 CHAPTER XIX The cries of delight coming in the voice of Pauline from the direction of the garage made Harry lay down his newspaper and go forth to investigate. As he approached, he saw Bemis and Lucille's coachmen lifting a crate from a carriage. From within the crate came the whimpering barks of an imprisoned bull terrier. Oh, isn't he dear? cried Pauline, turning to Harry. I don't know. I haven't yet made his acquaintance. Where did he come from? Lucille sent him to me. Johnson just brought him over. Hurry, Bemis, and let him out, the poor darling! Is that what's called puppy love? inquired Harry. Hush commanded Pauline, and Bemis run and tell Martha to cook something for him. A beef steak and potatoes. And oysters on the half-shell. Suggested Harry. Love me? announced Pauline sternly. Love my dog! The coachmen had ripped off the last top bar of the crate, and a splendid terrier sprang out with a suddenness that made Pauline retreat a little. But as if he had been trained to his part, he bent his head and with wagging tail approached her. In an instant she was kneeling beside him, rewarding his homage with enthusiastic pats and fantastic encomiums. Why, he likes me already! Isn't he charming? she demanded. Harry threw up his hands. And this for a dog, a new dog, possibly a mad dog. You are a brute! The dog was making rapid acquaintance with his new home, investigating the garage, and more profoundly, the kitchen door. Here, Cyrus, come, Cyrus! called Pauline, and started towards the house. Owen, in his motorcycle-togs, was lighting a cigar on the veranda when they came up the steps. Without even pretending to enter into Pauline's enthusiasm over the terrier, he excused himself and walked off briskly in the direction of the garage. A few minutes later, they saw him on the motorcycle, speeding down the drive. I wonder what the impressive business is today? remarked Harry sarcastically. Let poor Owen alone, he is good and kind, even if he doesn't care for Cyrus. Look here, why don't you ever say any of these nice things to me? The things you say to dogs, and secretaries. Because I've promised to marry you, some day, and it is fatal to let a husband, even a futurity husband, know that you admire him. Well, as long as you do, it's all right. A half mile down the main road to Westbury, a runabout was drawn up, and a converted gypsy was alternately pretending to repair an imaginary brake, and relieving his nerve strain by pacing the road. Balthazar's fantastic garments had given way to a plain sack suit and motor duster. But the profit of his employment by Raymond Owen was worth the discomfort of becoming civilized. The muttering of a distant motor made him fall to his knees, and wrench in hand, wiggle hastily under the machine. To all appearance he was bitterly preoccupied with the woes of a stalled tourist, when a motorcycle chugged to a stop beside the runabout, and Owen called him. I thought you had failed our appointment, master. He said eagerly, as he crawled out. I have waited for more than half an hour. It is sad that you should be inconvenienced, old friend. Answered Owen. I have done what you've commanded, master. Balthazar said with an ingratiating smile. I have found them. Found whom? The friends I spoke about at our last meeting. The little band that earns money by making it. Oh yes, your counterfeiters. Are they to be trusted? Master, all guilty men are to be trusted. There is always protection in knowing the sins of others. Sometimes, Balthazar, I almost suspect you of possessing a brain. But remember, I have told you that I shall soon be through, unless you accomplish something. Master, it is because I dare not risk your freedom, your life. For myself, I care not. I live to serve you, who have been my benefactor. You lie, of course. Remarked Owen casually. But what of the new plan? They are in Banterstil, only twelve miles from Castle Marvin. A house that has been long occupied, and with no houses near. And they are still manufacturing coins there. Yes, but they are becoming frightened. Two of the distributors have been arrested. They would be glad of a safer, a swifter method of making money. Come along, then. Owen mounted the motorcycle while Balthazar sprang to the seat and started the runabout. They sped briskly over the roads, turning at last into an old weed-grown wagon path, fringed cops-like, by the branches of ever-hanging trees. The machine swished through the barrier leaves and came out upon a small clearing, where there stood a gaunt house, evidently long deserted. Balthazar drove on along the road for almost a quarter of a mile before he stopped the machine. Owen, following, without question. They left the runabout and the motorcycle, and walked back to the house. It is an excellent location, commented Owen, as Balthazar led the way into a basement entrance. Who did you say was the man in charge of the... concern? Rupert Wallace. He's a world traveller like yourself. Oh, no match for you and mine, master. Balthazar, as he spoke, was wrapping lightly on a wall which had no sign of a door. It was pitch dark where they stood. But suddenly, with hardly a sound, two sliding doors opened to the gypsy's signal and a faint light from the gas jet on the wall gleamed on an inner passage. Balthazar, closely followed by Owen, walked quickly down the secret hall, and without signal this time another set of silent doors opened upon a brightly lighted room. A crabbed, withered woman admitted them. The room was overheated because of the presence of a gas forge on which a cauldron of metal was being melted. On one side there was a stamping press, and on the other a set of molds. Wallace noted Owen's curiosity, and stepping to the table in the middle of the room picked up a handful of half-dollar pieces. You are interested in our work. The work is supplying the poor with sufficient funds to meet the increased cost of living. He said smiling. These are some of our product. We're proud of them. The weight is exactly that of the true fifty cent piece, and only one man in fifty could tell the difference in the ring of the metal. Owen looked at the coins in sincere admiration. It is very remarkable, he said. But Balthazar tells me... I know. You have little business secrecy for myself and my friends. You may speak here of perfect safety, Mr. Owen. Gossip is not a fault, or a possibility of our profession. I do not believe there is anything to say but what Balthazar has already told you. Except... Owen hesitated. Except what, master? Is there a change in the plan? Asked Balthazar. I think there might be. Something occurred today that might give us a favorable lead. Miss Pauline received as a gift a terrier dog. I believe it could be made use of. In what way? Asked the counterfeiter. By stealing it, and bringing it here. I don't understand. Ah, yes indeed I do. Excellent, master. Exclaimed Balthazar. It could be done today. Can I have two of your men, Rupert? Yes. Take Gaston and Frenzy. They're always to be trusted. At his words two men stepped forward. One of them had been working at the metal pots. But in response to a hurried word from Rupert he quickly threw off his cap and apron and caught up a hat and coat. Rupert Wallace stepped to the side of the room where a pair of upright levers stood out of the floor like the levers of an automobile. He pulled the one nearest him and the sliding doors parted softly. Owen and Balthazar with their new escort stepped through. For a moment Wallace waited. Then he drew back the other lever and the departing guests found as they reached the end of the secret passage that their path opened, almost magically before them. In the hushed unfolding of the second door. Goodbye, Cyrus. Said Harry as Pauline, strolling down the garden with him, tossed to her new pet a dainty from the box of bonbons she carried. What do you mean by that, she demanded? That the oysters on the half-shell would be better for his health. I didn't give him oysters on the half-shell. No, but you gave him everything else in the house. He is stuffed like the fatted calf or like the prodigal son. I don't care which. If he likes candy he shall have candy. Declared Pauline, sitting down on an arbor bench and extending another sugar plumb to the dog. The gratitude of Cyrus was expressed in a leap to the side of his mistress. As Harry sat down he discovered that Cyrus had occupied the favored place beside Pauline. Next instant there was a yell of dismay and the adored gift of Lucille fell several feet away from the bench. Harry, I think that is dreadful, exclaimed Pauline, springing to her feet. I do too, he answered. That was why I threw it off the bench. To treat a poor innocent dumb creature like that. Pauline, you don't mean it, do you? You think I hurt him? You've hurt his feelings. That doesn't matter, but if I've hurt yours it does. I apologize. You are always joking. You don't understand how sweet and dear animals are. You will probably treat me the same way after we are married. She ran to the spot where the wary Cyrus was munching the last piece of candy. But he accepted her caresses without enthusiasm, keeping a careful eye on Harry. She called to the dog and walked briskly toward the house. But Cyrus did not follow. The box of candy was still on the garden bench. And Cyrus was not immune to temptation. Owen followed on his motorcycle the runabout, in which Balthazar and the two chosen members of Rupert Wallace's band made their swift journey toward Castle Marvin. A quarter of a mile from the grounds, Owen drew alongside. This would be a good place to stop. The car can be hidden in the lane. Yes, master. Said Balthazar. He wheeled the machine upon a narrow roadway into the cover of the woods, and with his companions got out. Owen rode on ahead and was waiting for them as they neared the little footpath gate to the Marvin grounds. Look through the hedge there. He directed. Balthazar crawled on his hands and knees to the boxed wall that surrounded the grounds. He thrust his shoulders through the bush and gazed for a moment at the dog, devouring Pauline's bonbons on the bench. I should say it would be well to act now. Instantly, master. He cried, returning. Go on. I will be at the house and will try to hold them back if there is any noise. As Owen began to wheel his cycle up the drive to Castle Marvin, Balthazar and his two aides wriggled through the hedge-row, crossed a strip of sword, and reached the bench. Balthazar caught the dog's head in his powerful hands. There was not a sound. The animal's muzzle was shut fast, and in a minute it had been tied, leg, and body. They ran to the gate, to the runabout, and wore away. Why, Harry, I can't find him anywhere. What could have happened to him? Cried Pauline, rushing into the library. Owen lost? Thank heaven. He exclaimed fervently. No, Cyrus, Harry, it's your fault. He was angry because you pushed him off the bench and he ran away. Pauline. He said, wheeling in his chair. I am not worried. I decline to be worried. And I am going away from here. Not before you helped me find Cyrus. Yes, long before. She turned and whisked crossly out of the room. Harry picked up his hat and coat, and in a few minutes was being driven away by feral, on an urgent call to town. Pauline stood on the veranda and watched his departure with silent wrath. I wonder if he is really cruel, or if he is just a man and doesn't know any better. She pondered audibly. Then, as she saw Owen approaching from the side path. Oh, Owen, won't you help me? I've lost Cyrus. Cyrus? Am I sure whom you mean? Yes, the new member of our family's circle. Yes, he's gone. The only thing to do, I should say, is to advertise. I will call up the newspapers immediately, Miss Pauline. You are dear. I must have him back. Think what Lucille would say if I lost him on the first day. I'll offer a generous