantic adventure touched with mystery, the sort of thing that Stevenson dreamed and wrote in words of inimitable wonder.

His name was not Popinjay. It was George Poppin, really, but his middle name happened to be Jay. He concealed it behind an initial, of course, but it is hard to conceal a name like that behind a letter. Not that he really minded being called Popinjay. To the contrary, he approved of nicknames; they savored of a picturesque popularity. But he would have liked it better if he had been called—say—Stingaree, or Squint, or something mysterious and sinister.

To his daughter he was merely Poppin, a pleasant compromise between the juvenile Papa and the name which, some day, she hoped to exchange for another.

So much for George Jay Poppin—for George J. Poppin—for Poppin. Can you see him, the funny little man, curled up in his big chair before the fire (on cold or rainy nights), his thick lenses and owlish eyes bent upon the pages of the latest mystery thriller?

2.

“Poppin,” said Miss Sylvia Poppin, on a night of fog and drizzle, “you should really do something besides read. It’s a wonder to me that you have any eyes left.” She crossed the room and forcibly pushed against the covers of his book until she could read the title. “What is it now? Tchk-tchk! You’ll be awake half the night.”

Her father looked up with a tolerant smile. “So will you, darling,” he mildly responded. “I suppose you are going somewhere, in spite of the rain?”

She nodded gayly. “But I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t here with all the windows closed, reading yourself blind. Poppin, why don’t you join some nice club? I’m sure there must be some nice ones where you could meet other men and talk. Where you could play bridge —or billiards. Didn’t you used to like to play billiards, Poppin?”

“Chess, darling,” responded her father, “not billiards. But either is as bad for the eyes as reading. And I have no talent for conversation. No, run along, my dear, and don’t worry about the old man. He’s very happy as he is. The sort of clubs your father might have joined are long vanished—gone with the days of old romance. Henceforth, my club is here among my books.” He pinched her arm affectionately. “Tell Bert he needn’t be so quiet when he comes up the steps with you, sometime to-morrow morning. I shall be up and around.”

She patted his bald spot with a dainty hand. “Of course, you ought to be in bed and asleep, Poppin,” said Miss Sylvia Poppin. “I don’t know how you ever get to the office in the morning.”

“I am a rapid sleeper, darling,” said her father, returning to his book with a chuckle.

Her quick movements about the house backgrounded his reading for a time, then all sense of her left him and he was again plunged into the heart of romantic mystery. The doorbell rang, but he did not hear it. For a moment two young people regarded him smilingly from the hall, then the front door closed after them. Long after the hum of the motor that carried them away had been lost in the fog and rain, George J. Poppin continued to read deeply in his book. At length, with a little sigh, he closed it upon the last page and, leaning back in his chair, closed his eyes.

He had read the great story before, but it never failed to stir him. He opened his eyes and looked at the lettering upon the book’s cover. After a moment he smiled. The Suicide Club. No wonder his daughter had tchked! There were later thrillers around him, but this was the one to which most frequently he returned.

Not that there was any thought of suicide in the mind of the good Popinjay. Perish the thought! Life was very sweet. It is the man of healthy mind and robust imagination who reads of suicide with intellectual enjoyment … He glanced at the tall clock ticking in the corner. It was close upon midnight, and his daughter would hardly return before two. He had no worries about her. She was a very competent girl; able to look after herself. He did not exactly approve of the younger generation. Their ideals were not his own. Their music and their conversation was an abomination. He pitied rather than disapproved of them. But they were a competent gang, he could not but admit. Heigh-ho!

He yawned and rose to his feet. Crossing the room, he pulled aside the curtain and looked out into the night. Still raining, but the fog had lifted somewhat. It was a stark and sinister night, a night for a wild pursuit, for an adventure up a side street, for a beautiful woman and a carriage with drawn blinds. And his daughter was dancing her pretty legs off somewhere with a scapegrace from Urbana. They would return in a taxicab with clanking chains, and the stern beauty of the night would mean nothing to them but an excuse for a cocktail and an additional embrace.

Speaking of cocktails!

He recrossed the room to a handsome cabinet and produced a cut-glass decanter of whisky. He tossed off a stiff noggin, shuddered, and replaced the decanter and glass. His daughter had threatened more than once to throw them both out. Not that she objected to whisky. It was the cut glass she disliked. Her own little flask was of silver, and had her name upon it in facsimile of her notorious script.

Yes, the days of romance and adventure were at an end. He clasped his hands together as the fiery liquor coursed in his veins. He took three nimble skipping steps across the floor and pirouetted before a mirror. He was really quite ridiculous. Then he reseated himself and reached a hand toward a pile of books….

It was at this moment that the doorbell pealed, and there was something in the quality of that peal that brought George J. Poppin upright with alert senses and a queer sensation in the pit of his stomach. Just so a doorbell had pealed at midnight as a prelude to the murder of Sir Ronald Twelvetrees, in that capital crime mystery called The Staircase of Swords.

For a moment he hesitated. Then something of his morning manner returned to him, and he said “Pshaw!” He knew that it was probably a boy with a telegram, or a note from his daughter to say that she would stay the night with Helen Henderson.

The liquor still held him in thrall, however, and he had too recently laid aside The Suicide Club. Nothing of this sort ever had happened to him before. With cautious steps, he advanced into the hallway. Through the curtains that screened the glass of the door he vaguely discerned two figures on the steps without. The door, by good fortune, had a chain.

Once more he said “Pshaw!” and seized the knob of the door with firm hand, opening a crevice fully three inches wide before the chain caught.

“Yes?” said George J. Poppin, a bit querulously.

The strangers were muffled to their ears in one direction, and to their heels in another.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Poppin,” said the foremost, with a little bow, “but Mr. Capper has been suddenly taken ill, and he wants to see you. Sorry to knock you up at this hour.”

There was nothing in the situation to suggest a trap. In life, traps are laid more plausibly sometimes than in books. No premonition of disaster filled the silences of George J. Poppin’s soul, for Mr. Capper was his employer and a very proper man indeed.

Relief and a sense of ironic dismay filled the soul of the good Popinjay at the same instant. It could only have been something like this! On the heels of his first emotions ran a third: anxiety for Mr. Capper. He must be very ill indeed to send for George Poppin at such an hour. And so George Poppin threw caution to the winds and at the same instant threw open the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Will you come in?”

“No time for that, I’m afraid,” answered the spokesman, his voice issuing from the depths of the great collar that was turned up about his features. “The fact is, he’s at the hospital—St. Luke’s. Operation necessary at once. Wants to see you before they begin.”

“Good God!” said Poppin. “Wait! I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He dashed back to the end of the hallway and seized his hat and coat from the rack, struggling into the latter as he came back to the door.

“Am I to bring anything?” he asked, pausing with his hand on the knob.

“Nothing was said about that.”

“All right,” said Poppin, “I’m ready. I say, hadn’t we better get a cab?”

“Mr. Capper’s car is here, sir,” said the spokesman courteously. His voice was queer and high. He indicated a large and expensive touring car that stood at the curb, its engine purring like a giant cat.

They plunged down the steps together and crossed the sidewalk in haste. A third man, similarly muffled to his eyes, sat in the driver’s seat. The blinds of the car were drawn down, the summoned man noted, but the romantic significance of the fact did not register. He climbed into the back seat and flopped down against the cushions. The man who had addressed him climbed in beside him, and the stranger who had remained silent slid in beside the driver.

The purr of the engine rose to a crescendo in the gray night, and the great car moved away from the curb. At insane speed it crossed the first intersecting thoroughfare and headed along a white stretch of boulevard whose lights, in narrowing perspective, fused in the distance into a single blob of radiant white fire.

For an armchair dreamer, George Poppin had an excellent sense of direction.

“I say,” he said suddenly, “aren’t we going the wrong way for St. Luke’s?”

For a fleeting moment the driver turned his head. Two hard gray eyes gleamed for an instant from under his pulled-down cap. “Yes,” he answered ironically, “we are.”

The acid voice had the quality of a knife gleam. In three simple words it seemed to cut through centuries of sham and pretense. It stripped the living spine out of the marrow that was George Poppin and left that entity a protoplasmic mass, incoherently groping for utterance.

“Then what—what—what is the idea?” asked George J. Poppin in a strange voice that he had difficulty in recognizing as his own.

But in his heart of hearts he knew! The impossible had come to pass. The centuries had rolled back their curtain and he was back in the days he had known were gone forever. His dream of ecstasy and horror had come true, and he was a prisoner in the hands of scoundrels whose object he could not guess.

He knew that he was very frightened.

3.

But there is a kind of quiet courage that succeeds acknowledged fright. George Poppin was not a coward. He merely knew that he was frightened, and, realizing it, he did nothing foolish. To try to leap from the swaying car, even if he had been able to open the door, would have been suicide. Nothing of the sort was in his conscious mind. Instead, a great wonder succeeded his first apprehension, and he lay quietly back against the cushions and turned the situation over in his mind.

It was incredible, but the fact remained that he was being kidnaped. He had a logical mind, when he cared to use it—orderly and consecutive. It made him a valuable and trusted assistant in the offices of Capper & Cameron, purchasing agents for a long line of out-of-town mercantile establishments. He was not wealthy, hence this outrage could not be directed against his pocketbook. In the circumstances, it seemed improbable that it was directed against his life. Nor could he think of any guilty secret that he possessed, which others might wish to know.

In the darkness beside him he felt his companion stir, and for an instant he shuddered away into his own corner. The queer, high voice that had spoken through the crevice of his doorway was speaking again. The speed of the car was slackening.

“There is no cause for alarm,” said the voice. “Of course, it is obvious to you that we have kidnaped you, and you are naturally wondering what our object may be. Your wonder is not isolated. All over the city of Chicago to-night autos are carrying other unwilling passengers toward a rendezvous. Like the others, you were chosen at random. A telephone directory was our only necessity. The pages were opened and a finger was placed upon a name. Yours was the fifth thus selected. There are fifty of you in all, now speeding toward an unimagined destination. You are part of a notable experiment, an experiment that is at once cultural and scientific. We ask only your acquiescence in our plans.”

“You would seem to have insured it,” responded Poppin, with a dry humor that he did not quite intend.

There was a short laugh from the front seat, and again for an instant the hard gray eyes glanced back at him.

“What is the nature of your—ah—your experiment?” he continued.

“If you are tractable,” answered the voice behind him, “you will not regret your part in it. Your curiosity is natural, but I can not answer you more fully, as yet.”

“And if I am not tractable?” persisted Poppin, his curiosity overcoming his apprehension.

“You will shortly become so,” snapped the harsh voice of the man in the driver’s seat. “That’ll be about enough conversation, too, Slim,” he added to Poppin’s companion. “If he stirs a finger from now on, tickle his ribs with your knife!”

“Right!” said Slim, briskly; and Poppin, subsiding quietly into his corner, was careful to keep his fingers in a state of immobility that bordered on paralysis.

But his active mind was miles ahead of the humming car. What was their “unimagined destination,” and what was the reception that would greet them there? Two circumstances stood out, although they were perhaps of minor consequence. First, the young man beside him was obviously a gentleman. He spoke like a gentleman. Second, the gray-eyed driver certainly was not. He spoke like a bully.

