 CHAPTER 10 WITTERLY COURT In which John Fenton assists at a social function, in high life, wears evening dress for the first time, and again sees Belcharmion. They had been going up Riverside Drive, and as Morgan spoke, they approached a tall marble apartment house, from which an awning stretched across the sidewalk to the curb. Here a line of carriages and automobiles were in line waiting to discharge their passengers. Morgan leaned forward and tapped his chauffeur on the shoulder. Round to the side entrance, he commanded. Here he and Fenton got out, and made their way rapidly in, and along a corridor to the back stairs. They climbed ten storeys and arrived panting at the back door of the Morgan apartment. Were led in by a staring servant, and conducted rapidly along the hall. As they passed, Fenton heard the continuous sound of gavel, the intermingled talk and laughter of many guests, inarticulate, confused, an unsteady murmur of voices. It sounded to him as if it might come from some monstrous horrid beast with a innumerable mouth. Servants of all kinds, skeltered past him as he made his way, waiters loaded with dishes, maids with ladies' raps, men servants gossiping, loafing, gaping. A high clear voice rose over all this subdued tumult. Margs holding the fort, said Morgan, admiringly, and led the way in to his own chamber. Now, for heaven's sake, hurry, he exclaimed. Fenton had but time to see a wide white bed, laid out with a complete outfit, evening dress clothes, shirt, tie. When two man-servants fell upon him and tore off his coat, vest, and trousers, with the fury of maniacs. As they held the dress trousers for him, a young lady put her head through the door excitedly. Has he come? She cried. And then— Oh, there you are. Thank goodness. Fenton took a leap into the black trousers and turned his back just as she burst into the room. Is he ready? She cried eagerly. For heaven's sake, hurry, you idiots. I can't wait a minute longer. Still well. Put on his shoes. Quick. Here, you crazy loon. You've got that collar upside down. For heaven's sake, let me do it. If you're all half-witted. And Fenton found himself suddenly confronted by a tall, pretty, blue-eyed girl with flushed cheeks, all in white, with three ostrich feathers nodding in her hair. Hold your head still, she commanded. I can't do anything if you move that way. Here, you. Put his gloves on. Quick. A man attacked each hand. Still well Morgan still fussed at the bows of Fenton's shoes. Sweet Magnanelle Morgan, in white gloves with orchids on her breast, her flushed face within an inch of his, worked over Fenton like a window-dresser with a wax figure. Her sweet breath was in his face. Her curls brushed his cheeks as she patted and pulled at his tie. He saw her pretty mouth working with nervousness. Then she stepped back and looked at him. Mercy, she shrieked. This isn't Mr. Ring Rose. Who is it? She stared at him with big eyes and turned scarlet. I believe I have the honor of being Count Capricorni," said Fenton, bowing low. A maid tapped at the door and entered halfway. Mrs. Gramps and Davis wants to see you, Miss Morgan, she said. She has to go home, says she can't wait any longer. Miss Morgan grabbed Fenton by one arm. Come, she commanded savagely. I don't care who you are, you'll do. If I can only satisfy that old Mrs. Gramps and Davis, I'm safe. And she dragged him out of the room into the hall. Here he asserted himself, offered his other arm, tossed his head erect, and stepped off with her. If he were to play a part, he decided it would be that of a man, not a puppet. Miss Morgan looked up at him with admiration. It was awfully good of you to come, she breathed. It's about time for something like that to be said, he replied thoughtfully. You treat me right, or I'll spoil the show. Oh, I'll do anything, anything, she exclaimed, then dropping her voice, she added. I wish you were the Count Capricorni. With this exquisite compliment pleasantly ringing in his ears he navigated his way, through staring, whispering groups of guests, and entered the reception room. A buzz of comments greeted them. Everybody stared. They were immediately surrounded, innumerable introductions began. Fenton, for the first time in his life in evening dress, with a foolish, wild longing that Belsharmian might see him, played his part like a veteran. As one eager, curious person after another was presented, he bowed, shook hands, uttered a pleasantry, laughed and gestured and shrugged his shoulders as if he had been the petted hero of society all his life. Of all the remarkable situations he had found himself in that mad night, this was perhaps the most dangerous. The very peril of it, however, inspired him. The gaiety of the scene went to his head like a cocktail. His mind worked like an exquisitely adjusted high-speed machine. The crowd, elaborately dressed, wove about him, smiling pretty women and attentive men, the lights of electrolyirs and cut glass and precious stones flashed in his eyes. The perfume of Franjipani and Poe d'Espania mingled with the wafted odors from the dining-room of oysters and terrapin. The clink of glasses tinkled with laughter-laden voices, the music of an orchestra sobbed and swelled, with the voices of heartbroken strings and twittered with love-lorn wood instruments. It all stimulated his imagination to the boiling point. He talked as he had never talked before, of things he knew nothing of, things he didn't believe, things as far outside of his life as Chimborazo or Cambodia. It was the more easy when he perceived that nobody listened. Everyone was hysterical, hypnotized, eager to add his or her nonsense to the general babel. He talked wildly of bridge and gulf, of plays he had never seen, of countries he had never visited. But he might as well have said anything, that he was dead and buried, that he had forgotten to wear a shirt, that his mother had whiskers. No one would have noticed. He gossiped of kings and princesses. He mentioned at least seven new wonders of the world. The ladies giggled. The men said, really, and no one knew but that he had been speaking common places. You're doing fine, fine, Miss Morgan whispered to him at the first respite. I'm proud of you. She looked up under her lashes coquettishly. What a pity we're not really engaged. The poor count. At that there came to him suddenly a flash of remembrance of the adventurer, dead in the St. Paul building. The memory swept like a chill wind over his soul, and awakened him to his almost forgotten duty, the jewels. He had forgotten all about them. At this minute he should be speeding up town to Harlem to keep his promise. What right had he here in this absurd disguise? The charm of the adventure had gone to his head. Now he must be about his business without delay. Just as he was casting about for a pretext to go, his ears caught the sound of a name, Miss Bell Charmian, and he turned shocked and trembling to see before him the girl of his dreams. There she was, olive skin and soft hazel eyes, whimsical mouth, the pretty slender girl he had already seen twice that evening. She was staring at him, and her brows were knitted. Haven't we met before? She asked, hesitatingly, as she held out her hand. What could he say? Surely he could not disclaim her acquaintance. Neither could he stultify his hostess. For a moment everything seemed to go black in front of him. Then that very feeling suggested an excuse for not answering. He put his hand to his heart and dropped upon a chair. I feel faint, he murmured. Will you pardon me, Miss Morgan, if I— You'd better go into Still's room for a moment, she suggested. She beckoned to her brother, who came crowding up. Take him out. Meaning, she commanded. This crush is too much for him. You know he hasn't recovered from that attack of yesterday yet. Fenton staggered out on Morgan's arm, and as the crowd made way for him, he saw Miss Charmian's eyes still upon him, with a puzzled questioning expression. He felt base and mean. I must get out of here right away, he exclaimed, as soon as they were alone in Morgan's chamber. I've spent too much time already. I've neglected a terribly important errand. You've saved my life, old man, said Still well Morgan effusively. I don't know what we ever would have done. You've made an awful hit. People are crazy about you. Why, Marguerite says. Damn, Marguerite, where's that bag I brought? Fenton looked eagerly about the room. I don't know who you are, but I'd be glad to have you consider me your friend. And if I can do, find that bag," Fenton exclaimed excitedly. Lord man, if you knew what was in it, he groped under the bed. Why, isn't it here? Say I'll call one of the men. Morgan went to the door. If that isn't found, I'm ruined, cried Fenton. Haven't you any detectives here? Morgan's ballot came running up. A bag, sir? What kind of a bag? A soft bag. Grey ooze leather. Hurry, find it right away. What did you do with it? Buy heavens, I'll send for the police. Perhaps it was taken into the ladies' room, sir. I'll see. While he left to inquire, Fenton fumed. Morgan fussed about, anxious and embarrassed. Was it really valuable, he asked, weakly? Fenton did not answer, but open drawers looked in closets, overturned piles of overcoats, looked in hats, in frantic haste. Every instant he grew more excited. At last as he stood flushed and tumbled, trying to think what to do, whether to call for the police, ask that everyone be searched, or appeal to Miss Morgan, the ballot returned with a lost bag. Fenton grabbed it from him, and tremblingly looked inside. A blaze of color flashed up from its dark interior. Miss Charmian had it, sir, the ballot explained. They thought, of course, it belonged to one of the ladies, and she was there getting ready to go home. Did she look into it? Fenton demanded with anxiety. Oh, no, sir. She just took it, looked at it, and said it wasn't hers. She was too worried to pay much attention. Someone had just telephoned to her, and she was rather upset over it, sir. Fenton heaved a sigh of relief, and turned to Morgan. Is your automobile ready, he asked? The ballot interposed. Ready at the door, sir. I've got to get away in a hurry, then. Morgan laid a hand on his arm. If you don't wish to wait to change your clothes, Mr. Fenton, John Fenton, Mr. Fenton, you can send back the suit you have on when you find it convenient. It's no importance, really, and I'll give you a silk hat and an overcoat. Even in the whirl of his excited haste, even with the memory of the dead man, always in the back of his mind, even with the responsibility of the jewels keeping him in a fever of unrest, even with the thrill of Belcharmion's near presence disturbing him, the offer tingled a pleasant fancy. He had never worn a silk hat in his life, how he had longed to. Now, in evening clothes, it would be a satisfaction to go forth, robed as a gentleman, clad, capa pey, informal garb. He grinned blushingly, accepted the hat, and gazed at it. He smoothed the nap against his sleeve. Perhaps he might catch a glimpse of Belcharmion again. But no. How disappointing! He had, of course, to exit by way of the servant's staircase. It was too bad. In two minutes he had slipped out and was running downstairs with Morgan's ballot. The motor car was not at the side entrance. They went round to the front of the building in search of it. They found it