reward, and he'll soon be back. Thank you, Owen. End of Chapter 19 Owen Offers a Reward The Perils of Pauline, Chapter 20, by Charles Goddard This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 20 Cyrus Makes a Reputation The proceedings behind the hidden doors and the cellar of the ruined house between Bathwater and Castle Marvin were not interrupted by so small a matter as the kidnapping of an heiress, a kidnapping that had progressed no further as yet than the capture of a dog. As Owen stepped into the den the next forenoon, he saw the bull terrier tied to the wall. I see we have the main ingredient of the repast in hand. The main ingredient and the most dangerous. Said Wallace. He has done nothing but howl and bark. May we kill him? Not yet, answered Owen. It is possible that he might demand sight of him before entering the house, or some nonsense of that sort. I would let him howl a little longer. Very well. Lacked Wallace. What orders have you for us today, sir? The other counterfeiters kept steadily on at their work over the melting pots, the molds and stamping machines. The old woman was stacking half-dollar pieces at the table. Why do you have the woman here? Demanded Owen suddenly. To prevent starvation. Answered Wallace. Carrie is not only our purchasing agent, but our excellent cook. The hag looked up for a moment with a cackle of appreciation, then bent again to her work. Can she write? Asked Owen. Yes? Well then, she can help us. Here is an advertisement which appears in the morning papers. He presented a newspaper clipping to Wallace, which read, Lost. A fine white bull terrier. Finder will receive liberal reward if dog is returned to Pauline Marvin. Castle Marvin, New York. What do you want Carrie to do? Answer the advertisement. Just call her over here. The hag laid down the coins and moved laboriously to the table. Wallace produced from my drawer a pen, paper, and ink, and told the woman to take his chair. Owen dictated. Miss Pauline Marvin, a dog came to my house yesterday, which I think is the one you advertise for. I am an old, crippled woman, and it's hard for me to get out. Can't you come and see if it is your dog? Mary Shiller, 233 Myrtle Avenue. The old woman wrote slowly in a shaking hand, and Owen waited patiently while she addressed an envelope. Then he placed the letter in the envelope, sealed it, and took his leave. And no sign of Cyrus? Enquired Harry cheerily as he entered the library where Pauline set disconsolate. She did not even answer, and she was still gazing dejectedly out of the window and be must brought in the mail. Two of the letters she laid aside and read. The third she opened. A dog came to my house yesterday. Her face lighted with hope and happiness. She read no further. Oh, isn't Owen splendid? She breathed. He knew just what to do. And with the letter in her hand she ran out to the veranda. Harry, Harry! She called across the garden. There was no answer. Run up to Mr. Marvin's room and see if he is there, Margaret. Bemis, go out and see if he is in the garage. No, Miss Marvin. Said Bemis. He has gone into Westbury. Pauline stood silent for a moment. Well, then I must go myself. She said with quick decision. She sped upstairs and within a few minutes was out in the garage in her motoring dress. A mechanic was working over her racing car in front of the garage. The racing car that was just recovering from recent calamity in the international race. Is it all fixed, employee? Can I drive it today? She asked eagerly. Why, yes, ma'am, you could. Said the mechanic. But I haven't got it polished up yet. That doesn't matter in the least. I want to use it today, now! She springed lightly to the seat of the lithe racer, and in a moment was away down the drive. Number 233 Myrtle Avenue was an address a little difficult to find. Myrtle Avenue was well outside the new town and Pauline had made several inquiries before an elderly man, whom she found in the telegraph office, volunteered directions. She thanked him and drove back for two miles before she found the turn he had indicated. The appearance of the place was unprepossessing enough to dampen even the ambitious courage of Pauline, but the sight of a woman on the porch, training a vine over the front door, allied her fears. You are Mrs. Sheila? You sent me a message that you had found my dog? She asked, approaching. For a moment the confusion that the woman had meant to simulate was sincere. She had expected to see no such vision as that of Pauline on the blackened steps of the coiner's den. A dog? She quavered vaguely. Then— Oh, yes, my dear little lady, the pretty white dog. He came to us yesterday. My son, he brought me the newspaper and— Oh, you are just a deer! cried Pauline. May I see him now? I am so fond of him. Yes, my little lady. Will you come in? Pauline followed her into the basement. She stepped back with a trimmer of suspicion as the woman rapped three times upon the folding doors, and they opened silently on their oiled rails. But she was inside the narrow passageway and the light that gleamed through the second pair of doors allied her anxiety. With a bow and the wave of a directing hand, the old woman waited for Pauline to enter. In a breath she was seized from both sides, strong, cruel hands held her, while Wallace smothered her cries with a tight-drawn bandage. She had hardly had time to see the little terrier tugging at his chain in the corner of the room, but as wild barking was all she knew was possible, assistance in the plight in which she found herself. They laid her on the floor. She heard a voice that seemed strangely familiar, giving abrupt orders. Pauline sought in vain to place the memory of the voice. Of Baltazar, the gypsy. Suddenly she heard cries. The barking of the dog had stopped, and there was the thud of heavy footsteps on the stone floor of the cellar. Catch him. Shoot if you have to. Came the command of the mysteriously familiar voice. She felt that her captors were no longer near. There was a beat of rushing footsteps on the floor. It was several minutes before she heard voices again. The cur hasn't been here long enough to know her. You won't make any difference. Said Wallace, coming through the open doors. I'm sorry it got away. Where is Miss Pauline? Asked Terry as he entered the house on his return from Westbury. She has found her dog, sir. Answered Margaret smiling. She went to get him, with the racing car. His brow darkened. The advertisement was answered, you mean Margaret? I think so, sir. An hour later he walked into the garden and sat down on the rustic bench where he and Pauline had quarreled. He had just taken up his newspaper when he was startled by the spring of a small warm body, fairly into his face. Lowering the torn paper he saw Pauline's dog cavorting around the bench in circles of excitement. The animal rushed towards him again, but did not leap this time. It came very near and with braced feet began to bark wildly. Harry stood up. The dog, with another volley of barks, started towards the gate. Harry followed instinctively. The terrier dashed ahead of him, reached the gate, returned, renewed the appealing barks, and again led the way. In another minute Harry was following the urgent little guide. He was thoroughly stirred now, as the dog returned to him the second time with its appealing yelps he quickened to speed. After traversing five miles of dust laid in road they reached a certain house on the thoroughfare, which still carried the dignity of Myrtle Avenue. The dog rushed up the steps. Harry, following closely, was surprised to find the door was a jar. He entered and found himself in the cellar passageway. A sound outside made him grasp the broken rope on the collar of the dog. It was an automobile wheezing to a stop and it was followed by the sound of voices. The outer door opened. Harry drew the dog aside into the darkness and held his muzzle tight. Four men entered. One wrapped on the wall and the panels opened softly. The men went in. Harry's hand had fallen to a slim stick as he stooped in the darkness and he slipped the stick into the aperture between the folding doors. He carried the dog to the outer door and thrust it through. Then he came back. Who is the woman? Asked a gruff voice. She does not concern you. Have you distributed all the coins? All but five thousand dollars. She's a peach, ain't she? The door crashed at their heels. Harry was in the room. He was gripping Wallace by the throat before the man could stir. The others backed toward their hidden weapons. Shots blazed in the room but the smoke was protection for Harry, swinging wildly at whomsoever he saw. You're there, Polly? Yes. She gasped, tugging at her bonds in desperation. She was almost free. Harry had Wallace at his feet and Wallace's gun was in his hand. He blazed blindly through the room. A shriek told of one man gone. Pauline felt strong hands grasp her. She was whisked through the door, through the outer door and away, into the fresh air and into the waiting automobile. She felt Harry's hot breath on her forehead as they sped in flight. There was clamor behind them for a moment as the car was starting. Then came only the thrash of footsteps through the grassy road as the coiners rushed to their own machine. One stern command reached the ears of Pauline and Harry as they sped on. It's your lives or theirs. Get them or kill yourselves. It's no use, Polly. Come. Cried Harry after a time. His voice sounded grim, preemptory. The machine, with a sudden swerve, had gone almost off the road with an exploding tire. It was only Harry's powerful hand that had saved them from wreck. But as he helped Pauline out and led her on a run into the forest, he heard the sound of a pursuing machine coming to a stop in the tumult of voices behind them. He knew that one peril had only been supplanted by another. Where—where are we going, Harry? The Gorman camp. If we can make it, if we can reach the river. There's the old quarry. She exclaimed as they came out on the crest of a blast-narled cliff overlooking a stream. I know their camp is near the quarry. But on the other side of the river. Don't talk. Run. He pleaded, leading her down a footpath that traced a winding way over the face of the cliff into the quarry. In the shelter of the rocks, there stood two small buildings about five hundred yards apart. One was the old tool house in the deserted quarry. The other was a hunter's hut, evidently newly built. A commanding cry came from the top of the cliff. Halt! Are we fire? They ran on. A shot echoed, and a bullet flattened itself against the stone base of the quarry, not two yards from Pauline. In here. Quick! Said Harry, dragging her to the hunter's lodge and thrusting her through the open door. There was another shot in the thud of another bullet as he slammed the door. It looks like a fight now, Paulie. He said as he moved quickly around the hut. And thank heaven, here's something to fight with. From a rack in the wall he lifted down a Winchester rifle and a belt of cartridges. Get into the corner and lie down. He ordered. No, give me the revolver! Cried Pauline. She did not wait for his protest. But drew from his coat pocket the pistol he had rested from Wallace. For an instant he looked at her with mingled admiration, love, and fear. He opened the little window of the hut, aimed and fired three shots the group of six men who were running down the cliff path. Into the tool house! Ordered Baltazar, stopping only for a glance at one of his fellows who had fallen, the five gained the workman's hut and burst the door open. Immediately from the airhole and the wide chinks and the sagging walls came a blaze of shots. A small white dog ran down the path into the quarry, but no one saw it. Baltazar was searching the tool house. Ha! He exclaimed suddenly. That is what we want. He lifted from the floor