 CHAPTER XI of the Crevice by William J. Burns and Isabel Ostrander. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE CONFIDENCE OF EMILY All during that day and the night which followed it, the search for Raymond Hamilton continued, but without result. With the announcement of his disappearance in the press, the police had started a spectacular investigation, but had been as unsuccessful as Henry Blaine's own operatives, who had been working unauthenticiously but tirelessly since the news of the young lawyers of Inessence had come. No one could be found who had seen him. When he left the offices of the great detective on the previous morning, he seemed to have vanished into thin air. It was to Blaine the most baffling incident of all that had occurred since this most complex case had come into his hands. He kept his word and called to see Anita in the late afternoon. He found that she had slept for some hours and was calmer and more hopeful, which was fortunate, for he had scant comfort to offer her, beyond his vague but forceful reassurances, that all would be well. Early on the following morning, Surachi returned from Long Bay and presented himself at the office of his chief to report. Here are the tracings from the register of the breakers which you desired, sir, he began, spreading some large thin sheets of paper upon the desk. The Lawton spent three weeks there at the time you designated, and Mr. Hamilton went out each weekend from Friday to Monday, as you can see, here and here. They had no other visitors, and kept much to themselves. Blaine scanned the papers rapidly, pausing here and there to scrutinize more closely a signature which appeared to interest him. At length he pushed them aside with a dissatisfied frown, as if he had been looking for something which he had failed to find. Being suspicious about the guests who arrived during the Lawton's stay, he asked, was there any incident in connection with them worthy of note, which the proprietor could recall? No, sir, but I found some of the employees and talked to them. The hotel is closed now for the winner, of course, but two or three other waiters and bellboys live in the neighborhood. A summer resort is a hot bit of gossip, as you know, sir, and since Mr. Lawton's sudden death, the servants had been comparing notes of his visit there two years ago. I found the waiter who served them, and two bellboys, and they each had a curious incident to tell me in connection with the Lawton's. The stories would have held no significance, if it weren't for the fact, that they all happened to concern one person, a man who arrived on the 8th of August. This man here. Srirachi ran his finger down the register page, until he came to one name where he stopped abruptly. Albert Addison, Baltimore, Maryland, read Blaine. Then with a sudden exclamation he bent closer over the paper, a prolonged scrutiny ensued while Srirachi watched him curiously. Reaching into a drawer, the master detective drew out a powerful magnifying glass and examined each stroke of the pen with minute care. At length he swung about in his chair and pressed the electric button on the corner of the desk. When his secretary appeared in response to the summons, Blaine said, Ask the filing clerk to look in the drawer marked P, 1904, and bring me the check drawn on the First National Bank, signed Paddington. While the secretary was fulfilling his task, the two waited in silence, but with the check before him, Henry Blaine gave one keen comparing glance, then turned to the operative. Well, Srirachi, what did you learn from the hotel employees? One of the bellboys told me that this man, Addison, arrived with only a bag, announcing that his luggage would be along later, and that he anticipated remaining a week or more. This boy noticed him particularly, because he scanned the hotel register before writing his own name, and insisted upon having one of two special suites, No. 72 or 76. 74, the suite between, was occupied by Mr. Lawton. They were both engaged, so he was forced to be content with No. 73 just across the hall. The boy noticed that although the new arrival did not approach Mr. Lawton or his daughter, he hung about in their immediate vicinity all day, and appeared to be watching them furtively. Late in the afternoon, Mr. Lawton went into the writing room to attend to some correspondence. The boy, passing through the room on an errand, saw him stop in the middle of a page, frown, and tearing the paper across, throw it in the wastebasket. Glancing about inadvertently, the bellboy saw Addison seated nearby, staring at Mr. Lawton from behind a newspaper, which he held in front of his face, as if pretending to read. The boy's curiosity was aroused by the eager, hungry, expectant look on the stranger's face, and he made up his mind to hang around too, and see what was doing. He attended to his errand and returned. Just in time to see Mr. Lawton, seal the flap of his last envelope, rise, and stroll from the room. Instantly Addison slipped into the seat just vacated, wrote a page, crumpled it, and threw it in the same wastebasket the other man had used. Then he started another page, hesitated, and finally stopped, and began rummaging in the basket, as if searching for the paper he himself had just dropped there. The boy made up his mind. He's a sharp one, sir, he'd be good for this business. That the stranger wasn't after his own letter at all, but the one Mr. Lawton had torn across, and in a spirit of mischief he walked up to the man and offered to help. This is your letter, sir, I saw you crumple it up just now. That torn sheet of paper belongs to one of the other guests. According to his story he forced