Only the glass before the driver’s seat was unobscured. Watching eagerly for some familiar landmark that would establish their position upon the map of Illinois, Poppin for a time saw nothing but endless lines of houses, closed and darkened for the night, and endless lines of arc lamps that ran away from their speeding vehicle at a velocity that was the equal of their own. The long avenue was singularly deserted. For a time he had hoped that a friendly—or even unfriendly—policeman would resent their wild career and pursue them on a motorcycle. But the motorcycle squad was scattered elsewhere. Its members, thought Poppin grimly, were doubtless gallivanting in respectable kitchens with disreputable housemaids. Possibly there was one in his own larder at the moment. He had said nothing to Alice, his housekeeper, about leaving the house, however.

Then the city was left behind, and the asphalt gave way to country roads and suburban stretches. The lights were now few and far between. Somber trees fled from their lights instead of arc lamps, and once a lean cat jumped, it seemed, from beneath their very wheels.

Poppin, almost numb, determined to risk a finger or a rib, albeit with some hesitation.

“I say,” he complained, “couldn’t I have a cigar or a cigarette?”

The driver spoke roughly. “Sure,” he said, “give him a box of cigars, Slim, and a quart of Bourbon!”

Again Poppin subsided into his corner. But he was becoming angry, and anger is an antidote to fear. What if he were to seize this callous driver suddenly from behind? Seize his infernal throat! He would lose his grasp on the wheel, and the car would twist sidewise and into—into what? It was difficult to say what lay on either side of the road. With a quart of Bourbon he might have tried it. His resentment mounted. Quite suddenly he realized that he was no longer afraid of these men around him. He calmly shifted his position until he was comfortable, then released his broadside.

“Well, gentleman,” he said coldly, “you have had a good time, to date, at my expense. Possibly my turn will come later. It’s a long worm, you know, that gathers no moss, and he who laughs last is worth two in the bush. You were entertaining for a little while, you cheap gun-toters, but you couldn’t scare me now with a brace of rattlesnakes. I don’t know what your game is, and I no longer care. It took three of you—and a damned lie—to put this thing over, and I think the bunch of you would run from a boy with a slingshot. Drive on, little gunmen! Drive anywhere you like. You no longer even interest me. In fact, you can go to hell!”

It was the Roaring Popinjay speaking, speaking like a character in a volume of 365 pages, and when he had finished he leaned back again in his corner, which he had left in the fervor of his address, and producing his cigar case and a box of matches, lighted a ten-cent cigar that was advertised on all billboards. After a moment he even crossed his knees.

A dead silence followed his declaration of independence, in the midst of which the man who sat beside the driver, and who had taken no part in the conversation, spoke for the first time. His voice was a heavy bass growl. “Such language!” he said regretfully. And the high voice of Poppin’s seat companion answered, “Deplorable!”

Reaction overcame the truculent bravado that for a moment had been Poppin. He wondered if he were going mad. And even as the plausible notion occurred to him, a lighted villa rose out of the night before them, like a drug store coming up out of the sea, and the car swept into a tree-lined drive and up the graveled avenue to the door.

Bewildered, Poppin permitted himself to be hustled out of the car and up a flight of steps. His three captors, still muffled to the ears, surrounded him, and before his astonished eyes, on the central panel of the door, he read a neatly-lettered card: “The Ace of Clubs.”

The door swung inward and revealed a lighted corridor giving onto a brilliantly lighted reception room, and down a curving stairflight at the far end of the corridor was advancing the hideous figure of a man in the garb of an executioner. Tall and lean and black, his features concealed from his chin to his hairline by a sable mask, and carrying in his hand a short and ugly ax of antique pattern, the apparition descended like a vision of judgment, and Poppin, bereft of speech and motion, knew that it was the executioner of Paris magically returned from another century.

The arms of his captors were pushed through his own, and he was urged over the doorsill. The door closed behind him. The blinding lights dazzled his eyes for a single instant, then all about him the house was plunged into blackness. Three pairs of arms still held him in their powerful grasp; but he had no thought of struggle. At last, he was sure of it. He was raving mad!

At his side a voice began to speak: “The time has come!”

Another voice caught up the line: “The walrus said!”

Somewhere he had heard the words before. A scarf fluttered for a moment before his face, then was pulled tight and quickly knotted about his eyes. A third voice finished the refrain: “To speak of many things!”

The lights flashed on again. He sensed them through the scarf, but his eyes remained in a relative darkness. Then a burst of laughter echoed from all parts of the house, and he felt himself pushed forward—forward—until he knew that he stood within the lighted reception chamber.

A hand snatched the binding scarf from his eyes, and he blinked in the sudden blaze of many electric globes. He knew it! He was surrounded by the fiends of the pit. Black, yellow, scarlet, and blue, they bordered him on every side; and somewhere in the distance a wailing violin was making diabolical music and a hollow voice was chanting words that he could not translate. His eyes accustomed themselves to the light. On all sides the fiends were skipping and dancing, men, women, and the devil, and every face was masked.

Sonorously, a great clock struck one. It is a temptation to record that, at the same instant, the Roaring Popinjay struck another; but nothing of the sort occurred. The Roaring Popinjay had vanished, and in his place stood a bewildered little man with a pathetic mustache, the ends of which he was vainly endeavoring to get into his mouth.

Upon the stroke, all sound ceased as at a signal. The great room was quiet. The gayly caparisoned fiends, that a moment before had twitched and skittered beside their victim, now stood mute and motionless in the grotesque postures in which the clock had caught them. From the gleaming company a man stepped forth with upraised hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a clear voice, “I present, as our newest member, the Roaring Popinjay, a rare bird plucked from the heart of humanity by the hand of Fate.”

“Let’s hear him roar,” called a voice from the background; but the interrupter was sh-h-ed to silence.

“By the hand of Fate,” continued the masked spokesman. “And where better may the hand of Fate adventure than in the leaves of a telephone book? We welcome the Roaring Popinjay to the Ace of Clubs.”

“Hear, hear!” cried the dominoes. “Speech, speech!”

“Mr. Poppin,” the voice continued, “I am informed that, on the whole, your conduct during the trying ordeal of voyage was exemplary. Your single outburst of a profane nature has been overlooked. Our agents, this evening, have listened to other profanity beside which yours was as the whisper of a mother to her babe. You are the last of the selected fifty to arrive. The others already have listened to our propositions and have agreed to our proposals. They stand about you in fantastic raiment awaiting the word from your lips that will make you one of our number. This, Mr. Poppin, is the Ace of Clubs—a clubhouse like none other in the world. For those who join our company there are rare delights. For those who decline our hospitality there is—the executioner!”

He stepped back, and the gaunt figure of the axman took his place. Behind his mask, his steel-blue eyes glittered with ominous menace.

It was, of course, impossible for George J. Poppin to remain a fool to the end. He had too much native common sense. During the speech of the masked leader the scales had dropped from his eyes. He was not mad at all. This was merely a company of harmless lunatics who, during the day, were no doubt sober men of business. Quite likely their masks concealed the features of certain of his own associates at the office. This, he supposed, was their idea of a joke. He had heard vaguely of their mad goings-on. But while he was not mad, he was still angry. Despite the idiom of the day, there is a subtle difference. Furthermore, George Poppin was no clubman. He had once refused to join a club that had no meeting place and no dues.

He smiled wryly. “Thank you very much,” he said, “but none of this is really my idea of a good time, you know. With your permission, I’ll risk the executioner, and ask you to call me a cab.”

An embarrassed silence fell upon the company. Even the executioner looked uneasy; as if, in spite of himself, he might be called upon to fulfill the duties of his office.

Then a clear, high voice struck through the silence like a flight of bird notes, and Poppin recognized the voice of him who had shared the back seat of the impromptu journey. The man called Slim.

“No,” it said, “we shall not call you a Cab, Mr. Poppin, nor any other such dreadful name. You are not a Cab. But neither, we hope, are you a quitter.”

For an instant insanity again threatened to overwhelm the Roaring Popinjay. He gripped himself and turned to the clear, high voice.

“Won’t you join us if I ask you to?” cried the slender girl who had spoken. And mask in hand she stood, while he stared into her lovely—too lovely—face.

It was an unusual situation. In the cab he had told himself that his companion was certainly a gentleman; but it appeared that she was a lady.

4.

It is an adage that one cannot resist the ladies. George Poppin had read it many times, and anyway he had more or less always believed it. He bowed over her hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, with a deprecatory cough, “there will be no need for the services of the executioner of Paris. From this instant I am of your company. Indeed, I think I have always been, possibly without realizing it. What, if I may ask, are the scientific and cultural objects of your club? Fantastic crime? A dead man in a desolate alley, the mark of a hoof cut deeply in his forehead? I am with you! A daring jewel robbery under the very noses of the police, and all the detectives baffled by our cunning? I am with you! Smuggling, bootlegging, dope peddling, opium smoking, arson, anarchy, treason, tax dodging, or procrastination? I am with you! Command me! Tell me what I am to do, and it shall be done! And unaccustomed as I am to public drinking, I think I could do with—there, there! Well, just a leetle more, if you will. It was a long journey and a wild one, and I am thinking of the sailors on a night like this.”

He accepted the proffered glass and tossed off its contents with a gesture that D’Artagnan himself could not have excelled.

“Helen,” he said to the girl beside him, “you are quite a darling!”

But the girl beside him fell away with a miniature shriek.

“What!” she cried. “You mean—you know me?”

“You are Helen Henderson, aren’t you? No, it was just a lucky guess. I’ve heard about you, though, and I think you plan to go on the stage. Well, well! You are a clever girl. Where, by the way, is my daughter?”

A tall figure in red emerged from the throng, and curtsied.

“It is you who are clever, Poppin,” said Miss Sylvia Poppin. Then her voice fell to a bass growl, and she added: “Such language!”

“Deplorable!” said Miss Henderson with a shake of her head. “He called me ‘darling.’”

A lot of masks began to come off.

“Whose house is this?” asked the Roaring Popinjay curiously.

“It’s Billy Teasdale’s uncle’s?” answered Miss Sylvia Poppin. “He’s the executioner. Not Billy—his uncle. Poppin, how long have you known what was going on?”

“I should like to answer, ‘Since page 3,’” responded the Roaring Popinjay. “Of course, the reader always knows all about these things from the beginning. But the truth is, I only began to guess after my little outburst in the car. Even then, I wasn’t sure.”

“Poppin,” said his daughter, “you are a dear old —liar!”

“I scribbled a little note, there in the darkness, after I’d lighted my cigar,” asserted George J. Poppin placidly. “Nobody noticed me. I dropped it on the floor of the car, where I suppose it is now. If you will look for it you’ll find that it reads something like this: ‘I may be all wrong, but I suspect my daughter has something to do with this.’ I wanted you to see it, just in case, you know—in case I was right. But that blindfolding—and Billy’s uncle—did sort of bewilder me for a while. No, I’ll confess, I wasn’t any too sure until I discovered that Helen wasn’t a gentleman but a lady…. But the note is out there in the car.”

The others drew away from them after a time, leaving them together.

“You know, Poppin,” said Miss Sylvia Poppin, “we don’t do this sort of mad thing every night.”

“No,” answered her father, “I fancy not. I’m rather glad you don’t. It was a masquerade and a lesson to me, I suppose—killing two birds with one stone. The driver, of course, was your precious Bert. Don’t do it again, there’s a darling. I’m really not up to it, you know, and there are so many books in the world that I have not yet read.”

Hours later he climbed painfully into bed.

“What an old fool I am, to be sure,” he muttered. “Well, I hope nobody thinks to look for that note in the car. I’m very much afraid that I must have imagined that note.”