a box of blasting powder, but the next instant he dropped it and sprawled, cursing beside the half-spilled contents. Another man, shot through the body, had fallen over his leader. Baltazar quickly recovered himself. He whisked around the hut and found a coil of fuse. The shots were still dinning in his ears while he fashioned, with the powder and the box and the fuse, a bomb powerful enough to have shattered tons of embedded stone. Stop shooting! He commanded. Here's a better way. As he suddenly threw open the door and dashed out, he nearly fell over the dog whining in terror, but Baltazar kept on. In a better business, with a heart in him, he would have been counted among the bravest of men, running a swaying zigzag course in the very face of the fire of Harry and Pauline. He reached the hunter's hut and dropped the bomb beside it. He did not try to return. With the long fuse in his hand, he moved into shelter behind the hut, struck a match, lighted the fuse, and fled toward the river. After him ran the small white dog. Baltazar turned and uttered a scream of rage. He dashed at the animal, which dodged and passed him. In its teeth it held the bomb he had just laid at the risk of his life. The fuse was sputtering behind as the dog fled. Baltazar pursued desperately. The path to the river led through a narrow defile of rock, but the beast was not trapped, the water's edge as the gypsy had expected. It took to the water with a wide plunge. Baltazar turned away, cursing. He rushed back to the huts. The guns and pistols were silent. He picked up from the side of the path a huge piece of wood, as he neared his companions he shouted, Come out! Rush them you cowards, follow me! Harry fired his last two shots and two men fell. Pauline had long ago emptied the revolver. Three men came on. There was a crash as the log and Baltazar's mighty hands beat down the door and he staggered through. But Harry was upon him. He hurled the gypsy across the room. He charged at the others and one went down. Through the door came four men. It's Harry! Help him! cried Pauline. Baltazar charged, straight at the newcomers, but he did not attempt to fight. He was out through the door and away to the river before they could intercept him. Within a few moments his companions lay bound on the hut floor. But how did you find out? How did you know we needed you? Asked Pauline afterwards of young Richard Gorman, whose camping party had been the rescuers. That's the girl who told us. He said pointing to a dejected little bull terrier that stood quaking with excitement a few feet away. Cyrus cried Pauline, running and clutching the little terrier in her arms. Yes, he brought us the dead bomb, and we knew something was up. End of Chapter 20 Cyrus Makes a Reputation The Perils of Pauline Chapter 21 by Charles Goddard This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 21 The Guest of Honor Well, prove it. Said Harry. Show me that you mean it. Why, Harry, a woman always says what she always means. Always means not to do. But Harry, really, I'm going to be good this time! pleaded Pauline. They were emerging from the gate of the Marvin Mansion to the avenue. And as Harry turned to Pauline with a skeptical reply on his lips, the approach of a young man of military bearing stopped him. By Jove, isn't that? Who the deuce is it? Why, Benny Summers. The young man was hurrying by without recognition when Harry called sharply. Hello, Ben. Harry! Harry Marvin! By the coin of Crises! Is it really you? No, said Harry grasping his hand. Not the you you used to know. I've been driven into premature old age by caring for a Meliton sister. Pauline, this is Ensign Summers of the Navy. Please promise me that you won't get him into danger, because he used to be a friend of mine. He's never done anything more dangerous than run a submarine and shoot torpedoes out of it into a field of mines. A submarine? Torpedoes? cried Pauline. Isn't that beautiful? But Benny, how are you? How have you been doing? I haven't seen you in a thousand years. I'm still at it. And I've got it, Harry. I give you my word I have. Got what? The torpedo. I mean THE torpedo in capital letters and italics with a line under the word. I've invented one that would blow. Well, I've got it. Congratulations. Felicitations, laudatory remarks, and enthusiasm. cried Harry. Without having slightest idea what a torpedo is, I rejoice with you. Come on back to the house and tell us about it. I'm sorry, I can't, Harry, now. I'm engaged for a conference with the naval board, and I'm late already. But will you and Miss Marvin come to lunch and with me tomorrow? Why not you with us? We saw you first. Summers laughed. Well, for this reason, I want you to meet mademoiselle de Longeant, who will preside at this particular luncheon, and who is— The flesh that came suddenly to the cheeks of the young officer brought involuntary laughter from Harry and Pauline. I take that as an acceptance. The caramore, east 56th Street. He called, sharing in their laughter as he fled. But at the gate of the Marvin House, he came upon Raymond Owen. There was a hasty clasp of hands and— You're to come, too! cried Summers, continuing his flight. Where am I to come? asked Owen as he approached Harry and Pauline. To luncheon with Ensign Summers tomorrow. Isn't he dear? I love men who blush. They seem so innocent. The feats defend us. implored Harry. Ensign Summers had gained a position beyond his rank in the Navy. A natural bent towards science and a patriotic bent towards the use of science as a means of national defense had inspired him to experiments which had resulted in success amazing even to himself. He had been allowed, during the year proceeding the meeting with Harry and Pauline, a leave of absence. In that time he had visited Italy, France, England and Germany, and had studied under naval experts. He had come back home with his own little idea, undiminished in its importance to his own mind, and he had proceeded with youthful enthusiasm and effrontery to prove its importance to the highest of his commanders. The tests now about to be made, tests of a new torpedo gun and new torpedo, had been ordered by the mightiest in the land. Triumphant in his discovery and wealthy in his own right, Summers was the happiest of men. It was in Paris that he had met Mademoiselle de Longjean, exquisitely beautiful and of the alluring and lingerious type. Quick of wit, tactful, and with great charm of manner, she had completely fascinated the young officer. He had avowed his adoration to her almost before he knew her. His avowals had been repulsed with just that margin of insincerity that would double his ardour. It had required many letters to induce Mademoiselle de Longjean to leave her beloved Paris and visit friends in America. Summers knew she was not a French woman, but he was totally in the dark as to what was her nationality. Summers didn't care, he was madly mad in love with her, and there was no other thing to consider. It was for this reason that Mademoiselle de Longjean was the guest of honour at the little luncheon in his rooms to which he had invited Harry and Pauline. The affair was quite informal. There were a number of navy men present, a few young married people. The atmosphere of the gathering was sublimely innocuous, as Mademoiselle de Longjean remarked to Summers in the hall after the guests had departed. But Mademoiselle de Longjean had met one guest who did not impress her as innocuous, or sublime. Raymond Owen. Pauline had presented the secretary on his arrival, and Owen had immediately devoted himself to her. Not long after luncheon was served, the voice of Mademoiselle de Longjean rose suddenly above the general talk. But, Mr. Semmels, you have not told us yet of your new invention. When shall the plans be ready? When shall you rise to the realisation of your true success? Summers beamed his happiness in the face of the brazen compliment, like the good and silly boy he was. I'm supposed to keep this secret. He answered. But I can trust everyone here, I know. The plans are going to be set out day after tomorrow. You mean you will have them completed? Are those intricate plans? Quarried Mademoiselle de Longjean in a tone of breathless admiration. I'll work all tonight and most of tomorrow. But, of course, it's only a case of putting into words ideas that have already been put into solid metal. My gun and torpedo are ready for work. It isn't so very difficult, and, well, it's a lot of fun. And great honours. Paid the woman he loved, for a moment their eyes met, but only for a moment. The next, Caten, the valet, who was taking charge of the luncheon under pretense of anticipating a waiter, moved quickly to fill her wine glass. Even the subtle eye of Owen was not sharp enough to see Mademoiselle de Longjean pass him a crushed slip of paper, and she had been too long trained to concealment of even the simplest emotions to betray uneasiness now. Nevertheless, there was the possibility of surprising Mademoiselle de Longjean, and that possibility was realised as she glanced at Raymond Owen. His set, tense face reflected for the moment all his hatred of Harry and Pauline, who were talking blithely with Instant Summers, another naval officer and two of the wives of the civilian visitors. She turned to him with a suddenness that would have seemed abrupt in the manner of one less beautiful. Mr. Owen, do come see me. She said, I am sure, at least I think I am sure, that we have many matters of mutual interest. In her soft modulated tones, the invitation had no significance beyond the literal meaning of the words. It will be an honour. He answered, Tomorrow evening then? Delighted, and later the naval ball? No, I am afraid the ensign will not permit anyone else to take me to the ball, but we shall meet there afterward. In a New York street, among the lower, there was at that time a foreign agency that was not a consulate, but was visited by diplomats of the highest rank in a certain nation, the name of which, or the mystery of whose suspicions, need not be touched upon. There was no regular staff at the agency. The rooms were maintained under the name of a certain foreign gentleman, or rather under the name that he chose to assume. There were two servants, but they saw little of the master of the house. He was seldom at home, but when he was he had many visitors. An hour after the luncheon in the rooms of instant summers, the master of the mysterious dwelling was at home, and he had four guests. It would have greatly surprised instant summers, had he known that one of the diplomat's guests was his own man-servant, Catten. It is the worst duty I have ever had to perform. The diplomat said solemnly, It means, almost certainly, your death. But it is death for your country. It is the command of your country. The submarine must be destroyed, and the plans, we shall get the plans through another agent. I am not afraid to die. Said Catten. Then here is the model of a submarine. Not of the one you will enter, of course, but it will give you an idea. I have marked the place where you will secret the explosive until the proper moment. I have also indicated the position for you to take in order to have some faint chance of reaching the surface and being saved. One of the other men stepped forward and handed Catten a small square box. This is the explosive. You know how to handle it. With a military salute, Catten turned and left the place. Within half an hour he was carefully brushing and sent summers as close as summers came in. Would it be too much to ask, sir? Inquired the perfect valet. That I might accompany you in the submarine? I am afraid you will be very uncomfortable without me. Summers laughed good-naturedly. It's impossible, Catten. This boat is a government secret in itself, and my new torpedo makes it a double secret. No one