Addison's own letter on him, and walked off with the wastebasket to empty it, and if looks could kill, he'd have been a dead boy after one glance from the stranger. That was all he had to tell, and he wouldn't have remembered such a trifling incident for a matter of two years and more if it hadn't been for something which happened late that night. He didn't see it, being off duty, but another boy did, and the next day they compared notes. They were undecided as to whether they should go to the manager of the hotel and make a report or not, but being only kids, they were afraid of getting into trouble themselves, so they waited. Addison departed suddenly that morning, however, and as Mr. Lawton never gave any sign of being aware of what had taken place, they kept silent. I located the second boy, and got his story at first hand. His name is Johnny Bradley, and he's as stupid as the other one is sharp. Johnny was on all night, and about one o'clock he was sent out to the casino on the pier, just in front of the hotel with a message. When he was returning, he noticed a tiny bright light darting quickly about in Mr. Lawton's rooms, as if someone were carrying a candle through the suite and moving rapidly. He remembered that Mr. Lawton and his daughter had motored off somewhere just after dinner to be gone overnight, so he went upstairs to investigate, without mentioning the matter to the clerk who was dozing behind the desk in the office. There was a chambermaid on night duty at the end of the hall, but she was asleep. And as he reached the head of the stairs, Johnny observed that someone had, contrary to the rules, extinguished the lights near Mr. Lawton's rooms. He went softly down the hall till he came to the door of number seventy-four. A man was stooping before it, fumbling with a key, but whether he was locking or unlocking the door, it did not occur to Johnny to question in his own mind until later. As he approached, the man turned, saw him, and reeled against the door as if he had been drinking. Say, boy, he drawled, what's the matter with Locke? Kill, madore! He put the key in his pocket as he spoke, but that, too, Johnny did not think of until afterward. That isn't your door, sir. Those are Mr. Pennington Lawton's rooms, Johnny told him. What is the number on your key? The man produced the key from his pocket and gave it to Johnny in a stupid day sort of way. The key was numbered seventy-three. That's your suite just across the hall, sir, Johnny said. He unlocked the door for the newcomer, who muttered thickly about the hall being damned confusing to a stranger, and gave him a dollar. Johnny waited until the man had lurched into his rooms, then asked if he wanted ice water. Receiving no reply but a mumbled curse he withdrew, but not before he had seen the light switched on, and the man crossed to the door and shut it. The stranger no longer lurched about, but walked erectly, and his face had lost the sag, vapid, drunken look, and was surprisingly sober and keen in alert. The two boys decided the next day that Addison had come to the breakers with the idea of robbing Mr. Lawton, but, as I said, nothing came of the incident, so they kept it to themselves, and in all probability had quite passed from their minds until the news of Mr. Lawton's death recalled it to them. Srirachi paused, and after a moment Blaine suggested tentatively, you spoke of a waiter also, Srirachi. Had he anything to add to what the bellboys had told you of this man Addison's peculiar behavior? Yes, sir, it isn't very important, but it sort of confirms what the first boy said about the stranger trying to watch the Lawtons without being noticed himself by them. The waiter, Tom Donahue, says that on the day of his arrival Addison was seated by the head waiter at the next table to that occupied by Mr. Lawton and directly facing him. Addison entered the dining room first, ordered a big luncheon, and was halfway through it when the Lawtons entered. No sooner were they seated than he got up precipitately and left a room. That night at dinner he refused the table he had occupied at the first meal and insisted upon being seated at one, somewhere back in Mr. Lawton. This Donahue is a genial kind-hearted soul, and he was a favorite with the bellhops, because he used to save sweets and tidbits for them from his trays. Johnny and the other boy told him of their dilemma concerning number seventy-three, as they designated Addison, and he in turn related the incident of the dining room. The boys told me about him, and where he could be found. He's not a waiter any longer, but married to one of the hotel chambermaids and lives in Long Bay, running a bus service to the depot for a string of the cheaper boarding houses. He corroborated the bellhop's story in every detail, and even gave me a hazy sort of description of Addison. He was small and thin and dark, clean-shaven, with a face like an actor, narrow shoulders and a sort of caved-in chest. He walked with a slight limp, and was a little overdressed for the exclusive, conservative, high-society crowd that flocked to the breakers. "'That's our man, Srirachi. That's Paddington to the life,' Blaine exclaimed. I knew it, as soon as I compared his signature on this check with the one in the register, although he has tried to disguise his hand, as you can see. I'm glad to have it verified, though, by witnesses on whom we can lay our hands at any time, should it become necessary. He left the day after his arrival, you say? The morning after this boy Johnny caught him in front of Mr. Lawton's door? Yes, sir. The bellhop's don't think he came back, either. They don't remember seeing him again. "'Very well. You've