drawn up in the line of waiting vehicles, and Fenton was just about to enter. When, turning, he saw Belcharmion coming out under the awning. He paused in surprise. She looked eagerly to right and left. Catching sight of him, she smiled faintly and walked rapidly up. Could you take me up town, she asked. I've ordered a taxi cab, but it hasn't come, and I'm in a great hurry. I've had an important message. A relative is dangerously ill. I must get up there immediately. I'm awfully worried about it. Why I shall be delighted, said Fenton. He was trembling in every limb. The idea of being alone with her at last sent him into a fever of excitement. He turned to lead the way. Right over here, he said. As he turned, suddenly the bag he was holding in one hand struck sharply against one of the iron stanchions of the awning. It fell to the sidewalk. He looked down. To his horror some half-dozen pieces of jewelry had fallen out. A ring or two, a brooch, a bracelet, and half in, half out, a confused pile of precious stones sparkling under the light. He looked up to see Miss Charmion, staring pale-faced at revelation. The next minute a uniform porter ran up to her and touched his cap. Your taxi, Miss Charmion, he said, and bowing, pointed the way to where a green car waited at the curb. Fenton was too embarrassed to speak. He stood foolishly staring as she looked at him coldly and said, Then I shall not need to impose on you, Count. But thank you just the same. And drawing herself up, she walked proudly to the taxi-cab. Turned and gazed at him, then got in and drove away. Not till her car skyped the corner and disappeared did Fenton take his eyes from her. And with a sigh he stooped, scraped the jewels into the bag as the porter stared, and walked to the Morgan's touring-car. Where shall I drive, sir, the chauffeur inquired. It was some moments before Fenton could collect his senses, enough to recall the address the octaroon had given him. Where was it? The stirring events of the night had all but obliterated her words. Somewhere in Harlem. Oh, yes, the Norcross. 505—no, 555—West 146th Street. That was it. He gave the address, got into the car beside Carl, the chauffeur, and they whirled away. He crammed his silk hat down hard over his ears, and leaned back in the car to enjoy the ride. The brisk, mild wind ran merrily past him. The winking lights on the Jersey shore flashed brightly across the Hudson. His brain cleared. Surely he had much to think of. Much had happened since he left his Harlem home, a careless, thoughtless boy. But there was only one thing he could think of now. He put all other things aside, and reveled in his dream. He thought of nothing but bell-sharmean. He wanted no one but bell-sharmean. Bell-sharmean in low-cut pale-blue foil, bell-sharmean of the olive skin and whimsical smile. Who was bell-sharmean? What fate had led him continually in crossing and recrossing paths towards bell-sharmean. Did she know or care what destiny allied them in this mysterious way? John Fenton and bell-sharmean? He loved bell-sharmean. Could bell-sharmean love him? When would they meet in peace, in joy? When would they talk and tell what he's so longed to hear? He and bell-sharmean. Oh, the smooth, soft contour of her cheek, the exquisite gesture of her hand! So he dreamed, fancy-free, in joyous abandon of bell-sharmean. Bell-sharmean. Bell-sharmean. Say, this is one great night, ain't it? Fenton came down with a thud from the clouds of romance to the chauffeur's commonplace. He gave the remark a mumbling reply. Fine. Yes, it's the wrong kind of a night to go home in, as Ruby Diamond used to say. Diamond? Fenton queried remembering the phenomenal blonde of the Caxton. Do you happen to know Miss Diamond? That's queer. The chauffeur laughed. Know her? I drove the front cab with her and young Framingham when they busted up the Yale funeral. Do you know a girl she runs with? Called Millie something? A little black-eyed devil? Millie St. Valentine? Well, I guess yes. She's the one that drove the hearse with John Adams Quincey, the third. The hearse? What the deuce was the Yale funeral, anyway? Say, I guess you'd better tell me about it if it isn't too long a story. The chauffeur chuckled to himself. It was lucky for Quincey it wasn't a longer story, he said. It was short, but it certainly was lively. I'll tell you about it. And as he gave the steering wheel a sharp turn and turned the car into 94th Street, he began. The Great Yale Funeral. Why, this was Thanksgiving Day, a year ago. You remember the football game when Harvard trimmed Yale for the first time in nine years. Six to four the score was, and every Cambridge man in New Haven went crazy. I wasn't there, but I hear it was like a matinee in an ancient Roman amphitheater. After the preliminary orgies the Harvard rioters went to Boston to celebrate, the pride and chivalry of Yale was due in New York to drown their sorrows in a theater party at the Marrying Mary show. Well there was one Harvard ruder who was so spiflicated by the triumph that he couldn't box the compass any more. That was John Adams Quincey the third. He was genially kidnapped by some of the speedy sons of Eli, with no hard feelings, and the first thing he knew, they had him in the Yale train pulling out for New York. When he began to look out the window for New London, he suspected that something was wrong, but it was too late to do anything by that time. He would have to miss the crimson fire and the gilding of John Harvard and the Cambridge police after all. The Yale men gave him the ha-ha and told him little old New York would have to do, so he made the best of it and went, reminding them of the score and the snake dance every time he opened a bottle, which was plenty often. He was a thoroughbred that Quincey the third. He was a spender, and he had money to spend. He was fairly poisonous with greenbacks. Old man Quincey was a triple-died billionaire. In the first place, and in the second, young Quincey had backed the Harvard Eleven for about $5,000 at two to five. He had something like $16,000 in his pants when he got off the train at the Grand Central Station. By that time almost every Yale man in his car was down and out, but John Adams Quincey the third was walking on the atmosphere, getting $10 bills at the slightest provocation. I was running a taxi cab then, and of course I never knew anything about his start till afterwards when Millie told me all about it. My first sight of the fun came when I was standing in front of the Abbotts on 45th Street waiting for a fare, and young Quincey blew round the corner from Jack's. Now I wouldn't want to say Quincey was soused exactly. That's an ugly word for a gent like him. But you might say he was, well, glorified like, exhilarated, transmogrified. I don't know what you'd call it. I never had $15,000 between me and working for a living, and I ain't sure how it feels. But Quincey was happy. There was no doubt about that. His hat was dented in, and his collar was marked all over six to four, and he was singing his harvard lay to the tune of three blind mice. Yale is dead, Yale is dead, Yale is dead. Eli said, Eli said, Eli said. They might grow crimson, but we'd grow blue. They gobbled our money at five to two. We let them have it, then what did we do? Yale is dead. You know the Abbotts? It's mostly a press-agents club. Theatrical men, anyway. Well Johnny Hobbs of the hippodrome was just coming out the door, with Nat Goodwin and a bunch of actors. Quincey recognized the big chap, so he come up and slapped him on the back and said, Hello Nat, how are you? Goodwin beamed. Why, I'm a hygienic dream, he said. Yale's dead, says Quincey. Then you ought to give her a first-class funeral, says Nat Goodwin. He took Quincey's arm and spoke confidentially. None of these cloth-covered pine boxes, with two hacks at eighty-five dollars. You ought to have at least twenty-seven carriages and a band. By that jumping John Harvard, I will, says Quincey. But not twenty-seven hacks, twenty-seven herses, and then some. Nat walked away with his bunch laughing. Quincey stood, thinking it out. Johnny Hobbs looked him over thoughtfully. Do you mean it, he asked? If you do, I got an idea. Do I mean it? Ain't I alone in a great city after the first time we've busted into Yale in nine years? I'm certainly going to celebrate if it costs me my inheritance. And Quincey pulls a roll of yellow-backs out of his hip pocket and shows enough money to make Johnny Hobbs fairly sick to his stomach. You come right in here, says Johnny. I'll fix you for fair. Wait till I get to the telephone, and I'll have all the dead wagons in New York here in half an hour. You won't have to celebrate alone, neither. I'll present you to the smashingest little brunette in town, and if she don't drive that Yale hearse for you, she'll never get another engagement on the stage while I'm alive. With that he pulls Quincey into the abbotts. My fair come out just then, and I clocked him to the Aster Hotel. Well just as I was pocketing my tip, this young Framingham chap come by with a bunch of men with Yale flags, all as sissy as skyrockets. Ever heard of Montrose Framingham? Why, old President Framingham's son, you know, the New York and Pennsylvania railroad man, the man they used to call Gold Sox Framingham after he cornered that western timber-pool. The old man had money enough to wrap up the metropolitan tower in, and tie it with a gold string. And he never was stingy with Montrose. It was him give Yale that big ancient history building in his freshman year. That's why he never got fired, although he certainly was some lively round about New Haven. Well as I was saying, young Framingham come up to me. I'd driven him all over town, once I took him to Richmond, Virginia, in my cab on a bet. And he says, Hello, Squash. The fellows call me that because I like Squash Pie with a layer of red pepper on top of it. What in the name of Eli are you driving a red taxi for? I thought you was a good Yale man. I hear Yale's dead, says I, grinning. You yellow-eyed clockwork crook, he says, for two cents I'd drown you in cylinder oil. Who told you that? I got it from John Adams Quincy III, I says, and what's more he's going to give Eli a funeral in New York right away tonight. Is that right, he says? Honest! I told him what I'd heard in front of the Abbotts, and he called after his gang to come back and hear. When I gave them the tale they yelled like Comanches. Get into here, says Framingham, and he gets up side of me and the rest pile into the back. And I took them round to the front of the Aster. There Framingham got out and ran up to the cab starter. Order all the taxi cabs you can get, he says. The starter was staggered. What do you mean, sir, he says? How many do you need? Anything up to a hundred. And have them here in half an hour, round the corner, says Framingham. Then he comes up to me and asks me who is the press agent for the Metropolis Theatre. I told him it was Abbey Moonstone. And we started to look him up. What are you going to do, I asked Framingham? I'm going to bust up that funeral, he says, if it costs me my degree. And I knew he meant it. Well it didn't take us long to find Abbey at the Knickerbocker Bar, and it didn't take Abbey long to see what they was in it for him and the Metropolis Theatre. He hurried out and rung up Ruby Diamond, his