Out There in the Dark

1.

Rain, and lots of it!” observed Miss Coolbrith gloomily. “That’s what we’re in for to-night, Mumford.”

Mrs. Mumford, general factotum, raised her eyes to as much sky as was visible through the open door, and nodded her head.

“Um,” she replied, in elderly agreement. “Looks like it, Miss Marian.” She nodded again several times. “Smells like it, and tastes like it, too.”

The girl on the veranda continued to be disconsolate. She lifted a pair of binoculars from a small table at her side and looked through them across a mile of water that separated them from the mainland.

“The clam diggers are actually going home,” she reported after a few moments. “I shouldn’t think they’d mind getting wet, with those old clothes on; and I’m sure the clams don’t mind. Perhaps it’s later than I thought.”

An instant later, glancing at her dainty wrist watch, she exclaimed in surprise. “Why, it’s nearly five o’clock, Mumford! I shall want some more wood for the fireplace. Where do you suppose Andy has gone to?”

“I haven’t seen him for some time, Miss Marian. I s’pose he’s round somewheres. He can’t go far on this island, that’s a comfort. But I can get in the wood as well as not.”

But Miss Coolbrith shook her head.

“Not a bit of it,” she declared. “You have enough to do of your own, without doing Andy’s work. I’ll call him.”

She unlatched the screen door of the sun porch and descended to the grass. For some moments the old housekeeper heard her voice calling the derelict houseman. Ten minutes later she was back.

“I can’t find him any place,” she said indignantly. “He’s not on the beach, and he’s not in the boathouse, but wherever he is he ought to have heard me. Do you suppose he’s gone to the mainland?”

“He might,” admitted Mrs. Mumford indulgently, out of her wide knowledge of the peculiarities of men. “I didn’t send him, though. And if the boat’s in the boathouse he went with somebody else.”

“The boat is in the boathouse,” cried Miss Coolbrith. “How stupid of me! And of course he wouldn’t go without telling me he was going. Besides, we should have seen the boat, if anyone came for him. He must be keeping out of sight. I never knew Andy to do that before.”

The housekeeper joined her young mistress at the door.

“Tide’s still out,” she said soothingly. “He wouldn’t go to the mainland and land in the mud. He’s around somewheres. What he needs is a piece of my mind, Miss Marian. You’re too easy with him.”

“I’m going after him,” retorted Marian Coolbrith, “if I have to bring him back by the ear. Will you get up a little more wood, Mumford, while I’m gone? I hate to ask you to do that loafer’s work, but I’d simply ruin my dress. I don’t know why I chose to dress up on a day like this!”

“No reason why you should do it anyway, honey,” smiled the housekeeper. “Take Mac with you. He’ll find Andy quicker’n you will.”

Nodding her thanks, the young woman ran down the steps and turned toward the beach, whistling for Mac, the setter, as she went, while the older woman descended more leisurely and disappeared into the cellar through an outer entrance.

Although it was still light, the sky was beginning to soften to a deeper gray, and the sound of lapping water was somewhat higher in its key. The tide had turned almost at the instant of their mentioning it, and now was slowly creeping in.

Marian Coolbrith picked her way down the rocky pathway, and with a little leap left the last stone step for the softer flooring of the sand. Mac, she noticed with annoyance, had failed to respond to her whistle, and she wondered vaguely what mischief the setter was into. Her eyes swept the length of the narrow beach, but as far as she could see it was deserted and bare. She turned and looked back at the old house among the trees of the upper terraces; her gaze followed the windings of the tiny footpath that led tortuously to the farther end of the island.

Tall trees sentineled the serpentine course of the little road, their domes now swaying and singing in the rising breeze of evening and the promise of storm. But there was no sign of Andrew Prior, the missing servant, in either direction. He might indeed be lurking anywhere in the denser clumps of foliage that dotted the island from end to end, smoking his inevitable pipe and watching her with his slow, crinkly smile. But why should he hide himself away? He had never done anything of the sort before.

With the dimming light the girl’s anger began to cool. Into its place there slipped a vague dismay. Her voice was tired of calling. And where was Mac, the silly old setter who usually trailed at her heels whether she wanted him or not? Her eyes returned to the Connecticut shore, still plainly visible at a distance of a mile, and a rising disquietude informed her that for a mysterious reason of his own the trusted houseman had taken French leave and was no longer upon the island. But when would he return? And how?

Suddenly, as she gazed across the water, she became aware of a small motorboat approaching from the direction of Grantford. She had not noticed it a moment earlier. Apparently it was headed for her own anchorage. It could only be Andy returning from his unpermitted voyage, for no visitors were expected for some days. She waited impatiently, anger again in the ascendant.

The motorboat came steadily onward; the chugging of the engine carried clearly to her ears. There was no longer any doubt about its objective; it was definitely nosing in toward the island. The twilight was failing swiftly. At length the boat was close at hand, and she saw that it contained two men.

“Andy!” she called. But in the next instant she saw that neither of the men was Andrew Prior.

The engine ceased to sputter, and the boat’s nose rubbed along the little pier. At the same moment the man in the bow sprang out and approached her, hat in hand. He was a total stranger.

“Miss Coolbrith?” he inquired politely, and she nodded in surprised assent. His voice was that of a gentleman.

“I am from Grantford, Miss Coolbrith, and I have a message for your housekeeper, Mrs. Mumford. I am sorry to say that her sister, the eldest Miss Hatton, is very ill. There is no way of communicating with this island by telephone, and Dr. Ransome telephoned me from New Haven, to ask if I could get word to Mrs. Mumford. I am Dr. Howard of Grantford.”

“Oh!” cried Marian Coolbrith. “I’m sorry!” she added quickly.

The stranger nodded sympathetically.

“It’s too bad,” he agreed.

“I have heard Mumford speak of her sister,” said Miss Coolbrith. “She is very fond of her. Will you come up to the house, Dr. Howard?”

“Thank you, I should like to, if I may. There really isn’t much time to waste, I’m afraid, from what my colleague told me. If Mrs. Mumford cares to return to Grantford with me she is very welcome. She could catch a train for New Haven within an hour. But perhaps she would prefer to go in your own boat?”

“No, she can’t!” cried Miss Coolbrith quickly. “That is,” she added, “unless Andy has returned to the house in my absence. Our houseman,” she explained, “is away just now, and he is the only one who could take her to Grantford. There is no motorboat here.”

“I see,” the stranger nodded. “Then she had better come with us. We are returning at once, of course. Wait until I get back, Kinner,” he called to the man in the boat. “I sha’n’t be long.”

“Right!” grunted the boatman, and the girl thought that he smiled queerly as they moved away.

She turned at once to the house, and the man who called himself Dr. Howard trod beside and a little behind her, with many expressions of sympathy for the old woman for whom his message was intended. He was in every way courteous and thoughtful. It occurred to Miss Coolbrith that he was a very charming, and probably popular, young physician.

The light had almost vanished when they reached the house and climbed the steps to the veranda; but the rain still stubbornly held off, and inside a snapping fire was leaping on the old hearth to remove the chill of the evening. The housekeeper greeted her mistress at the door.

“He hasn’t come back,” she reported with some anxiety, “and Mac must be with him. I can’t imagine what’s come over the man! I was beginning to worry about you, honey.”

Then she saw the stranger in the shadow, and she stopped talking.

“This is Dr. Howard of Grantford, Mumford,” said Marian Coolbrith. “He has a message for you. I’m dreadfully sorry, Mummy!”

“What is it?” asked the old woman, quickly alarmed.

The young man repeated his message, gently and with delicacy, while the girl watched the apprehension grow in the old servant’s face.

“I’m as sorry as I can be,” repeated Marian Coolbrith, placing an arm about the housekeeper’s shoulders. “You must get ready at once, and let Dr. Howard take you to Grantford.”

The old woman’s features expressed a new dismay.

“But I can’t!” she cried. “I can’t leave you alone, Miss Marian!”

“You must,” insisted Miss Coolbrith. “I’m not a bit afraid, and Andy is sure to return before long. Hurry, Mumford!”

“I don’t like it, I don’t like it!” wailed the housekeeper. “Oh, I don’t know what to do.”

“If you will permit me to say so,” said the young man who had brought the message, “I think your duty is to your sister at this time, Mrs. Mumford. I’m very much afraid that the call is urgent.”

The old woman turned quickly toward the stairs.

“All right,” she said. “I s’pose it’s true. There’s no time for crying, or anything. I’ve got to get to Mattie as quick as the Lord’ll let me.”

She hurried upstairs to prepare herself for the journey.

“It’s a shame that this should have had to happen on this night of all nights,” commented the doctor from Grantford. “I’m afraid from what I’ve heard that you will really be alone on the island. Can’t I do something to help you discover this—this Andy? Do I understand that he went away without your leave?”

“Certainly without my leave,” Miss Coolbirth smiled faintly, “but he’ll be back before long. He won’t dare to stay away all night. I’m not a bit afraid!” she concluded proudly.

“I imagine you are all right,” he agreed. “After all, you are on an island, some distance from the mainland, and therefore safe from marauders. Solitude is all you will have to fear. But it is too bad, just the same, to leave you with just a dog. I hope Miss Hatton’s illness is not as desperate as Dr. Ransome indicated, and that Mrs. Mumford will be back in a day or two.”

The darkness had fallen swiftly, and it was quite black outside when the young man and the old woman left the house. But the resourceful doctor produced a small flashlight from his pocket and lighted the pathway to the water, down which the housekeeper clumped stolidly to the boat.

Marian Coolbrith, standing at the porch door, saw them leave and for a few moments watched the dancing light as they took their way downward. It was a bit eerie the way the little beam illuminated patches and fragments of tree and rock, now picking out a rise and now a hollow, now lighting for an instant the moving feet of the walkers. Then it disappeared from the level of her view, and she heard the staccato chug of the boat’s motor, clear and sharp in the quiet that had fallen over the water.

She was alone, and suddenly she shivered.

The rain was long in coming, she thought, as she looked up at the black, lowering sky, in which no stars glinted to lighten the smothering darkness. The wind, though, was rising higher, and the sound of the water slapping on the rocks behind the house was louder than she had ever heard it. A sense of loneliness came over her, almost a sense of fear, and with a swift movement she turned and reëntered the house. Where was Andy? Why did he not come back? For a moment she had a swift mental picture of his crinkly smile, and knew that she would have given worlds—whole solar systems— to know that he was puttering somewhere about the place.

It was long past the dinner hour, and she had eaten nothing since noon. A pang assailed her to realize that she had allowed Mumford, too, to go without food. It had been a long time since she had heard Mac’s cheerful scratching, or the rapturous thumping of his tail on the floor. The whole day had been miserable and unhappy. Going to the rear door, she called and whistled loudly for the missing setter, but there was no response to her outcry. Mac was as utterly and mysteriously absent as Andrew Prior. She could only assume that, wherever they were, they were together; and again her anger burned hotly, banishing her fears.

Swiftly she set about the preparation of food for herself, and carried her steaming plate and cup to the more cheerful surroundings of the big sitting room, in which the hearth fire still tongued and crackled. When she had finished she washed up the few dishes and put them in their places, pausing in her task to place a new log on the blaze. And suddenly the storm, almost forgotten by her, broke over the island in all its equinoctial violence.