but a pick crew will be allowed on it. Except? Except, sir? Well, I admit I could command it, but it would be very unwise, Catten, and I assure you I shall get along all right. Madame Iselle de Langjean's apartment was characteristic of the lady herself. The artist would have found it a little too luxurious for good taste, a little overtoned in the richness of draperies, the heavy scent of flowers, the subtleties of half-screened devans. There was something more than feminine, something feline. To Raymond Owen, however, it was ideal. The dimmed ruby lights, the suggestive shadows on the tapestries, were in tune with the surreptitious mind of the secretary, but there remained for him a picture that he admired more. Madame Iselle de Langjean coming through the portiers with a cry of pleasure. I am so glad you came, and so sorry I must send you away quickly. exclaimed Madame Iselle de Langjean. The little ensign has telephoned that he is coming early to take me for a drive before the ball. I can come again if I may have the honour. said Owen, rising quickly. Oh, there is time for a word. she said, smiling. There was something you wished to say to me, was there not? Something you did not care to say at the luncheon yesterday. Yes, why you hate Miss Marvin? Owen was silent for a moment. Why do you hate the little ensign as you call another? What do you mean? I mean that we can be of surface to one another in our likelihood, and that therefore we should be frank friends. You wish to have Pauline Marvin out of the way, do you not? How did you find that out? People engaged in similar business find out many things. Now I- Wish to be rid of ensign Summers, hmm. Precisely. You are an international agent. Yes, and I offer you my aid, and the aid of the Powerful Men I control, in return for your aid to me and them. Is it a bargain? They were seated on one of the curtain to devance. A low turned light above them. She leaned forward, her long delicate hand touched his. A splendid jewel at her throat heightened the magic of her beauty. Because it is my business to hate him, and make love to him at the same time. Come, Mr. Owen, let us be frank. For the first time in his life, Owen felt himself mastered by the sheer fascination of a woman. What am I to do? He said breathlessly, I will tell you tonight at the ball, now you must run away. He arose instantly, but as she stood beside him he turned, caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately. She protested with a little cry and struggled, not too violent to damage her cofure. He drew back from her. There was something of astonishment in his eyes, astonishment in himself. You are the only woman in the world who has ever made me do that. He gasped. Go, go. She pleaded. But you are angry. You break her agreement. No, but I am overcome. I shall meet you tonight. He caught her hand in his lips and hurried from the house. It was more than an hour after he observed her arrival at the naval ball before Owen had the privilege of a greeting from Mademoiselle de Longjean, and then it was only a smile as she passed him on the arm of a distinguished looking foreign diplomat. Owen saw that she spoke a quiet word to her escort, who turned and looked at Owen. She beamed brightly at Owen, who smiled back at her, and moved slowly toward the door of the conservatory into which she and the diplomat had disappeared. He was surprised a moment later to see Pauline rush by him with a little laugh. Is anything the matter? Owen called. Nothing, you can help. Stay right where you are. She cried. Owen laughed his understanding and moved over to where Harry and Lucille were talking with instant summers. Meanwhile, Pauline, in the darkest recess of the conservatory, was pinning together a broken garter. As she started back to the ballroom, she was surprised to hear voices near her. There was something about their foreign accent that roused the ever-venturous, ever-curious interest of Pauline. She crept along a row of palms and peered through an aperture. Mademoiselle de Longjean and the diplomat were talking together as they paced the isle of palms on the other side. Pauline crept nearer. Presently, the voice of the diplomat became distinguishable. It is all arranged. The thing is to be done in Submarine B2 tomorrow. All you have now to do is— Pauline could not catch the final words. The two moved back to the ballroom. She followed close behind, a little suspicious, but with the thrill of a new plan gripping her. She saw Ensign Summer step forward early to greet Mademoiselle de Longjean. Another dance was beginning. This one is Mr. Owens. Said Mademoiselle de Longjean as she moved away on the arm of the secretary. Have you anything to tell me? He asked. Yes, induce her to make Summers take her down in his submarine tomorrow, and she will never trouble you again. As the dance ended, Pauline and Harry, Summers and Lucille, joined them. Mr. Summers, I have a great request to make, declared Pauline. I grant it before you breathe a word. He answered, I want you to take me along on your submarine trip tomorrow. Pauline, have you gone crazy all over again? cried Harry. I don't believe it would be. began Summers. It must be, she commanded. Well, I promise too soon, but I'll keep my word. Owen and Mademoiselle de Longjean had stepped aside. What does it mean? Gasp the secretary. She is doing the very thing we want her to do. Sometimes fate aids the worthy. Said Mademoiselle de Longjean softly. End of Chapter 21 The Guest of Honor The Perils of Pauline Chapter 22 by Charles Goddard This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 22 Submarine B2 At the dock of the Navy Yard a submarine lay ready for departure. There was nothing about its appearance to indicate that its mission was of more than ordinary importance, but it was an unusual thing to see a woman aboard, and the curiosity of the crew was matched by that of the young officers who had come down to see Summers off on his voyage of many chances. The officers got little reward for their considerate interest. And since Summers was engaged, he was explaining to Pauline as they stood on the deck of the Warcraft the entire history of submarines from the time of Caesar, or Washington, or somebody to the present day. And Pauline was listening with that childlike simplicity which women used for the purpose of making men look foolish. By Jove, I thought he was tired, heart and hope, to the lovely foreigner. exclaimed one of the shoreward observers. So he is, said another. But Manwazel DeLongian isn't interested in his daily toil. Do you know who the young lady up there is? No, she must have got a dispensation from the secretary himself to go on this strip. So she did. Easy as snapping your thumb. She's Miss Pauline Marvin, daughter of the richest man that has died in twenty years. The boat gong sounded the signal of departure. Summers, with a hasty apology, left Pauline and stepped forward. The engines began to rumble. The deadly and delicate craft, masterpiece of modern naval achievement, drew slowly from the pier. There was a shout. Summers, delivering rapid orders on deck, turned with an expression of annoyance to see his faithful man-servant, Catten, out of breath and excited, rushing toward the boat. Summers ordered the vessel stopped. It had moved not more than stepping distance from the pier, and in a moment Catten was beside his master on the deck. She told me it must. He paused, gasping for breath. Who told you what? demanded Summers. Mme Mwazel DeLongian, I'm sure it is a message of importance. She told me I must give it to you before you risk your life on the voyage. Mme Mwazel DeLongian. He caught the letter from Catten's hand. My hero, I cannot keep the secret any longer. Cannot wait to tell you that it is you I love, Estelle DeLongian. Summers walked slowly, dizzily up the deck, and was in an ecstasy. He was oblivious to all the world, even to Pauline, who stood questioning an officer at the rail. The fact that his servant Cattenland slipped silently down the hatchway to the main compartment, and thus unto the pump room at the vessel's bottom would hardly have interested him, even if he had known it. So we put off, sir? The second officer saluted. The ensign came to himself instantly. Yes, of course. I put back only for an important message. He said, My man got off, did he? I think so. All right, go ahead. Catten, with that rare fortune which sometimes favors the wicked, had chosen precisely the right moment for his ruse. The crew of the submarine were all on deck, saved those in the engine room, and his quick passage to the vitals of the vessel was unseen. Once in the pump room, he hastily drew from under his coat the bomb placed in his hands at the conference of diplomats, wound its clockwork spring, and laid it beside the pumps. There was a strange look on the man's face as he did this, a look at once proud and pitiful. Catten had not sense of treachery or shame. The deed in itself did not lack the dignity of courage, for, with the others, he was planned his own death. And while the others were to die suddenly, ignorant of their peril, Catten was to die in deliberate knowledge of it. On deck Pauline was eagerly questioning an under officer about the torpedoes when summers came up. You'll have to come down and see for yourself. He said overhearing her. First I'll show you the pump room, the most important part of us. He was saying as Catten, in the boat's bottom, first caught the sound of nearing voices. Catten leaped up the steps from the pump room. He was in the nick of time. A large locker in the main compartment gave him refuge just as Pauline and summers reached the room. The pumps are our lifesavers. Said summers, as he directed Pauline down the second ladder. If they go wrong when we're underwater we can't come up. And what do you do then? Asked Pauline innocently. Oh, just stay down. Catten waited breathless in his hiding place until they returned. By heaven they didn't find it. He breathed eagerly. Pauline and instant summers stood at the rail watching the foamy rush of the fast motorboat when a hail sounded across the water. A man was standing up in the motorboat and calling through a megaphone. Summers raised his glasses. Do you know who that is? He asked, laughingly. Of course not. What does he want? It's Harry. And I suspect he wants to take you away from us. Pauline uttered an exclamation of annoyance. Isn't he silly? She cried. One would think I was a baby the way he watches me. Soon the voice of Harry could be plainly distinguished. Clear your ship. I'm going to sink you. He called. Cargo too precious this trip. Don't do it. Answered Summers. Let me take the megaphone. Demanded Pauline. What do you mean by following us? She cried. I don't trust that, Sardine can, and I want a regular boat on hand when you are wrecked. I am very angry with you. It looks as if her words were drowned in Summers' laughter. Never mind. I know a way we can escape from him. He said, How? Why, sink the boat. That will be splendid. He stepped aside and gave a terse order. Delightedly Pauline watched the brief machine-like movements of the crew trimming the deck. Summers escorted her back to the conning tower. They descended. Within a few moments the wonderful craft was buried under the waves. Ha ha ha, there he is, looking for us. Laughed Summers as he made room for Pauline at the periscope. Amazed, fascinated, she gazed from what seemed the bottom of the sea, out upon the rolling surface of the waves. Harry's motorboat was near, and he was standing on the bow, scanning the water with binoculars. And he can't see us, asked Pauline. Oh yes, he'll pick up our periscope after a while. Shall we fire the torpedo at him? Yes, please, said Pauline. Summers' laugh was cut short. As if someone had taken his jest in earnest and really fired a