first prize showgirl, and by the time we got round to the Woodstock Hotel where she lived, she was ready for us in a pale blue, slippery, skin tight dress and a millionaire hat. The rest was jewelry and ermine. Say you've seen Ruby Diamond. No man can look on her and live. She's the ultimate peach. Abbey introduced the two principles of the anti-funeral crusade, and we proceeded to get out and look for a band. Well there wasn't a blessed band we could get. Quincy had caught the only one for sale, coming home from a Schutzenverein hullabaloo, and we was up against it good. Say, says Ruby, what's the matter with a Salvation Army band? They make a whole lot of noise, and they wear blue. You can't get them, I says. I'll endow a hospital, says Framingham. I'll give them a million new uniforms. I'll put up for the Christmas dinner, for all the bums east of the Alleghenies. You drive down to the headquarters, and I'll fix the Commander-in-Chief if I have to deposit my gold-bearing bonds. I'm going to have a female band in blue, or I'll eat it, raw for Yale. So we clocks down to see the General. I never heard what it cost young Framingham. They must have taxed him something savage. But he got three bands. They was on their way to the Big Thanksgiving Day, free feed, and was ordered to meet us at the Flatiron Building. When we got back to the Aster, we found a procession of taxi-cabs about three-quarters of a mile long, waiting. There was red, green, yellow, and black cars, and a Yale man in each. Moreover, about every one of them had a chorus girl out of the Metropolis. The Curly Gurlies was running then, and the crowd was beginning to gather some, plenty. The traffic cops was near crazy. I took the head of the line and led the string down 8th Avenue and across 22nd, to where the three bands was waiting. Then we set out looking for Quincy's funeral and trouble. Our scouts had come in and located a line of about 33 herses, forming on 2nd Avenue and 34th Street. One who had any sense could be sure that the procession would head straight for Times Square. John Adams Quincy III was no yap, and we were sure he'd calculate to hit the middle of New York City good and hard before he got pulled. So Montrose framing him, give the word to steer up Broadway. The salvation lassies struck up. Are you washed? Are you washed? Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? And off we went. There was some good yelling when we struck the great white way, and you'd needn't think we didn't draw a crowd. It was about half past seven by this time, and the tenderloin was beginning to get busy. At 34th Street we formed in line to a breast, and the cornet switched to onward Christian soldiers. It was going fine. The cops couldn't stop the Salvation Army, because they had permits. And as for the taxis, ain't they got a right to the street? It was smooth sailing till we got to 42nd Street, and we sighted the funeral. There it was, held up east of Broadway, with the Schitzen Band playing the dead march in Saul and a row of herses as far as the eye could reach, and a crowd running up and growing bigger every minute. And what do you think? Everything every hearse was a hippodrome chorus girl in evening dress. Johnny Hobbs had certainly done it well. Abbey Moonstone was wild. Our fares give the yell-yell, and it was answered by Harvard Ross from the hippodrome girls. Quincy stood up and begun to sing, "'Yale is dead!' and then they got the traffic cop's whistle to cross Broadway. On they come. It was so funny you wanted to cry. By this time there was a million people spilled around there, and some fool pulled the fire alarm just to help it along. Now whether the traffic cop at the corner got rattled and really did blow his come-on whistle, or whether it was a riot-call or something, I never knew. The cop denied it. Anyway, we all heard a whistle, and young framing him yells to me. The seven pink salamanders of Shiraz, squash, go at him. If you'll bust that Harvard guy's hearse, I'll give you a hundred dollars and go bail. I turned back and waved to the line. Come on, I says, and on we went. There was a yell from the mob you could have heard to the flat iron. And I charged for Quincy. I caught his nigh-hined wheel and busted it right to smithereens. Then a mounted cop galloped up and got me. Well, it sure was funny. The hearse keeled over on the hubs and spilled out Quincy and Millie St. Valentine. They jumped just in time and landed on their feet. And in less than two minutes the place was so tangled up with hearses and taxicabs and schizan-verines and salvationists that you couldn't tell which was which. The crowds swarmed into the mess like flies, and then come the fire engines. Two steamers from each point of the compass, and after them the ladder-trucks and the water-tower, and then two patrol wagons full of reserves. Then the police got busy. Well, I was taken to the station about that time, and so I missed it. But I got the story from Millie St. Valentine. The minute John Adams Quincy III struck the ground, he seemed to come to and wake up to the fact that he'd got in bad. By Jupiter, he says to Millie, this is going to cost me about four million dollars. Oh, it ain't so bad as all that, says Millie. It'll probably be only ten dollars or ten days. Don't you believe it, says Quincy. I know better. Why I'm ruined. We've got to beat it. Millie said she thought he was a piker for fair, then. She didn't have any idea that he'd mourn just got cold feet. He took her hand and ducked through the crowd with her and rushed her into rectors. Then she found out what he was worrying about. It seems young Quincy had been in hot water before, and his folks was sore. He'd been featured in the police news in Boston papers so often, in fact, that his old man had given it to him straight that if it ever happened again, he'd disinherit him. See how it was? Quincy had already kicked up a row that would make more talk on Broadway than anything that had happened since the Dewey parade. The mourning papers would be full of it. He could just see the scareheads. Young millionaire plays ghastly joke on the Rialto, and all like that. Millie kind of felt for him. Quincy was a nice boy, and she liked him. So she said, Well, the only thing to do is to fix the papers. But it'll cost a lot. I don't care if it costs two hundred thousand, said Quincy. It'll be cheap at the price. Will you come with me, O Queen? She said she would. Well, if you know anything about city editors, you can imagine what happened. The minute they see the girl, it was all off. And the more money Quincy offered, the more stubborn they got. What, kill a story like that? Son of a millionaire and the prettiest brunette in NYC? Not much. Look at the pictures. Look at the society slush they could throw in. Think of the well-known clubman stuff and the strikingly beautiful brunette. It was too good to keep back. Quincy was no sooner out of the office, with his grouch, than the city editor was telephoning to the police stations, ordering photographs and sending for his star reporter. That was the tale all over town. Quincy was perfectly sick. Well, he took Millie home, and she tried to jolly him up, but it was no use. He figured that he was out three millions at least by his folly, and he left her reception room talking a lot about suicide. Millie allows she was pretty badly scared. Well, of course all this time Johnny Hobbs had been good and busy. He phoned in the story as a friend of the paper to every city editor. He sent about a thousand photographs of Millie downtown by messengers. Then he way-layed the ten o'clock club, the theater details from the papers. He tipped them off with all sorts of fancy details he'd doped up, and then he went to bed happy. So did Abbey Moonstone, who'd been on the same job with three stenographers. Of course that was what saved Quincy. Them press agents done it too well. Every city editor in town smelled a plant and give orders at midnight to kill the story. So when John Adams Quincy III got up at five o'clock next morning at the plaza, and sent down for the papers, expecting to see his name in a three-column scarehead, he spent two hours going through them with a fine tooth comb to find that the funniest thing that had happened on Broadway within the memory of man hadn't been so much as mentioned in a single paper. All the same it didn't save him his money. Finally married him three weeks afterward, and got most of it, after all. End of Chapter 10 CHAPTER 11 THE NORCROSS APARTMENTS How John Fenton helps out a criminal scheme, witnesses an arrest, and an escape, waits in a deserted flat, and gets a new name. The chauffeur had hardly finished his story before the car drew up to the curb in front of a brick apartment house on 175th Street, and stopped. Fenton descended, felt in his pockets in vain for a tip, and bade the chauffeur an apologetic good night. He went into the vestibule and looked along the row of letter boxes for the name of Flint, and pressed the electric button above. A muffled hello came, diminished in faint, through the speaking tube. He replied, "'What the devil is it?' the invisible speaker asked. "'I've got the jewels,' Fenton shouted through the mouthpiece. A spasmodic clicking of the electric latch came in answer. By its nervous rapidity Fenton could easily imagine that his information had caused some excitement. He pushed open the front door and ran upstairs. The halls were dimly lighted, and he looked in vain for any indications of a greeting. Up to the second, up to the third floor, and then, looking higher, he heard a man's gruff voice calling stealthily. One flight more, up Fenton went with his bag. At the top, a man, unrecognizable in the semi-darkness, seized his arm and hurried him toward a lighted hallway, spun him round and looked at him eagerly. "'Who are you, anyway? My name doesn't matter,' said Fenton. "'I've got the stuff right here.' "'Well, I'll be hanged,' he ejaculated, and then he looked at Fenton again. "'Where in the devil did you get him?' Fenton had, by this time, learned discretion, and replied only by a question. "'Is Flint here?' the man stared. His expression changed, then he controlled himself. "'Yes, I'm Flint,' he said, finally. Fenton breathed a sigh of relief. "'Oh, then I suppose it's all right. You'll take him right back to the Brewster house, I suppose. You'll lose no time?' "'Oh, that's all right. I'll get him back, the first thing in the morning.' Fenton handed him the bag somewhat reluctantly. There seemed to be nothing else to do. But it seemed a mild ending to his night of adventure. There was no doubt that it was Flint, by the Octoroon's description. He grabbed the bag fiercely, and looked inside, then snapped it shut. Fenton became uneasy. "'Then I can tell Miss—' "'You know, the girl, that it's all right,' he said. "'Yes, it's all right, son.' Flint held the bag behind his back. They'll be in the safe by nine o'clock, before the coroner comes. But you'd better skip now. There's no need of exciting suspicion. Go home and go to bed. You've done well.' He crowded Fenton to the doorway nervously, and stood guarding it. Fenton turned hesitatingly. "'I hope I can find her,' he said. She was awfully worried about this. But I've done all I can, I suppose. Good night,' said the man abruptly, and suddenly slammed the door. Fenton heard