It began with a long roll of thunder, followed by a blinding flash of lightning; then a torrent of raindrops hurled themselves against the windows at the back of the house. Well, that would bring Andy and the dog home if they were on the island! And the storm gave her something to do. She hurried about closing the windows that stood open, and assuring herself that the several doors were properly locked; then, breathless, she returned to the sitting room and seated herself before the hearty blaze. It was a comfort to know that there was wood enough on hand to keep her warm for many hours. A number of books and magazines were on the table, and she dipped into several of them, trying to find the right one for the occasion. Nothing mysterious or terrible! No, it must be something cheerful; something even silly, if possible. As for Andy and Mac, let them get good and wet, and serve them right! Poor Mumford, though! She, too, was unhappy, and possibly wet.

Nothing really appealed to her, but in the end she settled upon a red-backed volume, reputed to be clever, and tried to lose herself in its pages. The storm, making up for its tardiness in coming, became more violent; but the story served its purpose. With quieter nerves, she read on for some hours; then, dropping the volume to the floor, she sprang quickly to her feet.

Was it only the ferocity of the elements that had caused her to lay aside her book? Outside the trees rocked and creaked angrily, and the rain pelted the windows with savage violence. Just beyond one of the panes a laburnum that grew close to the wall dashed its branches furiously against the glass, as if great fingers were imperiously demanding entrance.

The loneliness stole over her again, and with it a new and strange sensation, a sensation of active fear and dread. Reviewing the events of the afternoon and evening, in the light of this new emotion, she saw in them a cumulative threat, a relentless, creeping promise of evil. Why had Andrew Prior vanished so strangely, so short a time before the message that had called Mumford to her sister’s side? Why had Mac, most faithful of dogs, chosen to absent himself on this day of them all? Why was she alone in this quaint and empty old house of her ancestors, with a wild storm trying to batter it to earth, when she should have been surrounded at least by those employed to wait upon and protect her? Even in the shrieking gale she seemed to feel a sinister menace, as though it were part of a great conspiracy to trap her and lure her to destruction. Out there in the dark, what horrors might not lurk?

She looked at her watch. A long time had passed since the departure of Mumford. She had not dreamed that she had been that long alone. The hands of the little Swiss confection now were approaching the hour of ten. By this time Mumford was in New Haven and at her sister’s side.

She must get to bed and to sleep, and then perhaps her unreasoning nervousness would leave her. Yes, she must get to bed; it was time for bed, anyway.

“I am simply a fool,” she told herself, “a cowardly little fool!”

But her growing alarm had become terror when at length she ventured to move away from the fireplace. And quite suddenly a hideous conviction chilled her blood until it was ice.

She knew that she was not alone.

Trembling, stumbling, she fell back in her chair, then sprang up again and huddled in the angle formed by the intersection of wall and mantel. Her eyes, bright with horror, glanced furtively at every window, at every door.

A crash of thunder that rattled everything in the house rolled over the sky, and for a fleeting instant the livid lightning illuminated all outdoors. Then Marian Coolbrith screamed aloud in mortal terror, for in that instant of flaming light she saw, pressed against the glass pane of the window at her side, a leering human face.

2.

It was a Tuesday morning in one of the middle weeks of autumn that the case of Marian Coolbrith was brought to the attention of Jimmie Lavender; to be exact, just two days after the terrifying events on the island, which I have already narrated from information that came to me during, and after, the conclusion of Lavender’s investigation. We had landed in New York only a few mornings before, after a vacation spent for the most part in rural England, and we had planned to leave for Chicago the following Wednesday afternoon. Our whole program was upset, however, by the unceremonious visit of Robert Coolbrith.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he apologized, when he had almost forced an entrance into our rooms at the Bellingham, “but I am in great trouble and I need you badly. My niece has disappeared in the most alarming circumstances, and I am desperately afraid that something very serious has happened.”

The intruder gazed at us with pleading eyes, set deeply in a face that was lined with anxiety.

“Sit down, Mr. Coolbrith,” said Lavender kindly. “You are the architect Coolbrith? I am sorry to hear your news. You won’t mind my asking you how you knew where to find me?”

The older man seated himself heavily and continued to look at us out of his pouched and haggard eyes.

“Your arrival was mentioned by the newspapers several days ago,” he replied. “For hours I have been calling up hotels, hoping against hope that you were still in town. Mr. Lavender, you must help me, for I am nearly frantic! For two days I have had no sleep!”

“I like to help when I can,” nodded the detective, “but may I ask why you have not been to the police about your niece’s disappearance?”

“The police!” gestured the architect wildly. “It isn’t a New York case, Mr. Lavender. It happened on an island—miles from here—off the Connecticut coast. The only police are village police, and I have notified them. But what can they do? They are as mystified as I am.”

“I see! Forgive my cautious questionings, and tell me what you know of the matter.”

Our visitor passed his hand over his high bald forehead as if to soothe the turmoil within.

“It must have happened Sunday night,” he began. “God! I know so little about it! The island is mine, Mr. Lavender. It lies in Long Island Sound, about a mile off shore, near Grantford. There is an old house on it, dating back to the days of the Revolution, when a collateral branch of our family occupied it. We use it now as a summer cottage, and for two weeks Marian was there alone except for an old housekeeper, a Mrs. Mumford, and an old man servant, Andrew Prior. No, there was a dog, too! Before that, the place was pretty well filled with visitors, friends of ours, and Marian preferred to stay on alone until I could get away to join her. I was going down next week, or as soon as I could get away, with another party of friends.

“All that happened, I have had to guess from Mrs. Mumford’s story. On Sunday afternoon, late, a boat from Grantford visited the island, bringing a message to Mrs. Mumford. She was told that her sister was ill, probably dying, in New Haven; and she left at once in the boat that brought the message. In Grantford she caught a train for New Haven and hurried to her sister’s home—to find her not at all ill, but quite well and surprised to see her.”

He told us the details of the message brought to Mrs. Mumford as he had heard them from her own lips, and of the disappearance of Prior and the dog.

“Neither Andy nor the dog had returned when Mrs. Mumford left, and there appears to be no reason to suppose that they returned afterward. That is enough to hint at what may have happened, and it is terrible. Mrs. Mumford was alarmed, and called up Dr. Ransome. He told her that he knew nothing of the man calling himself Howard, and of course that he had sent no message. Then she told Ransome the entire story, and the doctor, realizing the seriousness of the situation, called me up by long distance. But I was away, and he didn’t reach me till early Monday morning. Well, I went crazy! I caught the first train for New Haven, and hired an auto to take me to Grantford, and at Grantford I hired a motorboat and was taken to the island. That was yesterday.”

He paused, and again passed his hand over his forehead. Then, speaking more slowly, he continued: “Mr. Lavender, she wasn’t there! Nobody was there. The house was empty, and the island was deserted. There wasn’t a trace of her anywhere. I can’t tell you what I thought as I stood there in that empty house!”

“I can imagine,” said Jimmie Lavender, touched by the man’s emotion. “But you must keep your head now, Mr. Coolbrith. I am definitely going to help you, and I want to know everything. What did you do when you found the house deserted?”

“I think I must have come close to insanity. I ran around that island like a crazy man. I made the man who came in the boat come with me, and we both looked. Together we combed that island from end to end; but there wasn’t a sign of her.”

“Nor of Andrew Prior or the dog, either?”

“Nor of Andrew Prior or the dog! Well, I went back to the mainland. I made inquiries all up and down the coast. Not a soul had seen her. Then I went to the island nearest to ours, and nobody there had seen or heard a thing. You see, it stormed on Sunday night, with a high wind and a wild, driving rain.”

“Yes,” said Lavender, “I’m sorry for that.”

“Finally I went into Grantford and reported to the police. They were sympathetic, and they promised to do what they could. They sent a man back to the island with me, and we searched again. It was no good. Late last night I returned to New York, stopping only in New Haven to talk with Mrs. Mumford. I came back because I remembered having seen your name in the papers, and I had heard of you many times. Nobody could tell me where you were stopping. It was only an hour ago that I learned you were here. Then, when I called you, you were out.”

Jimmie Lavender rose briskly to his feet, looking at his watch.

“You can tell me anything else I may want to ask as we go along,” he said crisply. “How soon can we get a train for New Haven?”

And that was the way it came about that, instead of returning to Chicago, Lavender and I found ourselves hurrying to the seaside with Robert Coolbrith to search for a missing girl.

In the train the architect replied to Lavender’s searching questions until the detective must have been as fully informed of Miss Coolbrith’s character and appearance as was her uncle himself. He learned the circumstances of her life and career to the minutest detail. She was an orphan, and Robert Coolbrith was her nearest relative. In time she would be his heir, for he was a childless widower. The girl’s associates, her family history, and all that Coolbrith could tell of the island and its surroundings, also came in for the sharpest inquiry. It was not until we were within a few miles of New Haven that my inquisitive friend was satisfied that he had exhausted the possibilities of a purely mental investigation. Then, fortified with his astonishing record of fact and recollection, he quietly leaned back in his seat and became lost in thought.

We made the trip from New Haven to Grantford by auto, as Coolbrith had done before us, and paused in the village only long enough to learn that the police had accomplished nothing of importance.

“Sergeant Hovey is in charge on the island,” vouchsafed the officer at the village hall. “He’s been there since Mr. Coolbrith went away, but nobody’s come back,” he concluded with a dismal shake of the head.

“I hope,” said Lavender, “that he has orders to keep everybody off the island who has no business there.”

“He has that!” responded the official. Then again we were on our way.

“They seem actually to expect somebody to come back,” I observed cynically, as we drove down to the water. “That’s a bit of extraordinary optimism!”

The detective shook his head.

“It’s a wise precaution, Gilly,” he retorted. “Hovey’s presence on the island is all that will prevent me from leaving you there, if I have to go away.” He turned to Coolbrith. “Mrs. Mumford has not returned to the island?”

“She’s still at her sister’s,” answered the architect. “She wanted to come back, but I told her to wait until she heard from me.”

“That’s all right,” nodded the detective; and with that we swung around a curve in the road and halted our progress to leave the machine. A few minutes’ walk followed, and we debouched upon a wide beach, sprinkled here and there with a few morning bathers and boatmen, and gleaming under a dim but climbing sun. On the low bluffs above the beach sat the cottages of the resorters, deserted by all but a few hardy vacationists who, like Coolbrith, had elected to enjoy a coolish autumn holiday. The tide was nearly in, and there was no difficulty about a boat. Our voyage, indeed, was made in the same craft that had carried Coolbrith on his frantic pilgrimage of the day before.

In a little while, we had reached the island anchorage, beside which for some time had been standing a burly figure in uniform, watching our approach—obviously Sergeant Hovey of the Grantford police.

Lavender was the first to leave the boat, but Coolbrith followed him quickly, and I happened to moor the little craft to the dock.

“Thought it was you, Mr. Coolbrith,” cried the policeman heartily. “Glad to see you, sir; but I’m sorry I haven’t any news for you.”

“I’m sorry, too,” replied Robert Coolbrith; and he made the necessary introductions that informed the sergeant of our names and our mission.

The boatman was sent about his own affairs when it was established that there was a police boat ready for use, and we turned at once toward the house, the Grantford policeman leading the way across the narrow stretch of beach that remained above water.

“Any trouble with visitors, Sergeant?” asked Lavender, as we trod across the lower rocks and began to climb the ascending road.

“A few,” laconically replied the police sergeant, “but I soon sent ’em about their own business.”

“Strangers?”

“Some of ’em; but some of ’em I knew. They live round here, or in Grantford. No harm in ’em.”