projectile, the crash of an explosion came from the bottom of the boat. Stay here. Ordered Summers with a set face as he joined the rush of seamen into the pump room. But Pauline followed. An officer with blanched face but steady voice came up to Summers. What was it, Grimes? It seems to have been a bomb, sir. There was an eight-pointer down there. The face of the ensign darkened with suspicion and alarm. A bomb? So they were going after us, the enemy. We'd better get right up and back to port, Grimes. I have to report, sir. The pumps are disabled. Summers turned with a look of pity toward Pauline, who stood at his elbow. And we can't get up again? She questioned. There is one chance, but... He stopped openly and listened. Open that locker. He commanded. A seamen pulled back the door of the locker and disclosed the cringing form and defying face of Catten. Catten, you! The man stepped forward with a smile of triumph. You set off the bomb. You wanted to kill me. I did my duty. I obeyed my orders as you obey your orders. I had no enmity for you. I am, in fact, sorry that you were full enough not to see that I was a little more than a valet. You were a spy, Catten? Yes, sir. And I have done my work, and I am willing to die with the rest of you. Pauline drew back, shuddering. She touched Summers' arm. Oh, Mr. Summers. I believe... What is it? I believe I know of the plot. I was in the conservatory at the Naval Ball. A man and a woman. A woman? Madame Iselle de la Jean and her diplomatic friend. You remember? Yes, well... They talked together in whispers. The man said, the thing will be done on Summaring B2 tomorrow. A look of agony that the fear of death could not have caused came into the face of the young ensign. Madame Iselle de la Jean? No! Yes, Madame Iselle de la Jean. Sneered, Catten, stepping nearer. Madame Iselle de la Jean is the principal proof of my statement that you are a fool. Madame Iselle de la Jean recommended me to you as a capable valet. Did she not? Madame Iselle de la Jean frequently was your guest. Now, Madame Iselle de la Jean has the plans of your submarine and your torpedo plans, which I took the liberty of removing from the little cupboard over the desk in your work room. Summers sprang forward, but he recovered himself. I should have told you, wailed Pauline. How should you have known? Said Summers, in a moment he had lost his life work and his love. Suddenly he straightened himself. The soldier in him mastered the man. There is still a chance, one little chance. He said, to get out, cried Pauline. Yes, through the torpedo tube. She shuddered. I'm going to make you do it. He said, Because it is the only chance. The men will follow you. Harry's boat will be near. And you? I do not matter any more. Come. A gunner opened the great tube as Summers led Pauline into the torpedo room. Obediently she entered the strange passageway of peril, end of hope. Goodbye. He said. And good luck. Goodbye. She answered. You are a brave man. You are as brave. You are as fine as Harry. From the end of the torpedo tube a woman's form shot to the surface of the water. Choking, dazed, but courageous, Pauline tried to turn on her back and gain breath. But they were well out to sea and the waves were crushing. What's that? Asked Harry, pointing and passing his glasses to the boatman. The man looked and without a word swung the craft about and put the engine at top speed. And in a few moments Harry's strong arms drew her from the water. My darling, what has happened? He gasped. Don't think of me. Think of them. She begged weakly. They were trapped. Down there there was a bomb, a plot. The machinery is ruined. Harry, help them. The boatman, who overheard Pauline's first cry of appeal, now came forward respectfully. There's a revenue cutter, the Urquaw, coming out. He said significantly. Harry looked. Splendid. He cried. Can we signal her? No, but we can catch her. Shouts from a speeding motorboat brought the government vessel to a stop. Officers came to the rail and helped Harry and Pauline to the deck. Ensign Summers and his crew are sunk in their submarine. The pumps are gone. There was a bomb explosion. Can you get help? Where are they? You can pick up their buoy with a glass. There. The chief officer looked through his glass. Yes. He said. You will come aboard or keep your own boat? We've got another piece of work to do. If we can leave our friends to your guarding. Said Harry. We'll have the wrecking tugs and divers in twenty minutes. Harry and Pauline climbed back to the motorboat and sped up the bay. What did you mean another piece of work? Asked Pauline as she clung to his arm. My car is in the Navy Yard Pier. Was his only answer. She still clung to him in tremulous uncertainty, as the motor sped them up through Broadway, into Fifth Avenue, and onto the door of Mademoiselle de la Jeanne's Hotel. She and the diplomatic grandee, who had held the confidential conference with her and the conservator at the Naval Ball, were together in her suite. And you have the plans, actually, in your possession? He said. Yes. It has been a tedious process. It was easy to make him fall in love, but he is so fearfully scrupulous about his work. It took even his valet, three months, to locate the secret hiding place of the paypairs. A little more caution mingled with his scruples, and he would not now be dead at the bottom of the bay. Oh, this is the day, is it? Asked Mademoiselle de la Jeanne wearingly. After all, it is rather cruel to cateen. To die for his country? Nonsense. He dies because he knows he would be killed in a crueler way if he refused to obey you. The diplomat smiled. Would you give me the plans? Yes. Why, Marie, what is it? A maid had entered with cards. I am not at home today. Mademoiselle de la Jeanne moved to her writing desk, removed from it a packet of papers, and, with a little courtesy, gave it into the eager hands of the diplomat. It has been a splendid achievement, Mademoiselle. He said enthusiastically. I shall see that—what? Who is this? He exclaimed as Harry and Pauline burst into the room. Marie, Marie, I told you that I was at home to no one. Screamed Mademoiselle de la Jeanne. How dare you intrude in these apartments? Demanded the diplomat. I dare, because I want those papers. Declared Harry. The packet was still in the diplomat's hand. He tried to thrust it into his pocket, but Harry was upon him. They clenched, broke from each other's grasp, and struggled furiously. As the last resource, the diplomat drew the packet from his breast and flung it across the room towards Mademoiselle de la Jeanne. She pounced upon it, but Pauline was beside her, stronger both in body and in spirit than the adventurous. She grasped her wrists, and in the luxurious, soft-curtained room there raged two battles. But the struggles did not last long. Harry hurled his antagonist, an exhausted wreck, to the floor and sprang to the side of Pauline. Throwing off Mademoiselle de la Jeanne's grasp, he picked up the packet from the floor, and with Pauline ran from the room. The revenue cutter was landing a group of faint and silent men at the pier of the Navy Yard with an automobile flashed in. Hurrah! They did it! You're safe! cried Pauline, rushing past Harry to greet instant summers. The officer took her extended hands gratefully, but there was no light in his eyes as he answered. Safe and dishonored, he said, I am only glad for my men. Why dishonored? asked Harry. Don't you understand? The man, said Pauline curiously, the man who placed the bomb. Where is he? Dead, said Summers. He broke the tube after you were released and then attacked me with a knife. I had to kill him. Good for you, broke in Harry. But what's all the gloom talk for? This stuff about dishonor. You've proved yourself a hero, man. I have lost the most important documents of the Navy Department through a silly entanglement with a woman. No, you haven't. We went and got them for you. Said Harry, presenting the packet of plans. End of Chapter 22. Submarine B-2. The Perils of Pauline Chapter 23 by Charles Goddard This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 23. A Paper Chase In Baltazar's band, which had failed so often to do away with Pauline Marvin, there was, nevertheless, one man who had attracted the particular interest of Raymond Owen, Louis Rintz. Physically and mentally brutal, he had always been one to oppose Baltazar's delays. Six months before, Owen would have shuttered at the thought of employing this Ruffian. Then his great aim was to be rid of Pauline by the most indirect and secret means. But Pauline's hair-breath escape a few weeks before for mademoiselle de Langein's cleverly planned plot, the almost incredible rescue of the submarine, and recovery of instant Summers' torpedo boat plans, as well as the fact that the year of adventure was rapidly drawing to a close and that Harry's growing hostility and the increasing danger of exposure at the hands of someone of his aides made the secretary willing to take every chance, made it imperative that he should have a lieutenant who could be trusted to strike boldly. Owen sent for Rintz. The man appeared in the guise of a servant seeking employment, and was brought up to Owen's private sitting-room. Rintz, I want you to take charge of my work hereafter. said the secretary. You mean the work of- Owen raised his hand in caution. The work of conducting a certain person to a far country. But Balthazar, questioned Rintz. I am through with Balthazar. He's done nothing but procrastinate. All his plans have failed, because it was to his prophet that they should fail. I'll do the work quickly. What's your present plan? A very simple one. But one that must be very shrewdly handled. It will mean that you and some of your friends will have to make a trip to Philadelphia. Where shall I be able to call you within a day or two? At Stroob's lodging-house in Avenue B. Very well. Be prepared to act on short notice. I'll stick close to the place, sir. And Rintz. Understand that you are to act firmly. Know Balthazar tactics. I'm through being tricked. I'm sure I never failed you, sir. Said Rintz with an aggrieved air. Owen smiled. True. But temptation occasionally leads even the most honest of men astray. He said sarcastically. While this last plot was being hatched, Pauline and Harry were playing chess in the library. As she checkmated him for the third time, he arose and mocked disgust. They say chess is a perfect mental test. I wonder who is the brains of this family now? She taunted. There's a difference between brains and hair brains. You know, I lost because I had that Chicago thing on my mind. Oh, isn't that settled yet? No. I'm expecting to be called up any minute with a message that will send me out there. Oh, Harry, that's terrible. When you go to Chicago, you never get back for a whole week. If you like me so much, why don't you marry me and go with me on all my trips? Conceded. She began, but her face fell again as the telephone bell sounded. Harry answered it and after a few rapid questions turned to Pauline. That's what it is. He said, I go tomorrow. I must see Owen. And rang the bell. Owen. Pauline exclaimed upon his entrance. Harry must go to Chicago tomorrow. Isn't it dreadful? I am very sorry, but I hope it will not be for long. No. Said Harry curtly. Look over these papers. An hour later, Owen drew from his typewriter this letter. Miss Pauline Marvin. Carson and Brown Publishers. Nine West in Place, Philadelphia. New York. Dear Madam. After reading your marine story published in the Cosmopolitan magazine, we have decided you are just the person to write a new serial we have in mind. Would you be interested to call on us at your earliest opportunity? Yours very truly, J. R. Carson. Owen sealed, addressed, and stamped the letter and enclosed it in a larger envelope, which he addressed to a friend