the lock click. Then for the first time he grew actively suspicious. Flint was a tall, gaunt, grizzled creature, wrinkled and weather-beaten, with deep-set gray eyes. As he turned for his final word he showed a great misshapen ear. The lower lobe was split half in two. Suddenly, as if spoken by an audible voice, came the fortune-teller's words. Beware of a man with a split ear. Fenton's suspicions grew blacker. But he had done exactly what he had been asked to do. If there were any mistake it was surely not his. He turned slowly to the staircase and walked down, thinking, "'Well, it was too late now. Perhaps it was all right. Why should he worry?' So thinking he went downstairs and out to the street. Should he go home?' He smiled at his costume. His dress-clothes and top hat seemed to demand another adventure. He felt abstractly in his pockets for a cigarette, and noticed for the first time that again his pockets were absolutely empty. What a night! He yawned and walked up 146th Street, thinking of Belcharmion. Just as he turned the corner, two men, walking rapidly, passed him. He caught but a momentary look, but that sight made him turn eagerly and gaze at them again. There was something familiar about both of them by Joe. It was O'Shay and Elkhurst, or, as it appeared, both had aliases, Nallory and Sprule. Neither had recognized him, fortunately. He stopped in a trance of wonder. What did this encounter mean? He could still see them walking rapidly toward the Norcross Apartments. As Fenton stood there, gaping at the night, they turned up the steps and entered the building. Then in a flash he began to suspect them. Of course both were after the jewels, and if they were going up to the apartment, either they would attack Flint or Wait. Now he had it. Flint was probably a member of the same gang. It was as plain as a photograph at last. Fortunately Flint had been notified of the capture of the gems. Well, no wonder he had been surprised when Fenton had handed them back to one of the gang itself. Fenton cursed himself for his stupidity. But all this was surmise. He wanted to make sure, and hurried back to the entrance of the Norcross Apartments, and found that by some accident the outer door had not latched. He crept up four flights, approached the door of Flint's apartment, put his ear to the keyhole, and listened. A hoarse burst of laughter greeted his ears. There was no doubt of it. Even now, no doubt, with blood on their hands, they were dividing the spoil. What could he do? Nothing it seemed. And yet he would not leave the place. He walked downstairs trying to think of some plan to retrieve his blunder. On the floor below he looked about, saw a door without a name-plate, tried it, and found it was unlocked. He opened it and walked in. There was no carpet on the floor. It was evident the flat was vacant. He groped his way along the inner hall, along straight passage toward the rear, and emerged finally after bumping into several corners, into a small kitchen faintly illuminated by the moon. Through the windows he saw a fire escape. He left his precious silk hat upon the wash tubs, lifted the sash, crawled out, and cautiously ascended the iron ladder. The windows of the kitchen above, however, were dark, and they were fastened. There could be nothing done that way. And he returned. Cruising about on a little voyage of discovery, he found a candle-end and a few matches on the kitchen shelf. He struck a light and sat down on the top of the tubs to think. He had not waited long before he heard footsteps on the floor above. Then there was a rattle in the shaft, and he heard the dumb-waiter descending, holding his lighted candle in one hand. Fenton opened the sheet-iron door and saw the rope running. He held the candle nearer and looked up. The dumb-waiter was now visible, slowly descending. He watched it with his heart in his mouth. It came to the level of his eyes, and he saw that both shelves were empty. The next moment he was surprised to see two feet, patent-leathered, shining in the candle-light, standing on top of the apparatus. Slowly the waiter moved down, creaking. Pantaloons appeared, a coat, then hands carefully working at the rope. Another minute and the lower half of the body had disappeared in the hole, and he was confronted by the astonished eyes of Elker's alias Sprule. The little car stopped. Sprule looked as queer as an actor in a Punch and Judy show, like some curious jack in the pulpit, though too amazed, too fearful, apparently, to speak. Fenton stood with the lighted candle dripping grease upon his evening coat, with his tall hat rakishly ajar upon his head. The moment was dramatic. There was an instant of fine sustained suspense, and then the gentleman who had seen the more of the world spoke. By Jove it's the chap I gave that tweed suit to. For heaven's sake, help me out, and be quick about it. There was indeed need of haste, for above were now heard cries of rage and anger, hurrying footsteps, and finally a bang at the door of the shaft in the kitchen overhead. Sprule made a quick dive from his perch, and landed in Fenton's arms. This extinguished the little light. The cries, meanwhile, had increased in vigor, and someone began violently pulling up the dumb wader. Sprule landed with stocking feet upon the kitchen floor. He released himself from Fenton's arms, then silently shut the door of the shaft. There was a riot overhead. Quick till I lock the front door. Are the windows bolted? Fasten them, and we'll wait in the passageway. Is there a key to this confounded door? Yes, all right. Now then, come on, quick. Fenton fastened the kitchen windows, and joined Sprule in the hallway. The kitchen door was locked. Then Sprule went to the door to the stairway, and saw that it was also fastened. The clamor upstairs had ceased, or at least it could not be heard from where they stood. But in another moment they heard men rushing up the stairs, appounding at the hall door above, then a smash as it was broken in. What's that? Fenton asked anxiously. By Jove, I believe they're polled, said Sprule. I got out just in time. The police? Fenton inquired breathlessly. There has been a plain clothesman following me all the evening. I thought we had thrown him off the scent at the knickerbocker, before we came up here. But he must be up there with the cops. Wait till they come down. They waited for ten minutes without speaking, listening to the excitement upstairs, and finally the clumping of footsteps was heard on the stairs, as a half dozen men came down. As soon as they had passed, Sprule opened the door a crack, and looked out, and seeing that they were almost down the next flight, ran to the banisters and looked over. Fenton joined him, and saw the last of the group go round the corner. It was the man in the shepherd's plaid suit, whom he had already seen that evening, at Shepple Hall, at the plaza, and at the St. Paul building entrance. Jove, that was a narrow squeak, if they don't search the house. Let's come into the front room and look. He led the way to a small front parlor, and up to the window, where they saw a patrol wagon standing. O'Shea and Flint were being helped in, and the man in the shepherd's plaid suit was talking to a policeman on the sidewalk. As Fenton watched, these two also got into the wagon, and it drove off. He's been watching me for a week. Trying to locate the rest of the gang, said Sprule in a low voice. By Jove, if I could only get out of here, they wouldn't see me in New York for one while. Say, boy, he took Fenton by the arm. It may be hard for you to believe that I'm straight, but I can prove it. O'Shea knows it by this time. But luckily he daren't revenge himself on me for trying to queer this job with a Brewster Jewels. For a week I've been trying to give him the double-cross. Fenton drew back suspiciously, but despite the evidence against the man, his manner had candor. It was hard to believe him a murderer, yet it was hard, too, to believe his last assertion. A week! I don't see how that can be, he said, why the jewels were stolen only yesterday. Yes, but they might have gone at any minute. Fenton O'Shea had been planning to blow that safe at the Brewster House for a long while. Before they had things ready, Brewster got away with the stuff himself. As he left the safe door partly open, of course Fent discovered it. And when that girl brought home Brewster's body, he's suspected where the jewels must be. He was sure when she phoned him about them, and promised to bring them up to-night. But O'Shea was suspicious of her. He judged everyone by himself. They were too valuable to trust to her care at any rate. So he watched her. She acted so queerly that I doubted her honesty myself, and was soon convinced that she was trying to get away with the stuff. Then we shadowed her to the fortune teller's house, and saw you go into the same place. After the raid you came out of another house, so I followed you, leaving O'Shea to chase the girl. When we found you two together at Shepple Hall, we were sure that you had fixed up some game. In fact we could see easily enough by the look of you. You were pretty scared, that you had the jewels. So we didn't take any chances. O'Shea and Philips Born went after you. I was half a block behind watching for the police when they got you. Philips Born? Fenton queried? Why yes, he was a waiter O'Shea had known for some time. Queer chap and clever too. He had just about pulled off a queer game with a young chap named Morgan. He made up to Miss Morgan, posing as a foreign count, and got engaged to her. He was after a batch of pearls they had. O'Shea got him to help us follow the girl we suspected this evening, and as soon as that was finished, Philips Born was going back to the Morgans as Count Capricorni and close up that job. But he's dead, said Fenton. He must be the man I saw on the floor of Nallory's office in the St. Paul building. He drew away from Sprule with renewed suspicion. That's right, said Sprule soberly. And it was a pretty bad piece of business, too. You wonder I'm anxious to get away? But it was O'Shea that murdered him. And O'Shea will go to the chair for it safe enough. You see, as soon as we had the jewels, I took a couple of stones and pawned them for ready money, as we were terribly short of cash, arranging to meet them and Fent at the Bartoldi to divide up the loot. Fent was to wait up at the Norcross here in case we missed you. Well after I got up to the plaza for my grip, so as to be all ready to leave town, O'Shea telephoned me that he was afraid that he was followed and asked me to meet him in the St. Paul building, where he had his fake office as Nallory and Company. I went down there hoping to get some chance to get away with the stuff myself. At any rate I was determined that this would be my last job with O'Shea. Philips Born stood out for a full quarter, as his share. But O'Shea wouldn't have it. Philips Born pulled a gun, and then O'Shea went at him with a dirk, like a butcher. Philips Born went down with O'Shea's knife between his ribs. It was horrible. He was gasping and bleeding on the rug. When O'Shea and I were terrified by a knock at the office door, it was I, said Fent in breathlessly. Well we had to decide everything in a few seconds. We hadn't money enough to get away with. The only thing to do was to get up to Flint's and get