“Probably not,” agreed Lavender amiably, “but just keep the strangers in mind. I may want to ask you about them. The others, too, for that matter. Just a minute, Mr. Coolbrith. I want to have a look at the house, and this seems as good a place as any.”

He stopped, and we all halted while he turned his eyes upward to the now plainly visible house from which Marian Coolbrith had vanished on the night of the storm. It was an attractive picture with its background of gleaming sky and open water.

“Old Georgian place,” commented the detective after a moment. “Erroneously called Colonial,” he added, to the surprise of the architect, “and quite ancient as such things go in America.”

He removed his eyes from the house and turned them for a few moments to the surrounding landscape, then back to the water. Finally, he mounted a high rock of peculiar shape, and from its summit surveyed the stretch of beach and the farther reaches of the island.

“The whole place would seem to be honeycombed with hiding places,” he observed. “I suppose it’s less than a quarter of a mile in length, and considerably less across; yet it offers innumerable retreats among the rocks and trees. Very pretty indeed.”

He descended from his perch, and we pushed on in silence to the house. Hovey had been deeply amused, it occurred to me, by my friend’s aesthetic consideration of the island’s attractions. At the house, Lavender would not enter until he had made a similar survey of island and dwelling from the other side, and even then he held off and prowled for a time around the outer walls, peering into windows, and closely examining the ground around the foundations.

At length he climbed the veranda steps and consented to enter, but his examination of the rooms was almost casual, it seemed to me, and his comments unusually obvious.

“Dishes and cooking utensils all in place, and no signs of a meal,” he observed. “Mrs. Mumford left, I believe, a little before six o’clock. Still, Miss Coolbrith may have eaten her dinner and then washed up.”

He poked about in the fireplace, looked into several closets, and called our attention to the tracks of muddy feet, here and there on the mats and boards. One small ball of clay he picked up and pocketed. Then he ascended to the upper story and looked into the bedrooms.

“Beds all made up, and apparently none of them slept in,” was his next quite obvious deduction. “I fancy the poor girl didn’t get to bed at all on Sunday night. This is her room, you say? The counterpane is very slightly rumpled at its edges, as they hang down here, but that could be explained by someone brushing against it. I suppose nothing has been touched about the house, Hovey?”

“Not since I’ve been here, sir!” asserted the sergeant grimly.

“You touched nothing, Mr. Coolbrith, on your first visit?”

“I must have touched a great many things,” responded Coolbrith frankly. “But I didn’t actually move anything; of that I’m quite sure. I just stood and called, for the most part, but I was in every room and in the cellar.”

The detective called our attention to a small picture that hung awry on its hook.

“You didn’t do that, Mr. Coolbrith?”

“Positively not!”

Lavender nodded, as if the matter were of no importance, and then electrified us by dragging the bed from its place against the wall and pointing to a key that had lain under it, on the floor.

“Of course, it wasn’t certain that there was a key,” he observed deprecatingly. “Often there isn’t in cottage bedrooms.” He tried his find in the lock, however, found that it fitted, and dropped it into his pocket.

In the cellar he gave us another start.

“You didn’t carry a stick when you were down here, Mr. Coolbrith?” he asked suddenly, after a casual glance at the earthen floor. “Nor you, Hovey? The earth you see, is curiously pocked, all over the place.”

It was true. There were dozens of little holes, such as the ferule of a stick might have made; and many of them proved to be quite deep.

“Quite fresh, too,” commented the detective, “but there are no signs whatever of excavation.”

He turned back to the door, framed in a tangle of weeds and grasses, and for a few moments stood gazing out into the sunshine.

“Do you know,” he said, “I have a feeling that we are conducting our investigation in the wrong place. There are undoubted indications, all over the house, of what occurred on Sunday night; but what do they tell us? Only what we already know: that Miss Coolbrith was set upon and carried off. But the important question is what has become of Miss Coolbrith, and the island itself may tell us something about that.”

Robert Coolbrith cried out in alarm. There was horror in his eyes. But Lavender’s gesture stopped him.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” he continued quickly. “I’m not suggesting, yet, that Miss Coolbrith has been—has been injured. Indeed, my feeling is that she has not—if that will help you, Mr. Coolbrith. But the island must be searched thoroughly, nonetheless, for traces. Traces of her going, traces of their coming and going, traces of Andrew Prior and the dog. It’s all part and parcel of the case, and what I suggest is that you, Mr. Coolbrith, and you, Hovey, remain here at the house while Gilruth and I explore the island. You’ve both had your turn at that, and it’s as well not to have too many feet trampling about.”

“I’ll stay,” cried Coolbrith eagerly, “and thank you for your assurance. But what about Andrew Prior, Mr. Lavender?”

“What is your own opinion?”

“I think—what else can I think? I think he went away because he knew what was going to happen. He must have known; he must have been part of the conspiracy. I’ve thought so from the first, hard as it is to believe. Andy was always faithful—I told you that in the train—but unless he knew something, why did he go away just before it happened?”

“It’s an even break, in Andy’s case,” said Lavender. “He may have been lured away, as Mrs. Mumford was; or he may have had a hand in what occurred. I have no right, yet, to guess which. But his disappearance is something that must be cleared up before we can be sure of anything.”

We left them together, the stricken uncle and the representative of order, the one watching us with the eyes of a condemned man hoping for reprieve, the other with burning curiosity and some disappointment.

The boathouse door yielded to our touch but there were no traces of tragedy within. As far as it was possible to say, the Coolbrith boat had not been used in some time. With the dock as our pivotal point, we began to stroll the beach, turning our eyes alternately upon the sandy shore and the bushy hillside that flanked it. It was a low hill, a mere dune, and back of it lay the somewhat higher land, bright with the green of trees and shrubs and deep with long grasses, all tangled and untamed.

“A happy and attractive spot,” observed Jimmie Lavender thoughtfully, “although gloomy enough, I suppose, in bad weather. Under the sun, however, one would hardly believe that it could harbor a tragedy. For the most part, people associate tragedy with poverty and squalor; but how often it occurs in the midst of comfort and the gayest of surroundings!”

I had no idea what he was getting at, nor what he expected to find, and I hastened to say so.

“I think I could be a more intelligent assistant, Jimmie, if I knew what we were seeking,” I concluded.

He moved his arm in a sweeping gesture that seemed to embrace the whole island and the water that lay beyond it.

“At this instant, no one thing in particular,” he responded. “Anything or nothing, perhaps. In a sense, I am placing myself in the position of those who visited the island before me; those who came here with sinister purpose. Undoubtedly the place was known to them, in some degree. I want to become thoroughly acquainted with the island and its secrets, and it may be that as we go along we shall see the significant spots, as others saw them before us. A spot that looks like a shrewd hiding place we shall investigate, simply because the same idea may have occurred to others.”

“But what do you expect to find hidden?”

“Suppose,” said Lavender, “suppose that I knew I should have occasion to bury something? I would, of course, pick my spot in advance. I would not let mere chance, on a stormy night, guide me.”

“Then you are looking for bodies!” I asserted bluntly. “Is that it?”

“I am looking for anything that looks significant; that will throw a light on the occurrences of Sunday night. Consider the situation, Gilly. A man servant disappears, a woman servant is called away, a dog vanishes no one knows how or why. Beyond question it is all part of a carefully laid plot—for exactly what purpose is not yet apparent, perhaps. The woman went willingly, the man may have gone unwillingly or he may have been part of the conspiracy. The dog is a question mark. If he had gone with the man—with Andy—his disappearance would have been less mysterious; but did he go with the man? Mrs. Mumford thinks that the dog may have been here when she left, although she did not see him and he had refused to answer calls. The dog may have liked Andy, but he was devoted to Marian Coolbrith; he was her dog. Did he go with Andy, then, or before Andy, or after the departure of Mrs. Mumford?”

“Well?”

“I think the dog was killed,” declared Lavender emphatically. “If he had merely run away, which seems unlikely, he would have returned when he was called. But the dog wouldn’t have been allowed to live. He would be too dangerous a witness. He might be a possible tracker. No, Mac was killed, and as dead dogs are not pleasant passengers, and take up some room, I imagine he was buried someplace on the island.”

“Not in the sand!” I objected.

“Probably not. One never can be sure what a high sea will uncover and disclose. Besides, people are forever digging in sand. I think we may assume that Mac is not under the sand.”

We reached the end of the island, and for a moment stood looking out across the water; then we rounded the point and began our homeward journey on the side facing the open Sound. Here the beach was less wide and smooth. We left the sand, and climbing to the bulwark of stones that lay above the beach crossed a single line of trees and entered a narrow footpath, heavily shaded on the side farthest from the water. And in time we came upon a depression, a long hollow, around which grew a fringe of trees and bushes, but within which there was nothing but earth and fallen leaves and a combination of the two that can only be described as muck.

Lavender stopped at the crest of the crater.

“There may be better places farther along,” he thoughtfully observed, “but certainly this would do very nicely.” And rolling up his trouser ends, he gingerly picked his way down the incline until he was ankle deep in the damp paste of leaves and earth. I followed with considerable distaste.

“There should be traces here,” continued the detective, “but the storm may have obliterated them. A great many branches have fallen. Don’t slosh around too much, Gilly, or you may spoil something. Good heavens, it would take a whole day to turn up this place with spades!” he grumbled, viewing the messy bottom with a frown.

Very cautiously we began to work our way around the edges of the hollow, glancing keenly into its tangled center as we trod, and occasionally poking into the ruck with the points of our sticks. As well as I could, I trod in Lavender’s footsteps, and in this fashion we negotiated half the length of the gully.

Suddenly I gave a shout that caused the detective to turn in surprise. My heart was beating rapidly, and a high sense of triumph was filling my soul. Happening to glance across the sunken land to its farther side, my eye had caught the distinct impression, deeply indented, of a pair of boots. I pointed excitedly, and Lavender’s eyes followed my finger. He nodded.

“Good for you, Gilly!” he said. “I think you’ve hit the very spot. Your unscientific habit of mind is forever justified. In time, by easy stages, I should have come upon it myself, on the other side, and my careful search would have been scientifically rewarded. But your wandering eye, refusing to follow the course of discipline and logic, must needs stray haphazard over the entire scene—with the result that we are saved twenty minutes of futile search.”

He smiled whimsically at me; then his eyes darkened as he fixed them on the impressions.

“Yes,” he said, “somebody jumped the puddle at that point, and went in pretty deep. The toes point away from the center, you will observe. He probably did it in the dark, with only a flashlight on this side to help him. Well, where he went in the dark, I suppose we can follow in daylight.”

Advancing to a point somewhat farther along the ravine, he launched himself into space and cleared the muck hole at a bound. I followed more heavily, and we advanced together upon the discovery. In the hollow, close beside it, was a tangle of boughs, and under the boughs a dun level of brown leaves and black earth, solidly packed.

“It’s the place, Gilly,” said the detective soberly. “The earth is packed tight, and elsewhere it is loose and as the storm left it. This is a grave!”

With a small implement like a trowel which he produced from one of his miraculous pockets, he leaned far over and began to dig. I watched him with something like horror.

My find was no false alarm; that was speedily apparent. Tufts of reddish hair began to show in the broken soil, and rapidly they became a wide patch. Then slowly a recognizable shape emerged. Five minutes more of digging and turning, and Lavender rose to his feet. In silence we looked down upon the body of a large and handsome dog.

“Poor old chap!” I exclaimed at length.