in Philadelphia with instructions to post the enclosure in that city. He did not trust the mailing of the double letter to a servant, but putting on his motor-togs, prepared to ride to Westbury. Well, he's got a reprieve. He's going to stay with us one more day. Pauline cried happily as she met Owen in the hall. For the flash of an instant something twinged at the whole heart of the secretary. The bright beauty of Pauline, her happiness, her love for her foster brother, struck home the first realization of something missing, and never to be achieved in his grim existence. Perhaps for the moment Raymond Owen had a dim understanding of the value of innocence. The next afternoon Pauline stood on the veranda bidding Harry goodbye. I hate to go, Pauline, but I must. He said, I hate to leave you with that secretary. Harry, please don't start again on that. You know I don't agree with you, and I don't want to quarrel with you when you're going away. Very well. He said embracing her. But don't get into any of your scrapes while I'm away. Remember, it's a long way to Chicago. And Tiberary, she laughed. Goodbye, darling boy, and run home the minute you can. I will. Goodbye. Pauline had turned dejectedly back toward the house when the sound of steps on the walk drew her attention. It was the postman. I'll take them. She said extending her hand. She ran over the envelope swiftly until she came to one which bore the corner mark of a publishing concern in Philadelphia. She had never heard of the firm of Carson and Brown, but to her enthusiasm of young authorship the very name Publisher was magical. She opened the letter hastily in red. For a moment she stood spellbound with happiness. The realization of her dreams was at hand. Publishers were calling for her work instead of sending it back when she sent it to them. With a glad cry and waving the treasured letter she rushed out into the garden to Elwyn. It's happened, she sang gaily. I am discovered. You're what, Miss Pauline? Don't you understand? Can't you see? Not exactly why you slant that letter above your head like a reprieve or a doomed man. Well, read it. She leaned breathlessly over his shoulder as he read the familiar lines. Miss Pauline, it is splendid, he exclaimed. I was always sure you would be successful with your writing. Yes, you encouraged me to get new experiences. While Harry always opposed me, she said, But oh, I wish Harry was here to see this. Shall you go to Philadelphia? Enquired Elwyn. Indeed, shall, and instantly. Is it so urgent as that? Of course. They might change their minds any moment and get someone else to write the story. Will you see what train I can take this evening, Elwyn, while I run and pack a few things? With pleasure, but don't you think someone ought to accompany you? To Philadelphia? Nonsense. It's just like crossing the street. Please, Elwyn, don't you begin to worry about every little thing I do? Very well. He laughed. As soon as she was gone, he selected a timetable and scanned the train list. Then he took up the telephone and called a number. Hello, Renz. This is Elwyn. It worked. Be at the Pennsylvania station with your men to-night. And, Renz, if the plan I give you fails, I leave it to you to invent a new one. You understand? What? No, I don't want any return this time. Before Elwyn had helped Pauline into her car and bid her goodbye, Renz and his men were on watch at the railroad station. Goodbye, and good luck. Pauline was standing in the aisle. The porter stowed her baggage into her drawing room when the men entered the car. She noted them with curiosity. There was nothing very sinister about them, but they seemed obviously out of place. But the next moment she had forgotten about them and for the twentieth time was reading her own story in the Cosmopolitan. For now, in the light of the magic it had wrought, she was bent on studying every word to absorb the power of her own genius, so to speak, in order that her publishers should not be disappointed in the forthcoming novel. When Pauline got off the train at Philadelphia, she did not notice that one of the four men, who had aroused her curiosity, walked behind her as she left, or that he was joined by the three others in the taxi cab which followed hers. When she left the cab at one of the fashionable hotels, Rince alone followed her. He was at Pauline's elbow when she registered. As she followed the bellboy through the lobby, he stepped to the desk and, noting the number of Pauline's room, number twenty-two, he signed his name under hers with a flourish. By the way, he said easily to the clerk, Is that pet room of mine vacant, the one I had last year? The clerk smiled. I'll see. He said, I had forgotten it was your pet room. I can't remember everybody. Oh, I was just here for a few days, said Rince. I remember you. Yes, sir, twenty-four is yours, said the clerk. Front. Rince stood at the cigar counter to make a purchase. He did not wish to follow Pauline so closely that she might know that he had taken the room next to hers. In spite of her excitement, Pauline slept soundly that night. The next morning she had breakfast in her own room and at ten o'clock was ready to go to Carson and Brown's. She was considerably provoked by the ignorance of the hotel clerk, who not only did not know the publishing house of Carson and Brown, but could not even direct her to Weston Place. He called the head porter and taxi cab manager. The latter had an idea. I don't think it's Weston Place, but there's a Weston street down in, well, it's not a very good section of the city, miss. I wouldn't want to. Never mind. In New York some of our best publishing houses are perfect barns. You may call a taxi cab. Yes, miss. Publishing house in Weston Street. Phew, but she doesn't look crazy. He instructed one of his chauffeurs. I don't know what the game is, but it's a good job. Pauline's spirits revived as the cab whisked her through the big busy streets, newly a bustle with her morning life. She had a sense of pity for the workers hastening to their uninspired toil. How few of them had ever received even a letter from a publisher. How few had known the thrill of successful authorship. A few moments after Pauline's departure, Luis Rence and his companions set to work. Two of the men left the room and sauntered to opposite ends of the hall where they lingered on watch. Rence and the other men stepped out briskly, and each with a screwdriver in his hand, began unfastening the number plates over the doors of rooms 22 and 24. A low cough sounded down the corridor, and they quickly desisted from their task and retired to their room while a maid passed by. In a moment they were out again. Rence passed the number plate of 24 to his assistant, who handed back the plate of 22. The numbers were refastened on the wrong doors. The watchers were called back. Now, said Rence, it is only a matter of waiting. Pauline's cab passed out of the central city into the region of factories. This looks like the section where the print shops are in New York, she said confidently to herself, but the driver kept on into streets of dingy ancient houses, streets crowded with unkempt children and lined with push carts. Are you sure you got the right address of them publishers, miss? He asked after a while. The next street is Weston, and I don't look very promising. She drew the letter from her handbag and showed it to him. Well, that's the queerest thing I know. He said, astonished by the letterhead, I've been driving cabs, horse and taxi for twenty years, and I've never heard of no such people or no such place. Well, at least go around to the corner and see. Perhaps it is a new firm that isn't listed as yet, said Pauline. The driver swung the cab into a street, even more bleak and bedraggled than the one they had just traversed. He stopped and got out. Pauline followed him. A blurry eyed man, slouched on a stoop, looked up in faint curiosity as she addressed him. There ain't no number nine Weston Street. He answered, It used to be over there, but it's burnt down. Pauline's face fell. Well, this is certainly stupid, she exclaimed. Of course it isn't Weston Street. It's Weston Place, as the letter says. But my city-guiding got no such place in it, miss. Answered this chauffeur. Well, I'll go back to the hotel, she said dejectedly. She was on the verge of tears as she left the elevator and started for her room. She had looked through all the directories and street guides, and knew at last that she had been the victim of a cruel hoax. All her joy and pride of yesterday had turned to humiliation and grief. She wanted to be alone and have a good cry. She was puzzled for a moment as she drew her key from her handbag and glanced at the numbers on the doors. She had been almost sure that number twenty-two was the left-hand door, but she had been in such excitement that she could not trust any of her impressions. She started to place the key in the lock of the right-hand door. Like a flash, it opened inward and two pairs of hands gripped her. Her cry was stifled by a hand over her mouth. She was dragged into the room. Pauline had barely time to recognize in her new captors the four strange men who had attracted her attention on the train. Before a bandage was drawn over her eyes, another over her mouth, and cruel, heavy hands began to bind her limbs. As she listened to the rough voices of the men, the mystery of the Carson and Brown letter was entirely cleared away. That was easy, commented Rents. Easier than the rest of the work will be, said one. Shall we leave her on the floor, boss? Asked another. Yes, of course. Then I'll put a pillow under her head. Pillow? Why a pillow? Since when did you become tender-hearted, Rocco? Rocco scowled, but he made no reply. You don't need any pillows or Pullman cars on the way to heaven, said Rents with a snarling laugh. The laugh was checked abruptly by a wrap on the door. For an instant the Ruffians looked at each other in alarm. There was no telling whether to open that door would be to face the drawn revolvers of detectives or only the expectant eyes of a bell-boy. There was nothing to do but answer, however. Rents moved to the door. Who is it? He asked. You're a trunk, sir. You are the porter? Yes, sir. Well, you can leave the trunk at the door. I'm too busy to be interrupted just now, but here. Rents opened the door an inch and passed a dollar bill to the porter. I'm going to need you again in a few hours. He said. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Move the girl over behind the bed out of range there. Commanded Rents, two men seized Pauline and dragged her across the room where she could not be seen through the door, which Rents now opened wide. In the corridor outside stood a large trunk. Rents and one of the men lifted it and carried it into the room. Your baggage is light, said the man. It will be heavier in a little while. Open it. They obeyed. Do you think it is large enough? Asked Rents. Large enough for what? The girl? Demanded Rocco who had been sulking since his rebuke. You are shrewd, Rocco. You have guessed rightly. I suppose you'll want to put a pillow in it. Yes, I would. Said Rocco who was the youngest of the band. Or else I would kill her first. What's the use of torture? Rents' dark face grew even blacker as he eyed the young man. If you were a grown man, Rocco, he said, instead of a soft-hearted boy, you would know that there is one form of murder that is always found out, the trunk murder. And I want to say this to you. He added with growing heat. That if I hear one more word of rebellion from you, this prisoner will be alive some hours after you have departed. Now then, into the trunk with her. Rocco sullenly helped the others in the grim task. The trunk, large as it was, was not deep enough to permit Pauline a sitting posture. Nor long enough to prevent the painful cramping of her limbs. But she was dead into physical pain. With the words of her doom still ringing in her ears, the calm discussion of her death. Her terror was her torture. The choking gag, though cutting bonds, the stifling trunk, in which the knife of rents had cut but a few air holes. These were as nothing to the agony of her spirit, the agony of a lingering journey toward a certain but mysterious end. Pauline had been a prisoner before, had been through many and desperate dangers, but her heart had never failed her utterly until she felt the pressure of the trunk lid on her bent shoulders and heard the clamping of the locks that bound her in. She could still hear the voices. I'll go down and settle my bill and send up that porter. Rince was saying. Don't let him help with the trunk except to run the elevator. You're sure your car is at the side entrance, not out in front? Yes. I will meet you there. Pauline had been so carefully bound that she could not stir in the trunk. As she felt it lifted and carried rapidly through the corridor to the hotel elevator, she strained with all her might to make a noise. To beat with hands or feet or even with her head, the sides of the receptacle. But it was no use. She was carried through the hotel and out to the side entrance without attracting attention. She felt the trunk lifted over the men's heads and the whirring of an automobile told her that she was being placed in the machine. Well, you didn't care much for your pet room this time, Mr. Rince. Smiled the clerk as Rince asked for his bill. Indeed I did, but a message has called me back to New York. He paid his bill and hurried out to the big car, in the back of which Pauline's trunk had been placed. Springing to the wheel, he ordered his followers in and they drove away. Once on suburban roads, Rince, either fearful of pursuit or drunk with success, began speeding. Along the railroad tracks, the noise of their speed drew a torment of wild sounds from a string of gaily painted cars on the siding. The snarl and howls of beasts were mingled with the angry cries of men who seemed to be at work on the other side of the cars. To Pauline the noises came faintly, but with a horrid and an earthly note. She, who had been the victim of so many cruel and fantastic plots, knew not what new danger the roaring of the beasts threatened. In a moment, though, her mind was set at rest on this point. For Rocco, the young bandit, turning to the man next to him, asked, What does it mean? What are they doing? It is a circus train. Answered the man. They are loading the beast into the cars. Pauline felt the machine swerve sharply and evidently take to a by-road, for she could hear the swish of leaves on overhanging branches as they brushed through. This place will do, she heard Rince say. Now be quick about it. It has come, breathed Pauline to herself. This is the place where I am to die. Through her mind and piteous pageant flashed thoughts of home, of Harry, of even Raymond Owen. There was a great loneliness in the hour of doom, but it would be over quickly. She shut her eyes tight and clenched her tight hands as the trunk was taken from the machine and placed upon the ground. Open it, commanded Rince. I don't want her to die in there. The men quickly unclamped the locks and lifted Pauline out. Take off the ropes and the bandages, ordered Rince. Take them off, or I shall scream. Exclaimed one. If she does, you may choke her to death in the car, replied Rince. Why not hear? Asked the oldest of the men. Didn't, Mr. Hush your mouth, you confounded rascal. Rince screamed. Are you going to mention that name here? What harm, as long as she is to die? Dead women tell no more tales than dead men. I will name all names that are to be spoken. Declared Rince. Well, he of the name that is unspoken. At least he did say that we must have no delays. We want to earn our money as well as you. Lewis, remember that. Come, come, he said. This is no way to be arguing among friends. You'll get your money all right, but there is one thing to remember. You ain't get it except through me. So let me handle the matter. Put the girl in the car. Pauline, although her bounds had been cut away, was unable to rise to her feet. They lifted her to her feet. She took a step or two while they watched her curiously. Quickly strength and self-control came back to her. With a sudden spring, she struck at Rince with her fists, and as he drew back, astonished, she darted across the roadway toward the wood. It was but a futile maneuver. She had gone but a few paces when she was gripped from behind and snatched back. You see, Lewis, I told you she would do something of the kind. Said the old bandit. And I told you it would do no harm. Place her in the car between you and Rocco. If she screams or makes a move to get away, you may do as you wish, but not until then. Pauline still struggled feebly as she was lifted into the machine. Rince kicked the empty trunk to the side of the by-road and took the wheel again. He drove back to the main drive that skirted the railroad. Distant as they were by now, the clamor of the caged beasts in the circus train could still be heard. To Pauline, the creature seemed less wild and cruel than these, her human captors. Rince put on even greater speed than he had ventured before. Two policemen, Burgess and Blount, of the motorcycle squad, were standing by their wheels in the roadway when the sound of the car's rush reached their ears from half a mile away. By George, that fellow's coming some. Exclaimed Blount. And looks as if he wasn't going to stop. Said the other. Halt! Halt! There! He commanded as the machine flashed up in a mantle of dust. There are coming, Lewis. Said one of the men. I know they are, but there is no machine made that can catch this one. Have your guns ready, though, in case they begin to fire, pick them off. Pauline shuttered at the matter-of-fact way in which Rocco and the man on the other side drew their heavy pistols from their hip pockets and rested them on their knees. Do you see the girl in that car? Yelled Burgess to his companion over the den of their streaking machines. Yes, we want that party for more than speeding, I guess. Answered Blount. They bent low over their handlebars and raced on. If he takes this curve like that, we've got them dead or alive. Said Burgess. And looks as if he would. By George he is. Rince's car had shot suddenly out of sight around a twist in the road. Rince was an able driver, and even at its terrific speed, the machine took the first turn gracefully. But Rince had not counted on a second shorter turn to the opposite direction. And he worked the wheel madly for a second swerve. The huge car skidded, spun round, and, reeling on two wheels for an instant, turned over in the ditch. It was several moments before Pauline opened her eyes. She shut them quickly and staggered to her feet, shuddering. She had been lying across Rocco's dead body, which had broken her fall and saved her life. Two other men lay motionless in the road. But from under the overturned car there came a sound, and Pauline realized, with quick alarm, that Rince was still alive. She ran across the road and into the parked woods that hid the railroad from the drips. Rince struggled out from beneath the car, his eyes swept swiftly from the bodies of his dead comrades to the form of Pauline just vanishing in the thicket. He was bruised and bleeding, but with the instinct of a beast of prey he followed his query. Dead or alive was right, said Burgess, jumping from his wheel and examining the bodies in the road. I wonder what that fellow was up to? And where is the girl? I saw her and one of the men making to the park there. Said Blount. You take charge here, and I'll go after them. As he moved into the thicket in the direction Pauline had taken, young Blount's attention was attracted by a new commotion. The park was on the crest of a steep cliff overlooking the railroad tracks, and from the tracks came a riot of voices. Blount forced his way through the wood to a viewpoint from the cliff. Below him, a score of men were moving rapidly along the tracks in a wide, open order, evidently bent on some sort of a hunt. The Circus Men. Said Blount to himself. An animal must have got out. This certainly is some day for business. He turned back to the work in hand. Pauline, spurred by terror as she realized that Rince was again upon her trail, had sped like a wild thing through the park paths. She could hear the heavy footsteps of her pursuer close behind. She could hear also a shouting from afar off. She made toward the shouting, the sound of any voice, but the voices of the inhuman men who had planned her death was welcomed to her ears. She came out upon the cliff, where it sloped steeply to the railroad yards, but not too steeply to prevent her descending. From her position the lines of freight cars cut off from her vision the strange group of hunters who were shouting, running, stumbling, creeping, clenching at small bushes. She scrambled down the cliff. Stop and come back! She heard a menacing voice behind her. She sped on the faster. A line of high bushes fringed the bottom of the cliff. Between the bushes and the first rails ran a ditch. Sheltered from all view from above, Pauline dragged herself along the ditch, seeking a hiding place. She knew her strength was almost gone, she was in terror of fainting, if she could hide somewhere and rest. A single empty freight car stood on the outer track a hundred yards away. Its open door offered the only means of concealment that she had. She believed that the bushes were high enough still to shield her while she climbed into the car. In this she was wrong. Rince, watching from above, for he was afraid of the voices on the tracks below, and had not followed Pauline, watched with pleasure as she crawled to the side of the car and, after two failures, managed to drive herself through the high door. She sank, exhausted. Gradually, however, her strength returned. Her mind recovered from the dazed experience of the last few hours. She began to gain courage and to plan for further flight. As she moved toward the car door to reconnoiter, the sense of an invisible presence suddenly possessed her. Instinctively, she turned. One glance behind her and every fiber of her body seemed to turn to stone. Fear she had known, but never terror such as this. She stood paralyzed, unable to close her eyes, unable to move. For there, beside her, towering above her in horrible strength, with wildly grinning face, the cruelly outstretched claws stood the thing that gave explanation to the hunt outside in the shouting. Pauline was in the clenches of a gorilla. She fainted as she felt herself gripped in the hairy arms. Rince was gloating as he stood on watch over Pauline's hiding place. In a little while the men would be out of the railroad yard and he would go down and finish the work. But his rejoicings were turned into amazement at the sight, which now presented itself at the door of the car. With Pauline carried under one arm as if she were a wisp of straw, the gorilla was crawling down to the track side. Rince saw it crawl along the ditch and heard the crunch of broken bushes as the huge creature clamored up the cliff. Wondering, scarcely able to believe his eyes, Rince followed at a safe distance. Young policeman Blount, searching for the fugitive chauffeur of the wrecked automobile and the mysterious young woman who had escaped from it, paused at the sound of heavy footfalls, a low, guttural snarling sound, a sound hardly human, accompanied the footsteps. He had reached the bottom of the cliff a half mile from where Pauline had found her perilous shelter. Peering up through the bushes, his astonishment and horror were a match for the astonishment and joy of Rince. The gorilla, with Pauline still