him to give us some. I couldn't escape from O'Shea anyway. He was frightened white, and he clung like a leech. I knew that there was a detective after me. He had followed me from Sheffield Hall to the plaza, and was probably in the St. Paul building. But I had to take a chance that he wouldn't arrest me, till I had led him to the rest of the gang he was after. He was running down a new haven burglary, I was sure, something we had pulled off a few days before. I could only hope that we could get up to Flint's, where I could get away from O'Shea, before the place was pulled. Well I saw that plaincloseman, out of the tail of my eye as we left, and we let him a chase, dodging up one street and down another, in and out of saloons, into hotels, even into one theatre. He kept on our trail like grim death for an hour. Then I thought I had thrown him off the scent. By this time O'Shea was a pulp of fear and suspense. When we got to Flint's, though, and when Flint told of how you had handed over the jewels, O'Shea laughed like a fool. Flint didn't laugh, though, when he saw O'Shea in the light. The man's coat was streaked with blood, and his hands were red with it. Flint took the Irishman into the bathroom to clean up a little, leaving me in the kitchen. That's when I grabbed the bag, and jumped into the dumbwaiter. He paused, rose, and looked out of the window anxiously. They'll want you as a witness anyway, won't they? Flinten asked. I expect they will, but they won't have me. They've got evidence enough. They'll convict O'Shea easily. This isn't the first thing they've got on him. Why they're after him now for that Courtney kidnapping business. And that was seventeen years ago. Flinten's mind had more than once that night gone back to O'Shea's part in his own childhood. He knew he must have been about four years old when he first knew O'Shea and the house in South Boston. Flinten was now twenty-one. He made a rapid subtraction, and trembled at a sudden thought. He had begun to suspect that O'Shea was not his uncle. What if the mystery were at last to be explained? He tried to speak calmly, but his mind was whirling as he asked. What was that case? I never heard of it. I'll tell you about it while we wait, said Sprule, Elkhurst. It was certainly a curious affair, the story of the biter bit, you know, so taking a position where he could look out of the window he began. The Courtney Kidnapping Case. Seventeen years ago, Manga's O'Shea was a petty crook who was ready for any odd job that would bring him in a few dollars. He had begun life as a plumber, but gradually drifted into evil ways, and had already done a two-years stretch in San Quentin, California, for sneak-thieving. After leaving the pen he came east, where his space was not so well known to the police, and worked off and on at his trade, trying to keep straight. You see, he was one of those uncertain, half-way characters, whom you can respect neither as an honest man nor as an out-and-out crook courageously pitting his wits against the police. His face was ugly, red eyes and little black teeth, a mongrel with a mongrel's temper. He was pretty generally disliked in South Boston where he lived. Well he picked up an acquaintance with a bunch of crooks that frequented the nucleus saloon on the point, and they soon had him back in the game. He was quick-witted enough, cunning rather than clever, though, a good man to do their dirty work. It was about this time, let's see, in ninety-four it must have been, that he met Pi, Lemon Pi they used to call him, on account of his red hair. Lemon was a Nova Scotian, and he was a genius, bold and clever and versatile he was. A big man, every way. He had a big body, a big voice, and a big laugh, with a mind that could bore through things like a gimlet. Lemon was one of the finest confidence men in the business. And he put over some sensational jobs in his time. He had absolutely no moral sense. He believed the world was his oyster, and he opened it. He would have made a great general, if he had had the chance. Well, Pi, Lemon Pi, tolerated O'Shea, because the Irishman could be so easily teased. Lemon would sit drinking with him, chuckling at O'Shea's temper. And every little while landing a jab that would make O'Shea writhe. I never saw two men were not friends fraternized so. It seemed as if O'Shea sought Lemon's company all the time, always hoping to get even with the big man. But try as O'Shea would. Lemon always won, and O'Shea grew surlier and surlier, which pleased Pi immensely. One night O'Shea read in his paper that a millionaire named J. O. H. Courtney, down in Jersey, had made a couple of millions on a big deal in copper, and mentioned it to the big fellow who was with him. Pi remarked that he'd like to get a slice of that profit. Then he rolled his cigar over to the other corner of his mouth calmly, and added that he intended to get it, too. Why, you fool, said O'Shea. You don't expect he carries it around with him, or keeps it in the dining-room silver safe, do you? Oh, something like that, Pi answered, confidently. I happen to know where he does keep one prize piece of portable property, and Lemon rose and yawned, like a menagerie lion. I suppose you think you can con him out of his big money, snarled O'Shea. You'll find these bigchaps know that game themselves. Well, if I start anything, I'll have a pretty good argument to make him come across O'Shea. You ought to study psychology, but you can't teach a rat mathematics. He grinned down into O'Shea's angry little red eyes, chuckled and walked out. O'Shea forgot all about the conversation, till one day, about two months later, he picked up a paper and stared, fascinated, at a three-column scarehead. Courtney's little four-year-old son, Bruce, had been kidnapped. And there was the devil to pay about it. Of course you're too young to remember the affair, but it was the talk of the country. The story ran on the front pages of the newspapers for three weeks, and inside, for at least two months more, every sheriff and policeman in the country was trying to get the reward. Old man Courtney nearly beggared himself, paying for detectives, and the thousand expenses of the search. Now as soon as O'Shea read the news, he made up his mind that Pi had the child, so, having inside information, and a few hundred dollars laid up against a rainy day, O'Shea decided to have a try for the reward, so far so good. But what had become of Lemon? O'Shea started to find out. First he located Mrs. Pi in a lodging house on Tremont Street, Boston, and took a room there. Then he began to watch her mail. Three days after he moved in, he noticed a letter addressed to her, on the hallstand. He sneaked it up to his room, opened it with a knitting needle, and read this, Am Holding the Goods for a Rise, Expect to Make a Good Sale, Address H. C. Stevens, 325 Duluth Place, Chicago. O'Shea grinned and patted himself on the back for getting ahead of Pi at last. He considered his fortune as good as made. He resealed the envelope, put the letter back on the stand, and jumped on to the first train for Chicago. No police assistance for him. He knew that if he tipped them off, they would collect the reward themselves, and give him the laugh. What he had to do was to locate the kid, and then wire Courtney to come on. As matters stood then, there was a reward of $5,000 for the return of the child. Mr. Courtney had offered $3,000, the City of Orange $1,000, and the police $1,000 more. It was well worth working for. O'Shea was jubilant. He found that the address given in Pi's note was that of a small family hotel. O'Shea took a front room, and interviewed the chambermaid, who corroborated the note. Mr. Stevens, and a young boy with black hair, not red, mind you, had a two-room suite on the floor below. O'Shea spent three hours at the window watching the street. At about four o'clock he saw a lemon coming in with the boy, and he was sure of his quarry. He ran out and wired Courtney to come on immediately. When he returned from the telegraph office, he found, from the chambermaid, that Mr. Stevens and his pseudo son had already left. O'Shea was wild. Not only had the boy slipped through his fingers, but he had given Courtney evidence against himself, and he might be followed. There was nothing to do but get away and start on a new search. He cursed his indiscretion with the chambermaid, packed up his police, and came back to Boston, determined next time he located Lemon, to steal the child himself. Meanwhile Mr. Courtney had raised his reward to $5,000, making $7,000 in all. Mrs. Pye had moved. It cost O'Shea $50 odd dollars, two weeks time, and a lot of trouble to discover her. She was found, finally, in Plymouth, where she was living alone in the Samuset House as Mrs. Stevens. O'Shea made the acquaintance of the clerk, posing as a Federal Secret Service Agent, and finally got possession of a letter from Pye, giving his address in Detroit. O'Shea was off again, mad and tired and anxious. This time when he got to the address, he ran bang into Pye, who was coming out the door alone. O'Shea had tried to disguise himself with a red wig, some court plaster patches and a bandage, but his little red eyes and his little black teeth gave him away. Lemon gave one look at him. Lemon's eyes bored in like a corkscrew, and he chuckled. Well, he said good-naturedly, was you looking for me, Mr. O'Shea? He was no more afraid of O'Shea than a bull would be of a puppy, and it made O'Shea furious. I'm looking for that Courtney kid, said the Irishman, and you'd better let me in on the deal, or I'll make it hot for you. Pye looked him over. Pye laughed till he shook. Oh, you can have the kid when I'm through with him, he said. I didn't know you wanted him so bad. I'll let you know when it's your turn. And Pye walked off as cool as a snowball. O'Shea nosed about a bit, found Lemon was living alone in the house. No trace of Bruce Courtney. Next day he got a clue that led him post-haste to Minneapolis. Nothing doing. It was hard work. No chance for him to get his linen washed, economizing with his food, his money-giving out, hot, tired, mad, fighting mad, but more and more determined to get that boy, from Minneapolis to Charleston in a smoking-car. He couldn't afford a sleeper now. And there the trail fizzled out, and meanwhile he was reading in the papers that the reward was raised to 15,000. Sometimes he almost had his fingers on the kid. Next day he was miles off the scent. Why, Pye just played with him. It was a game of hair and hounds. After a month of this sort of thing, O'Shea stumbled against a woman named Lily Dean. Pye used to know. Lily said he had gone back on her, and told O'Shea, weeping into a lace handkerchief, that Pye was in Washington, up against it, and out of cash. O'Shea followed up the tip, and found it was straight. Pye was hiding with a little boy with red hair, in the negro quarter of town. O'Shea pawned his vest, his watch, and his revolver, and went after the kid. He watched his chants till Pye left the house, then broke into his room, and found a little boy crying in a rocking chair. O'Shea went wild. He not only had the kid, but he found $40 in bills in the top bureau drawer. With these he got to Wilmington, took a room in a hotel, and wired a red-hot message to Mr. Courtney again. Then it occurred to him to search the child for