“Yes,” echoed Lavender, “poor old Mac!” And swiftly stooping again, he turned back the dog’s stiffened lips with the point of the trowel, and forced open the slightly distended jaws.

“Poison!” he said briefly. “Poison, beyond a doubt.”

For another moment he stood in thought, then with a wry face he continued: “Well, we’ve got to get him out of here, Gilly. Just come around here and get your stick under him. He’s a bit stiff and ought to come out easily.”

Disregarding the havoc wrought upon his trouser legs, he waded deeper into the muck, and inserted his own stick under the dog’s corpse. I joined him, and together we raised the gaunt body out of the withholding earth and somersaulted it onto higher ground.

“Poor old chap!” I said again. But Lavender was staring into the vacated grave with thin, tight lips and frowning, angry brow.

“The devils!” muttered the detective. “In the same grave!”

Following his glance, with a thrill of unspeakable horror, I saw the jacketed arm and shoulder of a man.

“Andy!” I cried, shocked and incredulous. “Is it Andy?”

Without reply, Lavender bent over and resumed his ghastly digging, working now with increased caution. Swiftly and deftly the trowel followed the outline of the interred form, and the excavation widened. In a few minutes the head was plainly discernible, although still caked with mud and filth; then almost suddenly there looked up at us from the horrible pit, discolored and hideous, the dead face of the missing servant.

3.

It is extraordinary how bad news spreads. The discovery of the body of Andrew Prior, with the back of his skull crushed in, seemed to be all over the countryside in no time. Hordes of morbid visitors were turned away from the island before they could touch the shore, and Hovey sent for reinforcements. Workmen were hurried to the scene at Lavender’s request, and further excavations were made in all parts of the island in spots selected by the detective. The result brought relief to Robert Coolbrith, for no more ghastly resurrections were accomplished, and he was permitted to remain hopeful as to the fate of his niece.

Meanwhile, Lavender had reëxamined the house and its immediate lawns and terraces, with every resource at his command, and had made a hurried trip to New Haven to interview Mrs. Mumford at first hand.

“We have to thank the heavy rains of Sunday night for our ill luck around the gardens,” he grumbled. “They seem to have obliterated every trace. However, there can be little doubt of what happened. With Andy and the dog removed, and the housekeeper safely out of the way, the abductors descended upon the house during the storm and forced Miss Coolbrith to go away with them. They were undoubtedly on the island during most of Sunday, and possibly they landed late Saturday night or very early Sunday morning. At any rate, they were unseen; and they lurked in the trees until Andy appeared. Then a blow from behind, and the first obstacle was removed.

“Whether the dog was killed before or after Andrew Prior, it is difficult to say. Possibly they were together, although I think not. Mac may never have seen his murderers, who may simply have left some poisoned food for him. How many men were on the island is also problematical. Howard and Kinner may have come later, or they may have been with the first party and have gone away to return later.”

“What does the house show, Jimmie?” I asked, as we sat for a few moments on the rocks behind the house, and looked out across the Sound.

“The indications are, as usual, minute,” he admitted, “but I think they are sufficient. You saw me make my examination. A book was on the floor, not far from the chair near the fireplace. The book was not open, but I think Miss Coolbrith had been reading it, and had dropped it beside her chair. Why or when she dropped it is not apparent; but I think she heard or saw something that frightened her. There is a slight scuffing and a small smudge on the back of the volume, which suggests that the book was trodden upon, or kicked, by someone moving hurriedly.

“Now, what happened?” he continued, speaking more slowly. “There are no signs of a scuffle in the living room, except for the book. But in the bedroom occupied by Miss Coolbrith a picture is hanging awry. It gives us just a hint. Miss Coolbrith is not at all the sort of person who would leave a picture hanging in that fashion, and she would be sure to notice it; so the circumstance has some significance. The picture hangs on the wall in which the bedroom door is set. On the floor, under the bed, you saw me find a key that fitted the door lock. What do you deduce from these things?”

I thought hard for a few moments.

“I think I know what you mean,” I replied at length. “Miss Coolbrith, after her alarm downstairs, ran up to her room. She was followed by one of the intruders, and there was a struggle in the bedroom, in the course of which they brushed against the picture and knocked the key out of the lock.”

“Not bad, Gilly,” approved Lavender, “but not altogether accurate. Miss Coolbrith undoubtedly ran upstairs, probably because there was no place else to run. She would not have dared to go outdoors, into the darkness, although it was her safest course if she had known it. She was frantic though, and she ran upstairs —simply because it was away from, and out of sight of, the intruders. She was immediately followed. She ran into her own room and slammed the door shut, possibly in the face of someone. She slammed the door so hard, indeed, that the key fell out of the lock and she was unable to lock herself in. She slammed it so hard that the little picture, hanging not far away, was shaken into its present awkward position. If anyone had actually run into the picture, it would have fallen.

“Well, she threw her body against the door to hold it shut, but whoever followed her easily forced himself past her resistance, and entered the room. There was a short struggle, not very violent. Miss Coolbrith is small and agile, but no match for a man of any size. There was considerable movement for a time, though, and the key was kicked from its position on the floor, where it had fallen, to the spot where I found it, under the bed. The bed covers are very slightly rumpled at the hanging edges, where they were brushed against during the struggle. That’s how I read it all, Gilly.”

I felt that he was right, and I said so.

“I’m sure I’m right,” he nodded. “I think, too, that the intruders were all over the house. There are traces of mud in every room—just traces, you know, and dry now, of muddy feet. There is no reason to believe that Miss Coolbrith’s shoes were muddy, after some hours before a fire, even if she had been outside for a time—and probably she wasn’t out after Mrs. Mumford left. Well, that’s about what happened. The men entered through the kitchen window, where the traces are clearly printed on the sill, Miss Coolbrith was run down and rendered helpless, and I think she was placed on the couch in the sitting room. Entrance was easy, for every window in the house is unlocked or has no lock, like most summer cottages in a place like this. And then the search began.”

“The search!” I echoed.

“Of course! These men did not come here just to kidnap Miss Coolbrith. They were after something in the house. Miss Coolbrith, tied and gagged, lay on the couch, I think, while they hunted.”

“Hunted for what?”

“Whatever it was they were after, Gilly. I don’t know. But there is a significant point, just the same, in that connection. They searched only the older parts of the house; it is there that the traces betray them. The oldest parts, unquestionably, are the lower rooms and the cellar. The fireplace obviously dates from quite early Colonial days.”

Quite suddenly, I felt a delicious thrill in my veins.

“Jimmie,” I said, “you are hinting at treasure of some sort!”

“I suppose I am,” he admitted. “They hunted diligently, anyway. There was a fire in the fireplace when they arrived. Mrs. Mumford says she lighted it before she went away, and Miss Coolbrith is sure to have kept it up. Well, it did not die a natural death; it was trampled and beaten out. The condition of the burnt wood and ashes shows that very plainly. And there is a lot of soot mixed with the charred wood and paper. It came from the chimney, and it fell because someone was investigating the chimney.”

“And the cellar, too!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, you saw how trampled the earth was in the cellar, and you saw the innumerable small holes, where apparently they had probed with a steel rod.”

“Did they get what they were after?” I asked breathlessly.

Jimmie Lavender smiled grimly.

“I think not!” was his reply. “And that’s a satisfaction, too. I think they failed. That is why Miss Coolbrith is missing. If they had found the treasure there would have been no sensible reason for carrying off the girl. But they didn’t find it, and so for revenge, or ransom, or possibly because they think she may know something of the hiding places of the old house, they carried her away with them.”

“And how many men were there? Can you say?”

“Not with any certainty. Certainly two, probably three, and possibly four. There was plenty to do, you see—a grave to be dug, a boat to be operated, a girl to be carried, and so on! There was a front-of-the-house man, a back-of-the-house man, I should imagine, and —well, we actually know of two men, Gilly. There is the fellow called Howard, and the man who operated his boat—Kinner, he was called by Howard. But there is no more reason to believe that is his name than there is to think that Howard told the truth about his.”

I thought over all the startling information that had come to me, and then I ventured a comment.

“Jimmie,” I said tentatively, “we seem to know everything except what the men were after and what became of Miss Coolbrith. You don’t suppose they will actually dare to return, do you?”

“Not while the present armed force holds the island,” smiled the detective. “Probably not ever again. I think they know they are beaten. They know by this time, or ought to, that Miss Coolbrith has nothing to tell them. She knows nothing. Neither does Coolbrith. As a matter of fact, I suspect that they are beginning to find Miss Coolbrith a great liability. Probably they would gladly return her if they dared. And as they can’t exactly do that, they may turn her loose by herself some place. At any rate, all of this territory must be put on the qui vive. The widest publicity must be given the case, so that when they take such a step Miss Coolbrith will be taken care of, and the men captured —if the latter is possible.”

“The newspapers are excited enough,” I said. “The abductors are probably reading the accounts. But meanwhile, what will you do?”

“I have finished with the island. I must conduct my own search elsewhere, and I have one clear hope left. Assuming that the abductors have not yet left the vicinity, that they intend to remain somewhere in the neighborhood until I leave, on the chance that they can still return for another look around, there is a possibility of running down their spy. This may seem contrary to what I have already said about their plans, but both possibilities must be considered; first, that they are through and will go away; second, that their greed will hold them here for a time. It is the latter chance that I am now considering. If they are somewhere about, then they are certain to have a spy watching us to report on our findings.”

“Not on the island, surely!” I cried.

“No, among the visitors. They come in droves, and Hovey turns them away. But they ask questions, and some of them are persistent. The problem would be to distinguish between those whose curiosity is—let us say—legitimate, and those whose curiosity is, as it were, professional. I am thinking, particularly, of this man called Kinner. That is not his name, for there is no one of that name in the neighborhood; but whatever his name is, what is to prevent his returning in search of information? Only the fear of Mrs. Mumford, the one person who might be able to identify him. And so I agreed with Coolbrith that it was a good thing to keep the housekeeper away from the island. Naturally, I want Kinner to return.”

“But,” I argued, “you could not identify him yourself, Lavender!”

He put his hand quickly on my arm, in a gesture that stopped my further discussion. His eyes suddenly were far away. Then the pressure on my biceps tightened until it hurt.

“By heaven, Gilly!” he whispered. “I think I’ve got it!” He began to rise. “Can it be possible? And yet, why not?”

Suddenly he had scrambled upright and was off down the road so rapidly that I had difficulty in keeping up with him. His objective appeared to be the little anchorage on the beach, where Hovey still patiently turned away visiting curiosity seekers in boats.

The sergeant turned at our approach and looked inquiringly at us, suspecting that our haste foreshadowed a revelation.

“Hovey,” said Lavender abruptly, “are any of these infernal visitors repeaters?”

The word bothered the policeman. He echoed it with rising inflection.

“I mean,” explained the detective, “do any of them return more than once?”

The sergeant wrinkled his brow.

“Hm-m!” he mused. “There’s been fifty here in the last two days, if there’s been one, Mr. Lavender, but I don’t really remember any of ’em that looked the same. It’d be hard to be sure, though.”

“Who are the men who bring them?”

“Well, some of ’em come in their own boats; and some of ’em hire boats at Grantford. And some of ’em come from Orchard Harbor, up the Sound.”

“Which boatman seems to bring the greatest number of visitors?” continued the crisp staccato.

“Well, sir,” answered the sergeant dubiously, “I suppose the fellow that brought you and Mr. Coolbrith does as much business as any of ’em.”