clutched in the mighty paw, had reached almost the top of the cliff at its steepest point. Blount blew his whistle, blast after blast. He started up the cliff, but came back at the sound of hurrying footsteps and calls. The hunters from the railroad yards had heard the signal. Hello! Have you seen anything of the gorilla? yelled the first man to come up. Blount pointed up the cliffside to where the hideous beast was just dragging Pauline over the topmost ledge. The men stood spellbound with pity. A girl! gasped one of them. She's as good as dead if she isn't dead now. He just killed our foreman back in the yards. No, thank heaven! cried Blount. She's not dead. Look! At the top of the cliff they saw Pauline's form suddenly quicken into life. The gorilla had released its hold upon her to make sure of its footing on the perilous ledge. Now she stood, a frail, pitiful, hopeless thing, fighting, actually assailing the beast, more mighty than a dozen men. Their hearts sick within them, they watched the brief struggle. Rince, too, watched it from his hiding place on the top of the cliff. But his heart was not sick. In a moment he was sure his work would be accomplished for him, and his employer would be rid of Pauline Marvin in a way that could reflect no blame on anyone. Blount started up the cliff. He took it for granted that the others would follow, but looking down after gaining half the distance, he saw the circus men still huddled together in fascinated awe. Look! Look! They called to him. He's taking her up the tree! Blount looked and saw the gorilla climbing ponderously the trunk of a large tree, the branches of which overhung the precipice. Blount climbed on frantically. He stopped again. The gorilla was crawling out upon one of the overhanging branches. The strange beast-brain had conceived a death for Pauline more terrible than any Raymond Owen had ever plotted. Rince himself might have envied the gorilla. Blount drew his revolver. He was not more than a hundred feet below them now. It's a chance of hitting her against a chance of saving her. He muttered. He fired. With a snarl of pain the gorilla turned and bit savagely at its shoulder. Blount rushed on. He stopped again and fired. He was at the verge of the cliff. He could blaze away now with no danger of hitting Pauline, for he was a sure marksman. With a great throb of joy in his heart the gallant young fellow saw the beast turn, and, leaving Pauline with her arms around the limb, her eyes shut against the dizzy depths below, moved back and scrambled down. Blount was on the cliff top as the gorilla reached the ground. The beast charged. Blount fired again. Again the gorilla, snarling, bit at its wounded side. But it came on as if a dozen lives vitalized the gross body. Blount backed away from the cliff, but the monster was upon him. It clenched him, hurled him to the ground, dragged him back to the dizzy verge. Slowly Blount was pressing over the precipice. The watchers below saw him in his last struggle, writhe in the deadly grasp, twist his revolver and fire three shots into the heart of the gorilla. Down the long fall of the jagged rocks went the beast. Pauline was bending over the bleeding, battered form of the young officer when the circus crew reached them. Oh, you are brave, brave! she cried. He opened his eyes and grinned merrily. If I'm brave, I'd like to know what you are. Oh, I'm not brave. I'm nothing but a selfish little pig, cried Pauline. I've treated the dearest fellow in the world shamefully. He's forgiven me over and over, but he won't forgive me this time. He'll forgive you anything, Mem. Blount assured her. For the sake of getting you back safe, but I shouldn't like to be the man who got you into this when he hears of it. The man, safe enough, said Burgess, who had just come up in time to hear Blount's last words. No, he didn't escape that way, as Blount uttered an ejaculation of disgust. He ran full tilt into me, and when I tried to arrest him, he drew his revolver on me. By good luck, I got him first. Yes, Joe. He's dead. Dead, repeated Pauline in a low tone. Horrible to go out of life a moment after you tried to commit murder. It's not his first, Burgess said coolly. We've been after him and his gang these six months. It was Rents, Joe, and I made a haul of papers to get somebody into trouble. Oh, don't hurt the young one, cried Pauline. He tried to help me. Roco? He was dead when they picked him up. And now, Miss Marvin, hadn't I better get you a taxi? Yes, thank you, but... With irrepressible curiosity, how did you know me, Burgess smiled? How did I know you? I'll pay your pardon, Miss, but for nearly a year, your picture's been in every paper, more or less, in the United States. You're a big headliner. It's an honor to meet you face to face. But it's Blount has all the luck he saved you. He'll be a headliner himself tomorrow. The hot color rushed up her Pauline's face, a headliner, so that was what she meant to the public, to the man on the street. Please, please, don't let this get into the papers. She begged, I'll do anything in the world for you if you'll just keep it out of the papers. Will you tell us about those other adventures? Burgess asked eagerly. It's a sure thing that somebody's been pulling the wires, making you walk the tightrope, and somebody that knows everything you do. Any man on the force who could spot him would be made. No, no, Pauline insisted, an uneasy remembrance of Harry's suspicions lending emphasis to her denial. Some of those things were done before anybody out of the house could know. Just as I said, Burgess agreed triumphantly. It's somebody in the house? Why, he knew about your bull terrier. And the papers had, it had just been giving you the day before. Darn clever little dog to give your folks the clue. Cyrus? Pauline's face broke into smiles and dimples. He's the cleverest, dearest, most beautiful dog in the world. Fine dog, yes, miss. If he's like the picture the reporters got. Pauline's face clouded. For the moment she had forgotten the horrors of publicity. You won't put this in the papers? She pleaded. He shunned. Blount raised himself weakly on his elbow. If the reporters haven't got it already, we'll keep you out of it anyhow, miss. Oh, keep a scoop like this out of the papers. Burgess laughed aloud. You're talking through your hat, Blount. It can't be done. In one terrible flash, Pauline saw her name in capitals, her photograph almost life-size, photographs of her trunk, the gorilla, Blount, and headliners too, and Harry, furious, too far away from moral suasion, stern, cold, unforgiving, were still disgusted. She realized as she had never realized before that Harry was what counted most. Harry was the one thing she could not live without. To the terrors of these hours was added the terror of losing him. She burst into wild sobs. I want Harry. I don't want anything in the world but Harry. Oh, please take me home. Please take me home. Burgess got a taxi and went with her to the hotel, where she was put to bed, a doctor sent for, and where at last she fell asleep. But it was not until noon the next day that she was able to take the train for New York, and then began, two hours and a half, that Pauline remembered to the last hour of her life. Her photograph stared at her from the front page of every daily paper. Even the glasses and thick veils she wore to conceal her identity could not soften the conspicuous pictures. Newsboys called her name, and the gorilla story, rinse and Blount's names. Together every passenger in the car, it seemed to her, men, women, and children, were discussing her. There were silly jokes, contemptuous criticisms, half-flaffing suggestions that there was something queer about Miss Marvin. Just behind her she heard one woman say to another, But then, my dear, what could you expect of any girl whose mother was an Egyptian? As if this equalled breaking the whole decalogue. Though she had wired Owen, the motor did not meet her, and feeling more than ever for Lauren and Forsaken, Pauline got into a taxi. Never had the old place looked so beautiful as today, when she felt that it could never be her home again. She must tell Harry that her mother was an Egyptian, and then, even if he could forgive her this last adventure, he would never marry her. Oh, how could she have been so silly, so conceited, so cruel to Harry, and what a fool she had been to go in search of experience in order to write. If she couldn't write with all this beauty spread out before her, if she couldn't write by living a real, human, everyday life, the sort of life that brings you close to normal people, how could she ever hope to write by living on excitement, on abnormal excitement, and with abnormal people and situations? She paid the driver and was walking slowly up the steps of the Rwanda when suddenly she halted as if she had been struck. What was that? It couldn't be. Yes, it was. Funeral streamers hanging from the doorknob. With a scream that rang through the closed door, Pauline fainted. When she recovered consciousness she was in the library. Beemus and Margaret were bending over her, and strong, tender arms were around her. Harry? She murmured instinctively. Don't try to talk, my darling. Drink this. You go. To Beemus and Margaret. Oh, Harry! I thought you were dead. I'm very much alive. Harry said with a tremulous laugh. But Harry, what does all that black on the door mean? It means, said Harry savagely, that though the mills of the gods grind slowly, they grind surely. Owen's dead. Owen, her eyes large with terror, blounce words ringing in her ears. I shouldn't like to be the man at the bottom of this when Mr. Marvin hears of it. Owen. She repeated in a breathless whisper. Harry, you didn't kill him. He didn't give me the chance. He was dead when I got here. Overdose of morphine, Dr. Stephen said. Seems he was a drug fiend. Why, that was the reason, Pauline said, her eyes filling with tears. He was crazy. He didn't know what he was doing. Poor Owen. Poor Owen. Then turned hastily to safer topics. But I thought you went to Chicago for a week. I did, but you laugh, Pauline. I know it sounds foolish. The mummy came to me, just as she came to me in Montana. I took the first train home. I knew you were in danger. I knew it was a warning. I'll never trust you out of my sight again. You've got to marry me now. Pauline shrank back from his kisses. No, no, Harry. I can't. I won't. There was a woman on the train, said my mother was an Egyptian. Harry broke into a peel of laughter and caught her in his arms. Is that the only reason you won't? Harry, is it true? I don't know and I don't care. What difference does it make who your mother was? You are you. That's all I care for. His voice shook. I love you so, Pauline, that I can't stand this life any longer. Another adventure. Pauline silenced him with a kiss. I'm all through with adventures. She declared, Harry, I'm going to— Marry me? Pauline, do you mean it? Yes, yes. Oh, my dearest. I've been a selfish, silly, conceited little pig. But I'm cured. I'm cured at last. As he clasped her in his arms, the shutter swung violently, too, and the case containing the mummy fell with a clatter to the floor. Harry ran and lifted it as tenderly as if it had been a little child. I suppose we can hardly keep her here, he said regretfully. But we'll give. No. I can't give her up entirely. We'll lend her to the Metropolitan Art Museum, where she will receive due honor. She's been a faithful friend to us, Pauline. And here's another— Exclaimed Pauline as Cyrus ran frantically into the room and leaped upon the couch with the static barks of welcome, threatening again to take the place that belonged by right to Harry. But this time Harry joined in Pauline's caresses. The end. End of Chapter 24 The Mummy's Last Warning End of The Perils of Pauline by Charles Goddard