Mark's identification. The kid began to talk about Lily, and O'Shea had a panic. Finally he found a note in the little boy's trousers pocket. It read, not yet, but soon. O'Shea caved in and cried. It wasn't the Courtney kid at all, but some boy Pye had borrowed for the purpose of throwing O'Shea off the track. Well that broke up what was left of O'Shea's enthusiasm for the reward. He left the kid in the hotel, and went home stone broke. His wife was away in Fitchburg with her sister, who was ill, and O'Shea sulked about the house, hungry, cold, and disappointed, till in despair he got a job at his trade and tried to forget the reward. Meanwhile the reward had been increased again till it stood at $20,000. O'Shea, knowing Pye had the child, was of course crazy to use that information. But his telegrams to Mr. Courtney and his stealing of the other child prevented his daring to use what he knew. Well as I said, Pye was a genius. The way he collected ransom for Bruce Courtney has never been beaten. Of course Mr. Courtney was nearly insane by this time, and ready to do anything to get his son back. The police seemed able to do nothing. One day he received a letter accurately describing Bruce and offering to give him up for $5,000. With the advice of his detectives, Mr. Courtney decided to accept the bargain, pay over the money, and arrest the one who received it. The letter directed him to leave the money in $1,000 vils, tucked into the cushion of a certain easy chair in the public parlor of a New York hotel at a certain time. This was done, and the chair was watched. A stylishly dressed young lady, Pye's friend Lily Dean it was, sat down in the chair, took a letter from her bag, read it calmly, then rose and walked to another chair and sat a while. The detectives watched her till she left the parlor. Then they nabbed her. Of course she protested her innocence, but in spite of her anger she was taken to a room and searched. No money was found on her, and after some delay in the hope of identifying her, she was discharged from custody. Do you see how the trick was done? She had removed the money from the first chair, gone over to the second, and hidden it there in a similar place. Then during the excitement of her arrest, another person had gone to chair number two, got the bills, and made off. It was a daringly simple plan, and succeeded perfectly. The girl's confederates were never traced. The money was obtained, but the kidnappers did not return the child. No doubt they were afraid of the risk. It made a tremendous amount of talk when the facts were published. The whole subject became prominent in the papers again. O'Shea read of it, of course, and his opinion of Lemon's cleverness went up. He was considerably afraid, too, that his own part in the business might be traced, and kept pretty quiet. He was desperately hard up now, and kept his eyes open for means of raising money more easily than by working for it. His wife's sister, meanwhile, had died. He had to pay the funeral expenses, and send his nephew to an orphan asylum. O'Shea was not happy these days. One day he was riding in a Columbus Avenue car in Boston, when two men came in and sat down beside him. They were discussing something earnestly, and O'Shea, always with his ears open for news, listened. For a while he couldn't make out what they were talking about, but finally it developed that one was telling of a basket of silverware. A large basket, it appeared, fitted up in compartments, containing a complete assortment of solid silver dining plate. This sounded good to O'Shea. He listened more closely. The house, one said, was vacant, the family being away in the country. Seems to me it's kind of dangerous leaving that silver there alone all night, said one of the men. Oh, it's all right. You get it early in the morning, and ship it down to Marblehead. I can't bother to stay out there all night, said the other. Pretty handy for burglars, though. Easy to get away with. All packed up like that. Oh, they never had burglars out bright in way. It's a small house, and don't look like they'd ever be anything worth stealing there. On Harvard Street is it? How will I know which house it is? Why it's just the other side of the Brighton Road, toward Alston Village. Don't you remember that little yellow house with the stable on a rise of land at the turn of the road? Oh, I expect I can find it all right. I'll call about seven o'clock. Where is it, in the dining room? Yep. The first speaker handed over a house key. You can't miss it. Be sure and have it insured. The house all sealed up and addressed. The two men got off the car, and O'Shea grinned. He decided to go after that silver himself that night, get it home, and melt it up as soon as he could get a furnace. He could easily sell it at one of the fences he knew. That evening he hired an old covered wagon, and drove out over the mill dam, and out the Brighton Road to Harvard Street. The house was easily found. O'Shea left his wagon outside. He looked round to the back of the house, and jimmied the dining-room window. It was nothing at all to do. He got in, found a huge wicker basket tied up, sealed and addressed, as had been described, and lifted it. It was heavier than he expected, but he opened the front door and got it out that way, though it was a hard job. He watched till he was sure there was no one passing, hoisted the basket into his cart, and drove back home in a high good humor. It was two o'clock when he reached the little side street where he lived, and got the basket into his house, and called his wife. She was anxious as he was to see the swag. They cut the ropes, and threw up the lid. There resting on old bed quilts, carefully arranged so that he could not be harmed, was a child of four years of age, apparently dead. O'Shea stared in horror. His wife nearly fainted. One look at the child told the story. It was Bruce Courtney. The boy O'Shea had spent three months and his last dollar trying to capture. His hair, at her sight, seemed black, but at the roots it showed reddish, proving that it had been dyed. Around his neck was a gold locket set with a star in diamonds, pictures of which had appeared in all the newspapers. If there had been any doubt about the boy's identity, the note pinned to his breast would have settled it. It was from Lemon Pie, and said, You can have him now. I'm through with him. LP. You can imagine O'Shea's feelings. With the hue and cry after Bruce Courtney, it was like receiving a present of a stick of dynamite with a fuse lighted. Despite the fact that $20,000 reward had been offered for the boy, his presence was the most dangerous thing possible. How could O'Shea ever explain how he had found him? He could not confess to a burglary. He was already in none too good repute with the police, and his movements where the boy had undoubtedly been could probably be traced if he disclosed the information. But worse than this, what if the boy were dead? It would be almost impossible to dispose of the corpse. The case was desperate. O'Shea summoned his nerve, took up the boy, and found that he was still breathing but in a deep stupor. At all hazards he must be revived if it were possible. While O'Shea hurried out for a doctor, Mrs. O'Shea undressed the child, put him to bed, and disposed of the blanket. It was two in the morning when the doctor arrived. He looked at the boy and looked again. Then he turned to O'Shea. Is this your child, he asked sharply? Mrs. O'Shea answered quickly, as women will in an emergency. It's my sister's boy doctor. She died last week, and we're going to adopt the poor little fellow. Will he live, do you think? She burst into tears. Well that settled it. Luckily she had talked with her neighbors of her sister's death, and they all knew of the boy. The O'Shays took the bull by the horns and made the best of a pretty bad bargain. Bruce Courtney became Michael O'Shea. He recovered from the drugs, had his head shaved, and in a week was in a pretty fair way to grow into a South Boston tough. But when the reward was again raised for the return of Courtney's son, O'Shea looked at his wife inside. He's worth $25,000 as he stands, he groaned. And I decent claim one cent of it. This kidnapping business ain't what it's cracked up to be. You can't get no easy money in this world. We'll have to put the boy to work. He's a bad investment for them what can't afford him. This thought was rubbed into him well by Lemon Pie, who, fat and complacent at the end of his victorious campaign, one day met O'Shea as he was going to work with his soldering iron and lead pipes. You wasn't too much of a hurry for that silver O'Shea, he said. We had bare time to feed the poor kitty the knockout drops before you was in it the window. I would have come downstairs and helped you with the basket. Only I was laughing that hard I couldn't move. I hated to part with the lad, for I was growing fond of him. But the detectives was getting too lively for me. And besides, you wanted him so bad. I thought it was a shame not to let you have him. Long before Sprule Elkhurst had finished his story, Fenton, or as he undoubtedly must begin to call himself, Bruce Courtney, had gone off into a reverie. Was he Bruce Courtney? There could be no doubt of it. Everything tallied with what he knew of his own history. And the evidence of the Golden Locket was alone sufficiently convincing. What it could mean to him in the future, he could not guess. But it kindled his imagination and his pride. If this could be proved, he would be no longer the obscure, unknown, architectural draftsman. He would have a legal name, relatives, and perhaps money. It came to him in a flash that, above all, this might give him a position which would enable him to meet Belsharmion more easily. He dared not trust himself to speak, however. He was not yet sure of Sprule. There were the Brewster Jewels, too, to be accounted for. What had become of them? Should he still have to fight for them? Sprule, who had given another long, careful look out of the window, now returned it, interrupted Fenton's daydream, by a light touch on the shoulder. Do you believe I'm straight? He asked. Seriously? It was hard for Fenton to reply. He knew Sprule for a pal of O'Shays, a crook, and perhaps worse. Might he not, in spite of what he had told, be an accomplice to the murder, as he was undoubtedly an accessory after the fact? And yet the man also had candor, that cause scarce be doubted. There was something Fenton liked about him. He had charm. Oh, I don't know, Fenton stammered. How do I know you're telling me the truth? You say you tried to queer O'Shays' job, but here I find you with him right in the game all through. I think I can prove it, said Sprule, calmly. He unbuttoned his coat, drew forth a soft leather bag, and poured from it a glittering collection of jewelry, sparkling with precious stones upon the floor. Fenton stared. For the third time that night he had come strangely across the Brewster jewels. It seemed impossible. Despite the seriousness of the occasion, he had to smile, as at some grotesque joke. It seemed that, despite all his blunders, he could not lose this mysterious treasure. He looked up at Sprule in wonder. Will you take this stuff back to the Brewster house? Sprule asked quietly. Fenton nodded, still staring with wonder. Then he added. I'll try it