“He comes pretty often, does he? What’s his name?”

“Well, he’s been here maybe seven or eight times with a boatload. He’s a good fellow. Rents boats in Grantford. His name’s Connor.”

“Really!” exploded Lavender with sarcastic emphasis. The expression was half a snarl and half a laugh. “And does he talk to you, Hovey?”

“Not much, sir. Of course, they all talk. He asks me how things are getting along.”

“And what do you tell him?”

“I tell him just what I tell ’em all. I say there’s nothing new; everything’s just the same.”

“That’s a good reply. Has this man Connor ever particularly mentioned me or Mr. Coolbrith?”

“Well, yes, sir, I think he did, once or twice. He’s a decent fellow, and because he brought all you people here, he’s naturally a bit more interested in the case than the others. I thought you knew him. I remember he asked once what Mr. Lavender thought of the case.”

“That was nice of him,” commented Lavender. “When was he here last, Hovey?”

“I haven’t seen him for some time now.”

“Well, next time he shows up, I want him to take me to the mainland. Do you understand? Just that, and not another word, Hovey. You can make your usual reply, if you like—‘nothing new’—but ask him to wait, and then send one of your men after me. Don’t come yourself. You stay here, and see that he doesn’t leave until I arrive. I’m trusting you, Hovey! I’m only guessing, and I don’t want him to suspect anything. Can you do it?”

“Yes, sir!” was the emphatic reply.

“Hovey’s a good copper,” said Lavender, as we turned back to the house. “He has no more brains than the law allows, but he’ll do what he’s told, without questions; and that’s something. But can you imagine the nerve of that boatman? He takes the bold, safe course of playing his own game under our very noses. I ought to have checked up on him before. Hovey says he thought I knew him, and I suppose that subconsciously I thought Coolbrith knew him. And yet the fact that he acted as ferryman every time we needed one ought to have occurred to me as significant. Gilly, I wonder if I’m getting old?”

I laughed, but my curiosity was burning. “Tell me, Jimmie,” I began, “is it possible—?”

“That’s what I said a little while ago,” he interrupted. “Of course, it’s possible, and I’ve been an idiot not to realize it before. He isn’t Howard. Howard was young, according to Mrs. Mumford. But he could be Kinner. Have you ever noticed, Gilly, what the average crook does when he has occasion to change his name?”

“Kinner is something like Connor,” I replied doubtfully, “if that’s what you mean.”

“Exactly! A simple change in the vowel sound. And that’s just what criminals do, when they lack imagination. They change their names to ones something like their own. Why? So they won’t forget the new names! I’ve traced crooks all over this country, and I know what I’m talking about. It is a very unusual criminal indeed who, when his name is Carpenter, changes it to Volland. The unimaginative man would change Carpenter into Carter, or Johnson into Jackson, or Walters into Waters. I once had to trail a man named Gregory S. Jennings, and the best names he could evolve, when he had occasion to register at hotels, were George S. Jones and Gordon S. Jennison; yet he was a criminal well above the average in intelligence. I trailed G. S. J. across eight states, and finally caught up with him in Texas. He was immensely surprised when I laid my hand on his shoulder.”

“Clever!” I commented.

“Clever, the deuce!” retorted Jimmie Lavender. “It’s a matter of observation and intelligence. Connor, a man of no particular intellect, has occasion to change his name, and so he becomes Kinner; obviously because he is desperately afraid he will forget the new name unless it is something like the old.”

“Then if Kinner is Conner,” I said, “and Conner is Kinner, the case ought to be about over!”

Jimmy Lavender nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he agreed, “unless I’m all wrong, and this is one of the exceptions to my rule, the case is about over. It’s funny, isn’t it, Gilly? One minute we are groping in the dark, wondering which way to turn, and the next minute a clear light shines suddenly out of the murk, and all the tangles begin to resolve themselves.”

We entered the house, and had been inside barely half an hour when a courier arrived in haste from Hovey, to say that Connor was approaching the island with some visitors. Lavender was highly pleased.

“Hovey’s a better man than I gave him credit for,” he observed. “He sends his messenger as soon as our man approaches the island, instead of waiting for him to try to land. That’s good work!”

We departed hastily for the anchorage, and reached it in time to see a motorboat of fairish size nosing up against the dock. In the stern sat the boatman who had brought us to the island, his face wreathed in smiles.

“What a nerve!” murmured Lavender, with admiration. “We actually rode with him in that boat, and so did Coolbrith on his first trip!”

He strode out onto the pier.

“Hello, Connor,” he called easily. “I want to cross to the mainland. Have you room for me?”

“Plenty room,” grinned the boatman. “The sergeant says I can’t land my passengers, so I’m going right back. Hop right in, sir!”

There were three passengers in the motorboat, two men and a flapperish young woman. Their eyes were turned upon the house of tragedy with an eager horror that was almost ecstasy. The detective eyed them sharply, then nodded.

“Can’t do it this minute,” he replied. “I see you have room for a trunk there, and there’s an old one at the house that I’m taking back. Come up and give us a lift with it, will you? It’s pretty heavy.”

At the word “trunk” Connor’s eyes seemed to widen, but he gave no other sign of emotion, although his movements were rapid.

“Sure thing!” he agreed, stepping briskly onto the pier.

“Come on then,” said Lavender. “Nobody else must land, Sergeant,” he added to the policeman, and led the way to the house with rapid steps. Connor followed closely at his heels, and I brought up the rear, resolved that the husky boatman, if he tried a break, would never reach his boat again.

In this order we entered the house and proceeded at once to an upper room in which Lavender actually had seen an old trunk.

“There it is,” indicated the detective in businesslike tones. “Grab hold!” And Connor, with hands that trembled, seized an end of the trunk and lifted, while at the same moment I seized and lifted the other end. The trunk was certainly heavy.

“It does weigh a bit, don’t it?” grunted the boatman. “All right, Mr. Gilruth, I’ll take the back.”

“Just a minute,” said the detective suddenly, “we’d better have a look at it first. Set your end down, Kinner; easy now!”

There had been no change in the level of his voice as he uttered the significant name, but my heart gave a swift leap and I braced myself for trouble. Then an instant of terrific silence seemed to settle upon the room, and the following instant Connor’s end of the trunk slipped from his grasp and descended to the floor with a crash. I had to release my own end quickly, and leap nimbly aside to escape injury.

“What’s the matter, Kinner?” asked Lavender in surprise.

“It—slipped,” muttered the boatman huskily. He bent hurriedly over the trunk to hide the working of his features. “Now I’ve got it.”

“It’s all right, Kinner. No, let it alone. I just wanted to try an experiment, that’s all. So you think the trunk’s heavy, do you? Well, it’s unlocked, too! Just lift up the lid and see what’s in it.”

The boatman stood motionless, save for the trembling of his hands. His eyes, furtive and frightened, turned from one to the other of us. He was trying desperately to recover his calm. At length he spoke defiantly.

“My name’s not Kinner,” he said. “It’s Connor.”

“Open the trunk, Kinner!” repeated Lavender coldly.

The fearful eyes swung back to the big container, and now there was perspiration on the man’s brow. Suddenly I knew what he thought the trunk contained, and I almost pitied him.

“No!” he gasped. “I don’t—want to!”

“Open it!” commanded the icy voice of the detective, for the third time.

The eyes of the harassed man now were filled with horror, and twice he stooped as if to throw back the lid, and twice he drew away shuddering.

“I can’t!” he whispered, at last. “I won’t!” And quickly, with all the fury of despair, he hurled his great frame at the open doorway in which I stood half over the threshold.

The shock was terrific, but somehow I withstood it, and instinctively I threw my arms about my assailant and lunged forward toward the bed. For an instant we grappled there in the doorway, then in the little hall. Wrestling frantically for the advantage, we spun round and round on the narrow landing, with the long pit of the stairway yawning beside and beneath us. Connor’s breathing was hoarse and hot in my ear. Then, as we stumbled on the floor runner and pitched toward the abyss, Lavender’s arms encircled us both in an embrace of iron, and all three of us fell into a corner of the landing and remained awkwardly upright supported by the intersecting walls. At the same moment, from below stairs, came the sounds of running feet and voices calling.

Around the turn of the stairway charged the two policemen who guarded the premises, and at their heels ran Robert Coolbrith. The policemen’s clubs were drawn, and the eyes of all three were bright with excitement. They clattered to the top with infinite noise. In the corner of the landing, we three were tightly jammed, with Lavender on the outmost rim.

“What is it?” asked the foremost runner breathlessly.

“Bracelets!” snapped Jimmie Lavender, twisting his head with an effort. “In my side pocket. And get them on the right man—Connor, not Gilruth!”

Then the handcuffs snapped, and we fell apart prepared to resume the performance; but the fight had gone out of Thomas Connor.

“All right,” he growled sullenly. “You’ve got me. I ain’t a fool. What do you want of me?”

“Where is Marian Coolbrith?” asked Lavender.

“How the hell should I know?” snarled the prisoner. “I ain’t her guardian, am I?”

I flung an arm across Coolbrith’s shoulders to restrain him, and Lavender stepped hastily between the two men.

“Kinner,” said the detective, in a voice of doom, “or Connor, or whatever your name is, there is enough evidence on this island, and in this house, to hang you as high as the Capitol spire. I’m not sure that even the truth will save you, but the only chance you have to remain on earth is to tell it. Do you want to see the evidence?” And laying hold of the trunk, with a sudden movement he swung it about so that it lay across the doorsill and touched the feet of the prisoner. Stooping quickly, he laid a hand on the upper edge, as if to throw back the cover.

Connor collapsed. He went to pieces in an instant.

“No!” he shrieked. “Don’t open it, Mr. Lavender! I’ll tell you!”

“Where is Marian Coolbrith?” repeated the detective.

The prisoner turned to the stairway. He was suddenly eager, pathetically eager, to help us; happy to get away from the sinister threat of that closed trunk.

“I’ll show you,” he said quickly. “I’ll show you, Mr. Lavender!” He stumbled on the stairs, and the detective’s arm prevented him from falling. The chains of his handcuffs jangled between his wrists. The policemen and Robert Coolbrith clattered in his wake.

For an instant I loitered behind, and when they had passed around the turn of the stair I flung open the lid of the trunk and looked inside. Then with a grim smile I hurried after the procession. The trunk was half filled with old hats and shoes, beneath which lay a clutter of gardener’s tools and similar weight-making apparatus. It was a catch-all for the household’s discarded and unused articles.

Across the living room and out over the veranda, Connor led us, then down the path to the rocks, until the water lay before us and a view of the neighboring islands was possible from the summit of the stony bulwark. There, raising his manacled wrists, he pointed away to the north to where another island, small and heavily verdured, thrust up out of the Sound.

“She’s there!” he said briefly.

“Good God!” cried Robert Coolbrith. “It is the first place I went to, that day you took me to the islands!”

“Yes, sir,” said the boatman, quite respectfully. “That’s the place. They said to bring you there. She was there all the time.”

“And Howard?” asked Lavender quickly.

“He’s there, too,” said Connor, “and another fellow with him. They’re all there, Mr. Lavender. But they won’t be when you get there!”

4.

They had powerful glasses on that other island. The police motorboat, containing Lavender and me, and Hovey and the prisoner, had covered barely half the distance to its shores when another boat, larger and heavier, was seen to leave the anchorage and head northward in frantic haste. That it had been ready and waiting our approach, until such time as it was possible to identify the occupants of our craft, was very evident. Connor’s presence, with the uniformed policeman and two strangers, had told the story of what had occurred.