again, but for heaven's sake, explain your part in all this. All right, says Sprule. I will. I admit that I have been a crook. For five years I have been a member of one of the cleverest and most desperate gangs in the country. But I've broken away, or tried to. Tonight, if I succeeded, was to end it all. Maybe I can do it yet. I hardly know how to make you believe what I want to say. If you only knew my wife, I think you might understand. I do know your wife, said Fenton. She came into your apartment at the plaza before I left. I had a long talk with her. You did? Sprule's voice trembled with excitement. Did she? But, of course, you couldn't know. She'd never tell if she suspected. She knows that you're a crook, said Fenton quietly. Oh, God! Sprule buried his face in his hands. Fenton put his hand on the man's shoulder. See here, old man, he said kindly. If you're honest, if you want to be straight, the best thing you can do is to go right to her, if you can possibly get away. She's going to take the first train to Philadelphia tomorrow. You'd better meet her there. Oh, I can't face her. I dare not. You must. You'll find she'll forgive you. She'll do more than that. She'll help you to turn over a new leaf. I know, for she has said so to me. Sprule spoke between gritted teeth. If you knew how I love her, you'd believe me. My love for her has kept me in hell for a year, trying to break away from this gang. You don't know what a fight it has been. O'Shea is a devil. He has it on me for so many things I've done, in the past, that she doesn't know about. Oh, I'd have done my time and been happy enough in jail to get away from O'Shea. But I couldn't disgrace her. She loved me so, trusted me so. I've tried and tried to break with him, but each time he's pulled me back into the net, threatening to expose me. It was no use. So yesterday I decided to leave her. If I was caught, at least it wouldn't drag her name into it. I had an idea. She had already begun to suspect me. So I decided never to come back to her, and let her think what she would. Do you really think that she'd give me a chance? If you'd explain a matter of a ruby necklace, I think she would. Oh, God, did she tell you that? That was something I've almost died about, since. It was a horrible thing to do. But I was distracted. I didn't know what I was doing, really. I knew I had to leave her, and I wanted to give her something in remembrance of me. We had cleaned up a house in New Haven. I got hold of this necklace out of the swag, without O'Shea's knowing it. And I gave it to her. It was a crazy, horrible thing to do. I see it now. It might be discovered on her any time. But I was distracted, I tell you. I didn't think. I only knew I loved her, and I had lost her forever. I had to do something. That necklace has been her curse, but you can make it her blessing if you want to, said Fenton. Go to her, and she will tell you something about it. And something that should make you two love each other more than ever. I'll try, said Sprule. If I get out of this safe, I'll take her abroad somewhere and begin all over again. It was nearly four o'clock by this time. Fenton cramped and stiff, rose and walked about the room, and looked out for the first signs of dawn, while Sprule Elkhurst reconnoitred from the hall door. After fifteen minutes he came back. Well, I'm going to try it, he said. Good-bye. And if they get me, I want you to do one thing for me. I know, said Fenton. You want me to tell your wife that you had tried to be straight. For love of her, Sprule added. Then he wrung Fenton's hand and slipped down the stairs. Fenton watched from the window. Saw him walk with an apparently careless, leisurely stride along the street toward Broadway, and disappear round the corner. Then Fenton brushed his silk hat lovingly, put it on, buttoned the bag of jewels inside his waistcoat, and walked downstairs. End of CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII OF FIND THE WOMAN This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. FIND THE WOMAN by Gillette Burgess CHAPTER XII A Harlem lodging-house, describing Fenton's return home in a top hat, and how he was welcomed by a friend and a letter, and how he profited by each of them. The sky was streaked red with a flush of dawn when John Fenton emerged from the Norcross apartments, and set out at last for his home. There was no hurry now. He had no further fear of pursuit. O'Shea and Flint were in custody, and Sprule had proved his honesty. So with the leather bag of jewels buttoned snugly under his waistcoat, Fenton decided to walk. He had much to think over. The events of the past night passed before his eyes like a dazzling, incredible, moving picture show. But ever in and out of its fantastic scenes appeared and disappeared a mysterious, fascinating heroine, Belle Charmian. Would she ever re-enter his melodrama? Some intuition told him that she would. That in some strange way their lives were entangled, and the threads of their destinies must meet again. The fresh, cool air revived him, and he strode along, with as much spirit as if he had but just awakened from a restful night. As the sun rose it grew warmer. There was a touch of spring in the air. He sent his spirit several degrees higher. He grew more boyish, and swung along, whistling a lively march. So down Broadway Boulevard all the way to 125th Street, and then eastward. As he approached his boarding-house, one of a row of dreary-looking wooden buildings with high stoops, painted each one a separate color, lead and molasses yellow and brown, he saw with surprise that someone was sitting on the front steps, drinking from a milk bottle. Who was it? The figure was familiar, and something about the jaunty, audacious attitude still more so. Fenton stopped to watch. The man rose and waved a newspaper. It was Jack Richmond, the star reporter of the item. Fenton's heart sank. For a moment he was inclined to turn and escape, rather than encounter this persistent news-gatherer. He feared the reporter's inquisition. Once on the scent of a story, Fenton knew well enough that the man would not soon let go. But Richmond could not easily be evaded. Fenton knew that well enough too. He could run, and he could fight as well as he could question. Fenton's momentary indecision settled the question at any rate, for Richmond came running up before Fenton could flee. Well by Jove, you've decided to show up at last, have you?" Richmond called Jovially. I've been waiting two solid hours for you, and I'm nearly frozen stiff. If a milkman hadn't happened past, I'd have been starved as well. Say, you seem to have gone up in the world, some old man. Some different from that Highlander costume with broken eggshells for stockings. And he tapped Fenton's white tie. Where in the devil have you been, I'd like to know. He took Fenton's arm familiarly, and walked toward the boarding-house. Where have you been, Fenton asked? I have as good a right to ask as you. He tried to shake himself loose, but Richmond held him close. What are you chasing me for, anyway? He demanded sullenly. Because I want that story, said the reporter. The jewel robbery, you know. Oh, that was all a fake, Fenton began. Bosh! But how about that locket? Fenton stopped suddenly. Well, so far as that goes, how about Belsharmion? Who is she? Where is she? What do you know about her? Where is the locket? What have you found out? Where did you go? Where can I find her? Richmond laughed and laughed. Say you ought to be a reporter, not me. You could beat Li Hung Chang for questions. See here I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll swap you story for story. You tell me what you've been up to. And I'll tell you where I've been. Fenton hesitated. I'm afraid I can't, Richmond. You see, it isn't my story. It mustn't get into the papers. It's a question of honor. See here, old man. Richmond drew him down on the doorsteps. You don't seem to be on to this newspaper game. I'm as keen for news as anyone in the business. But I'm a gentleman as well. And when I give a promise, I'll keep it. Not a word will be published that you don't consent to. If you know anything about the ethics of the profession, you ought to know that any information is safer with a good newspaper man than with anyone else in the world. Why, the President of the United States tells things to correspondence in Washington that politicians would give their heads to know. And that confidence has never been violated in the history of journalism. I'll just remark that I'm straight. The reporter's manner put Fenton's mind at rest. After all, it would be a great relief to get such a man's help and advice. All right, he said. Go ahead first, though. Tell me about Belsharmian. Good. It isn't too much, old man, but here goes. It's this way. Early this poor noon we got the tip from police headquarters that a man named Gordon Brewster had committed suicide in his house on West 72nd Street. There was something funny about it, and I was sent out on the story. The coroner had viewed the remains, and he had had the body removed to an undertaker's place on Broadway, because there was nobody there in the house. That's the first queer thing. The caretaker had skipped out while the cops were there. The only relative was his half-sister, your beautyist friend Belsharmian. What's the matter? Belsharmian is Gordon Brewster's half-sister, Fenton cried? Why not? Didn't you know it? Why shouldn't she be? Like an electric shock the thought swept through Fenton's mind. The jewels, then, were perhaps Belsharmians, stolen from her by her half-brother. But he dared not speak yet. Go on, he said, but he was almost two days too occupied with this new light on the mystery to listen to Richmond. Well said the reporter, Miss Charmian was missing. Why? At first I sent it some mystery, but it was simple enough. She and Brewster never did get on very well together, and they quarreled about two months ago, and Miss Charmian went with her maid to the hotel plaza and took a sweet there. I found this out from a Harry Hay, who was Brewster's most intimate friend. Hay had heard that Miss Charmian was interested in settlement work, down on the east side, and so I hiked down to see my friend, the middle-class girl I told you about, Mrs. Petrovsky, formerly Miss Bessie Baker, for a tip as to Miss Charmian's probable whereabouts. Mrs. P knows the whole east side, especially the uplifters connected with the settlement, and I finally caught Miss Charmian as you saw. Now comes the funny part. You saw me meet her. I began to speak of her half-brother, but before I had a chance to tell her what had happened, and what I wanted, she asked me who you were. She wanted to know who I was. Fenton could scarcely believe it. Yes, and she took your address as well. I walked along with her and we talked as we went. She said she was in a great hurry, going uptown, but all the same she had time to pump me about you. Well I knew very little but your interest in the locket, which I showed her. She got excited when she saw it. I couldn't understand why, but I had no time to figure it out. I told her that her half-brother had sent me down to find her, and he wanted to see her immediately. She said that was impossible. She had an engagement that night. Going up to a reception at the Morgans, she said, Lucky I caught the name. Well I