Two men occupied the fleeing boat, and in an instant Lavender’s glasses were on them. The detective was raging.

“Damn them!” he swore furiously, “they’re going to escape, Hovey! Let her out! Give her everything she’s got!”

I unshipped a pistol, and sat ready. Our speed perceptibly increased, and the little boat rushed through the water like a living thing. Hovey, acting as operator, was crowding on all speed. Our bow cut the waves like a plowshare, and the water hissed and boiled and sang at our sides. The spray leaped back at us from the knifelike prow and occasional waves splashed over us, chilling and wetting us to the skin. For a time we seemed to gain.

“Shall I try a shot, Jimmie?” I asked uneasily.

In spite of our dancing speed, Lavender’s glasses were still focused on the fugitives. At length he spoke.

“The girl isn’t with them,” he said with deep relief, and removed his eyes from the binoculars. “I had a glimpse of the boat’s bottom, just then, as she rose. The men are alone. Apparently they are saving their skins. No, don’t fire, Gilly.”

The other boat, too, was picking up speed, and soon it became apparent that we were going to be left behind. The handicap was too great for us, even if our speeds had been equal, but our highest speed was not the equal of our enemy’s best. Little by little we were being left behind, and at length Lavender gave up the chase.

“It’s hopeless,” he asserted. “Bring your bow around, Hovey, and make for the island. Miss Coolbrith may need us. After all, she is our first consideration.” His angry eyes still followed the course of the fleeing abductors, however, and for some time he watched the successful escape with thoughts that I did not envy him.

“As soon as we have landed, Hovey,” he said after a time, “make for Grantford as hard as you can go, and get Connor behind the bars. Report to your superiors what has occurred and have wires sent in every direction to intercept the fugitives. They are probably making for Long Island, but where they may actually land, nobody can say.” He turned to the prisoner. “Who are they, Connor?”

But Connor shook his head with fresh obstinacy.

“I’ve told you all I’m going to, Mr. Lavender,” he replied. “It’s enough. The girl’s all right, and you’re going to get her back. I’m not going to betray my friends.”

“Your friends!” sneered the detective. “When they are caught they will be the first to betray you. Your rôle has been obvious for some time, Connor, and you have been picked to be the goat. All right, Hovey; easy now! We’re getting into shallow water.”

We swept alongside the small dock and Lavender bounded ashore. I followed quickly, and for an instant we watched the sergeant as he turned and sped away for the mainland. Then we hurried toward the house, hidden in the shrubbery, a house as old and picturesque as that we had left behind on Robert Coolbrith’s island.

In a bedroom on the second floor we found the missing girl, tied hand and foot and lying on the bed. She was a pathetic figure, frightened and suspicious, but she was apparently uninjured and in good physical health. She was moaning as we entered the room, and she huddled quickly away from us and looked at us out of terrified eyes, but Lavender spoke quickly and kindly.

“It’s all right, Miss Coolbrith,” he said. “We are friends, and we have just come from your uncle. He is waiting for you at your own place.”

She burst into tears.

“Have you been hurt in any way?” continued the detective gently.

She shook her head and tried to speak, but the tears again stopped her. At length she managed to articulate.

“Oh, you are friends, aren’t you!” she whispered. “It is really all over!”

“Yes. Whenever you are able we will take you back to your uncle.” He bent over and loosened the cords that bound her, then assisted her to a sitting position. “You are quite all right?”

“I have had food,” said Marian Coolbrith, speaking slowly. “I have been tortured mentally, but that is all.” And with that her relief proved too much for her and she fainted.

When she had recovered we chafed her wrists and ankles until the blood flowed normally, then assisted her to the sitting room, where we awaited the return of Hovey and the motorboat. Little by little, we heard the story of her abduction, but it was not until later in the day, in the more familiar and hardly happier surroundings of her own home, that we heard the chronological narrative that I have set down in the first chapter of this account.

Then the events of Sunday afternoon and evening were fully told, and Lavender’s deductions as to what followed the appearance of Connor’s face at the window were verified in nearly all their particulars. But there was still much to be explained, and the detective was soon boring into the heart of the mystery.

“Miss Coolbrith,” he asked, “have you any idea what this has all been about? Do you know what these men were after?”

“Yes,” she replied. “They questioned me so much that I came to know all about it. They thought there was a treasure buried or hidden somewhere about this house. The two men who escaped are named Hammond and Converse. Hammond is the man who called himself Dr. Howard, and he is a highly educated man. I know nothing about Converse except that he was kinder than Hammond or Connor, and seemed to be sorry for me. He spoke like a gentleman. After a while they told me frankly all they knew, or thought they knew, and promised me my freedom if I would help them. They themselves had failed. But I couldn’t help them, for I knew nothing about the treasure myself.”

“Revolutionary treasure?’ Lavender asked.

“Something like that. They had rented their island for the summer, and among some old books that they turned up in the cellar was an old diary. It had been kept by one of the old Winships, an ancestor of the man from whom they rented. I didn’t see it, and Hammond always kept it in his pocket, where it probably is now. But I knew what it contained; they told me. It told about a chest of money that this old Winship had seen in our house—this very house—more than a hundred years ago. Roger Coolbrith was our ancestor who had the money, and this Samuel Winship wrote that Roger was a miser and hoarded his wealth, and that he kept it in a safe place where no one ever could find it but himself. ‘A very neat spot indeed,’ was the way Samuel Winship put it; but he didn’t say where the spot was, and perhaps he didn’t know himself.

“Then, later, the diary told about the death of Roger Coolbrith and the illness of Samuel Winship. There were several pages about Samuel’s illness, and he was always wondering whether Roger had left a will, and promising himself that when he was well he would have a look for the money. He and Roger were neighbors on these islands. Then the diary ended suddenly.”

“I see,” commented Lavender, deeply interested. “Winship, too, died; and so the diary ended. Then these two bright young men—Hammond and Converse— hustled off to the State Historical Library, and looked up records until they found the date of Samuel Winship’s death.”

Miss Coolbrith nodded in surprise.

“That’s just what they said they did do,” she agreed. “They found that Samuel had died within a week of his last diary entry, so they assumed that he had never gone after the money.”

“Quite so! And therefore, possibly erroneously, they assumed also that nobody else ever had found the chest.”

“What made you think they were after treasure, Lavender?” asked Robert Coolbrith, enormously interested. He sat tightly up against his niece, on the sitting-room couch, with an arm around her; and he was apparently ten years younger than he had ever been in his life.

“Their search in this house was very special and specific,” replied the detective. “It was confined to the oddest places, and to the older parts of the house. Nothing of value belonging to the present occupants had been taken, or you would have missed it; so the men were not ordinary thieves. But the fireplace, one of the oldest pieces in the place, had been carefully examined, and the cellar floor had actually been probed with steel rods, the walls sounded, and so on. The indications were sometimes flagrant and sometimes minute, but they were all illuminating. Obviously, the men were after something old, and therefore, probably, it was a hidden treasure.”

“And have you yourself formed any opinion as to the hiding place?”

“I have not,” answered Lavender promptly. “My task was to find Miss Coolbrith, and my task now is to apprehend the murderers of Andrew Prior.”

The architect nodded, somewhat abashed. In his happiness over his niece’s return he had almost forgotten his slain servant.

“Quite right!’ he said apologetically. “And two of the murderers have escaped.”

“For the time being. It is likely, however, that Connor was the real murderer. From what Miss Coolbrith has told us, I think neither Hammond nor Converse ever thought of murder. They wanted Prior and Mrs. Mumford removed, and unfortunately they left the removal of Andy and the dog to Connor. And Connor went too far; perhaps he hit Prior harder than he intended; anyway, he killed him. I incline to think that the others knew nothing of the murder of Andrew Prior until they saw it in the newspapers, and that they were very much upset by it. From that moment they began to make their preparations for escape at the first sign of suspicion turning their way. Am I right, Miss Coolbrith?”

“They said nothing about the murder,” replied the girl with a shudder. “I did not know it until you told me, Mr. Lavender. But they were very much excited all day yesterday.”

“They had a right to be,” said Lavender. “Did they search the Winship house, Miss Marian?”

“They were forever searching it.”

“And finding nothing! That’s why they stayed on. There was just a chance that old Samuel had got the money and removed it to his own ‘very neat spot.’”

Silence fell over the company for several moments, to be broken by Marian Coolbrith.

“If the treasure really exists, Mr. Lavender,” she said, “I suppose it ought to be found. I almost hate it for what it has done, and I could not use a penny of it for myself; but something urges me to continue the search. Is that very wrong of me?”

“No,” responded the detective. “I suppose it is the world-old lure of buried treasure that tugs at you. I have felt it myself, a number of times.”

“And will you stay and help me?”

“‘A very neat spot indeed,’” quoted Lavender, with a little smile. “Do you know where I should look, if I were to undertake the search?”

“Where?”

“Somewhere outdoors. It is a delicate point, perhaps, but the word ‘spot’ suggests to me nothing inside a house. Besides, over the years, many persons have overhauled this house for one reason or another; workmen have added wings, and other treasure hunters may even have searched at some time in the past. Our recent opponents, too, hunted pretty hard. It is conceivable, of course, that the chest is somewhere here in the house, even now; but my opinion is either that it has been found long since, or that it is not in the house and never has been hidden here. You may take your choice.”

“But you will not stay and help me search?”

“If you don’t mind, I would rather not. You see, I have found you, Miss Coolbrith, and that is enough to satisfy my vanity. I must remain in the East for a time, until the authorities are in possession of all my information; and sooner or later I must return for the trial of Connor—and of the others, if they are caught. I shall be very busy; but as soon as possible, Gilruth and I must get back to Chicago. I hope, however, that you will yourself undertake the search, and that you will let me know of your success or failure. It would please me greatly to hear that you had found the treasure, and that it was really worth while. You’ll surely let me know, won’t you?”

“Of course. I’ll send you a sample of the treasure. Do you suppose it will be a chest of doubloons?”

“I hope so,” answered Lavender, “and of Louis d’ors, and pine-tree shillings, and pieces of eight, too! Send me one of each, please.”

Miss Coolbrith faithfully promised; but a long time has passed since that day, without word of the treasure. Thomas Connor has long since paid the penalty of his crime, and Hammond and Converse are still fugitives from justice. Occasionally we hear from Robert Coolbrith and his niece; they have never ceased to be grateful; but although the young woman is still optimistic, and brings hosts of friends to the island every summer, the “neat spot” in which Roger Coolbrith hid his money is still a mystery.

So it may remain, for all of me.

THE END

About the Author

Vincent Starrett (1886–1974) was a Chicago journalist who become one of the world’s foremost experts on Sherlock Holmes. A books columnist for the Chicago Tribune, he also wrote biographies of authors such as Robert Louis Stevenson and Ambrose Bierce. A founding member of the Baker Street Irregulars, Starrett is best known for writing The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1933), an imaginative biography of the famous sleuth.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1930 by Vincent Starrett

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-6594-8

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Content

Vincent Starrett
The Blue Door

Acknowledgment

The Blue Door

Too Many Sleuths

The Fingernail Clue

The Woman in Black

The Wrong Stairway

The Street of Idols

A Volume of Poe

The Skylark

The Ace of Clubs

Out There in the Dark

About the Author