didn't want to blurt it out that her half-brother was lying dead in an undertaker's shop on Upper Broadway. So I thought I'd break it to her easy. You know, let it out a little at a time. So I walked along and she kept asking about you. We went down the subway entrance, and I bought two tickets just as a train came along. We ran for it. She had just time to slip in, and I was following right behind her, when a big fellow came along behind me like he was shot out of a thirteen-inch gun. Bang! He bowled me over and my hat fell off. Bang again! The door was shut by the guard, and the train pulled out. What do you know about that? Pretty lumpy work for a star reporter, eh? She got away with the locket. Fenton stared at the reporter thoughtfully, and she wanted to know about me. Do you wonder I wanted to find you again? So you haven't seen Miss Charmian since, Fenton inquired, ignoring the remark. You wait. I telephoned to the office that I had fallen down on the story, and there was some rough talk from the City Editor. He said he'd tried to locate her somehow, and meanwhile he ordered me to look up a girl Gordon Brewster was supposed to be engaged to. One of our hotel men had phoned in that he had seen her in the King William Hotel, where she had registered as Miss Green. That looked funny too, so I went after it. Say I'd like to have omitted that. He passed his hand across his forehead. Fenton's heart sank with foreboding. He remembered the last glance the octoroon had given him. It was tragic in its despair. It could mean but one thing, he knew, and the question leaped to his lips. Suicide? For heaven's sake, how should you guess that? Richmond demanded. Oh, I knew her. Tell me about it. I asked for her, and the girl phoned up. No answer. Well, I had to see her. They rang again and again, and then I went up on the elevator, with a cab driver who said Miss Green had cheated him out of his fare. The minute I reached the door I smelled gas, and suspected what had happened. I went down, got the hotel detective. We went back with one of the clerks, and they smashed the transom and put a boy through. Well, I've seen dead bodies enough. I ought to be used to it. But she got me some way. You say you knew her. Yes, said Fenton quietly. She was a wonderful woman, I think. Yes, I wonder if Brewster knew. You mean that she was not white? For God's sake, did you know? Richmond demanded. Nobody else ever did, so far as I can find out, in the wide world. She told me that she had Negro blood, Fenton replied. Yes, well, some people might have thought it merely ridiculous. The hotel clerk did. But somehow she did have a fine face, you know. And the expression was beautiful. Exquisite, somehow. I don't know. It made me feel like a kid. The old story. No color line in heaven, and all that sort of thing. Rich and poor, alike in his sight. Con found it. I tell you, I couldn't think of anything, but that, thank God, it was all over for her. The contempt and the scorn, and the, oh well, everything. No, I couldn't laugh when I saw that pretty blonde wig twisted off her head, showing the nigger kinky wool underneath. I don't know. It was a piece of symbolism, I suppose. And the star reporter of the item, in his embarrassment at such sentimental confession, delved in his pocket for a cigarette. Fenton himself had too much to think about to speak. Richmond lighted his cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. Well I wrote the story and sent it down to the office. There wasn't much that could be said. But as we couldn't find out anything from her about Brewster, it became absolutely necessary to get hold of Miss Charmian. Luckily I remember that she said she was going to some reception at the Morgans. But what Morgans? Do you know that there are exactly thirty-five Morgans with residents' telephones, not to speak of those in apartment houses whose names are not in the book? Well I eliminated about twenty, and then began ringing up the other fifteen. It was after twelve that I found the right one, and had a talk with Miss Charmian. I had to tell her right out what was up. You can't mince matters much over a wire. Of course she was terribly agitated to hear her half-brother was dead, while she was at a reception, and she hung up before I could ask her when I could see her. I didn't have the nerve to call her up again, and I decided to wait till this morning to interview her. Now Mr. Fenton, I'm ready to listen to your yarn. Let's come up to my room first, said Fenton, and he opened the front door, and led the way up two flights' narrow stairs, past alcoves decorated with dusty plaster casts, along smelly, shabby little halls where they could hear lodgers still snoring, to a small bedroom on the third floor. As he threw open the door he noticed a note on the floor that had been pushed under the crack. He stooped and picked it up, read it, then handed it to the reporter. Well, what do you think of that? he said in surprise. Richmond read it aloud. Will Mr. John Fenton be kind enough to call at No. 372nd Street at his very earliest opportunity, and greatly oblige Miss Bellsharmion? Well he said, I thought she seemed remarkably interested. I suppose she wants to return the locket. Fenton shook his head. I'm afraid it's more serious than that, he said. By Jove I can imagine what she thinks of me this time. See here, Richmond, I've got to tell you the whole thing now, anyway, and you've got to help me out. She wants to see me because she thinks I've stolen the Brewster family jewels. Richmond jumped off the bed in triumph. Aha! Then that tale of yours wasn't a fake, after all. He said, Well, did you steal them, old man? For a moment Fenton hesitated. Seeing the reporter's face, in it he saw, with all its sharpness and eagerness, a rare kindness and sympathy. He felt confidence in the man, and he needed a friend. With a quick gesture he took the leather bag from its hiding-place, and emptied the contents upon his table, outrolled the jewels, and spread in a glittering mass before the reporter's eyes. There said Fenton calmly, How's that for circumstantial evidence? Fenton gasped. But I thought you said they had been stolen from you. Richmond, you may not believe it. I can hardly believe it myself. But I found these jewels three times this night, and lost them twice. Then as the reporter's brown eyes drew together, in an expression of incredulity, Fenton began with the story of the eventful evening. He told of his visit to the fortune-tellers, and of the raid, his discovery of the Octarune, and how she had confided the jewels to his care, his escape to Sheffel Hall, and the story she had told him there, of Gordon Brewster's death, how she and Harry Hay had carried the dead body to West 72nd Street, and of their subsequent discovery of Brewster's theft of the jewels. Then he narrated his own promise and attempt to deliver them, and his failure. The description of how he was chloroformed, robbed, and left in the pigeon loft, brought him to the Liars Club, where he had first met Richmond. Ah, said Richmond. That restores my faith in my own powers of observation. I was sure that first tale of yours was true. You see why this story can never be printed, though Fenton asked anxiously. I'm not a cad, Richmond replied simply. But go on. That's a pretty lively start. See if you can keep up the pace. Fenton smiled. Keep it up, he said. It isn't over yet. I won't wake up, probably, till I see Bel Charmian. He went on to tell of his visit with Elkhurst, alias Sprule, to the Astor Hotel, and of Mrs. Elkhurst's appearance and story, proving her husband to be one of the gang that was on the trail of the jewels. Her information had led him downtown to the St. Paul Building, where he discovered the jewels with the murdered body of the bogus Count Capricorni. By Joe, Richmond cried. There's a story, anyway. I'll wire that in immediately over the phone. There's a good chance we can get a scoop on that murder for the first afternoon edition. And he was off downstairs to the telephone, while Fenton restored the Brewster jewels to the velvet bag, and poured over Bel Charmian's note. At Richmond's return Fenton completed the night's adventures with an account of his meeting with Mrs. Charmian at the Morgan's reception, and his afterward innocently handing over the jewels to the very gang that had been after them. Sprule Elkhurst's escape and his confiding of the jewels again to Fenton's care finished the narrative. And now he concluded, what am I to do? I must return the jewels to Mrs. Charmian immediately, of course, but she will have to know that her half-brother stole them. I wish I could spare her that, for the sake of that poor girl who was just committed suicide. Richmond thought it over. Let's see, he began. You say that the caretaker Fent discovered the safe door open. Did he lock it? That's the question. He may have just shut it, without locking the combination. And so it's possible for us to open the door. I don't say it's probable, but it's worth trying. See here. Suppose I go with you to see Mrs. Charmian. I've got to talk with her anyway, and I'll see what I can do about it. We'll just wait our chance. It may come, or it may not. At any rate, you can trust me. He grasped Fenton's hand and shook it warmly. But if Mrs. Charmian should know the jewels are gone, she may have looked in the safe already, said Fenton. That's unlikely. Why should she suspect anything? She's much too disturbed, probably. Fenton pointed to the note. She's not too disturbed to write to me at any rate. What else would she want to see me for? The locket, of course, said Richmond. There's some mystery there. You'd better tell me something more about it. Fenton briefly sketched his own remarkable biography. His life with the O'Shays, and later with Dr. Hop Bottom. Finally he mentions Sprule's story of the Courtney kidnapping, and his own memory of the little girl on the ferry boat. That's it. You are Bruce Courtney, and that little girl was Bel Charmian, of course, and she suspects, somehow, who you really are. By Jove, let's hurry. It's eight o'clock. She'll surely be up by this time. I want to see the day-new mall. Fifteen minutes afterward, Fenton having plunged into a cold bath and changed his evening clothes for his own modest business suit, the two young men set out, blithe and enthusiastic, for West 72nd Street. Richmond disgorced upon the events of the night and the material he would find therein for stories for the item, without violating the confidence of the dead Octoroon. Fenton did not listen. His thoughts were only of Bel Charmian, whom fate, after having tossed across his path so many times, was perhaps now preparing to link still more closely to his life. He had gone far with his emotions that night, and now he found himself thinking of her as actually his. What else could mean that mysterious attraction he had felt when he first saw her portrait? At the thrill the first sight of her gave him, his agitation at the first sound of her voice. Bel Charmian, the name, rang in his ears like a bell. Why it seemed as if he had known her always. It seemed as if, when he saw her, words would be unnecessary, as if she too must know that they too were made for one another. And so he walked as if on air. Richmond's talk had turned to baseball and theaters. Fenton heard not a word. End of Chapter 12