done splendidly, Srirachi. I couldn't have conducted the investigation better myself. Do you need any rest now?' "'Oh, no, sir. I'm quite ready for another job. The young operative's eyes sparkled eagerly as he spoke, and his long, slim, nervous fingers clasped and unclasped the arms of his chair spasmodically. What is it? Something new come up?' Only that disappearance two days ago of the young lawyer to whom Miss Lawton is engaged, Raymond Hamilton. I want you to go out on that at once, and see what you can do. I've got half a dozen of the best men on it already, but they haven't accomplished anything. I can't give you a single clue to go upon, except that when he walked out of this office at eleven o'clock in the morning he wore a black suit, black shoes, black tie, a black derby, and a grey overcoat with a morning-ban on the sleeve, for Mr. Lawton, of course. Outside the door there he vanished as if a trap had opened and dropped him through into space. No one has seen him since. No one knows where he went. That's all the help I can offer you. He's not in jail or the morgue or any of the hospitals as yet. That isn't much, but it's something. Here's a personal description of him which the police issued yesterday. It's as good as any I could give you, and here are two photographs of him which I got from his mother yesterday afternoon. Take a good look at him, Srirachi. Fix his face in your mind, and then if you should manage or happen to locate him you can't go wrong. I know your memory for faces. The shadow departed eagerly upon his quest, and Blaine settled down to an hour's deep reflection. He held the threads of the major conspiracy in his hands, but as yet he could not connect them, at least in any tangible way, to present at a court of so-called justice, where everyone, from the judge to the policeman at the door, could, and inevitably would, be brought over in advance to the side of the criminals. It was a one-man fight, backed only with the slender means provided by a young girl's insignificant financial ventures, against the press, the public, a corrupt political machine of great power, the desperate ingenuity of three clever, unscrupulous minds brought to bay, and the overwhelming influence of colossal wealth. Henry Blaine felt that the supreme struggle of his whole career was confronting him. The unheard of intrepidity of conception, the very daring of the conspiracy, combined with the prominence of the men involved, would brand any accusation, even from a man of Henry Blaine's celebrated international reputation, as totally preposterous, unless substantiated. And what actual proof had he of their criminal connection with the alleged bankruptcy of Pennington Lawton? He had established to his own satisfaction, at least, that the mortgage on the family home on Beller Avenue had been forged, and by Jimmy Brinnell. The signature on the note held by Moore the banker, and the entire letter asking Malo to negotiate the loan, had been also fraudulent, and manufactured by the same hand. Again the private detective, with perhaps the most unsavory record of any operating in the city, was in close and constant communication with the three men Blaine held under suspicion, and probably also with Jimmy Brinnell. Lastly, Brinnell himself was known to be still in possession of his paraphernalia for the pursuit of his old nefarious calling. Paddington, on Margaret Hefferman's testimony, had assuredly succeeded in molting the promoter Rockamore of a large sum in a clear case of blackmail, but on the face of it there was no proof that it was connected with the matter of Pennington Lawton's insolvency. The mysterious nocturnal visitor on the night the magnet met his death was still to be accounted for, as was the disappearance of Raymond Hamilton, and in spite of his utmost efforts Henry Blaine was forced to admit to himself that he was scarcely nearer a solution, or rather a confirmation of his steadfast convictions than when he started upon his investigation. Unquestionably the man Paddington held the key to the situation, but how could Paddington be approached? How could he be made to speak? Bribery had sealed his lips, and only greed would open them. He was shrewd enough to realize that the man who had purchased his services would pay him far more to remain silent than any client of Blaine's could to betray them. Moreover he was in the same boat, and must of necessity sink or swim with his confederates. Fear might induce him to squeal, where cupidity would fail, but the one sure means of loosening his tongue was through passion. If only that French girl, Théphine Deschusais, would lead him on, if she had less of the saint and more of the coquette in her makeup, we might land him, the detective murmur to himself, it's dirty work, but we've got to use the weapons in our hands. I must have another talk with her, before she considers herself affronted by his attentions, and throws him down hard, that is, if he's making any attempt, to follow up his flirtation with her. Blaine's soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of Guy Morrow, whose face bore the disgusted look of one sent to fish with a bent pin for a salmon. I found Paddington all right, sir, he announced. I tailed him until half an hour ago, but I might as well have been asleep for all I learned, except one fact, which is, the detective asked quickly, that he went to Rockamore's office yesterday morning, remained an hour, and came away with a check for ten thousand dollars. He proceeded to the bank, had it certified, and deposited at once to his own account in the merchants and traders. He evidently split it up, then, for he went to three other banks and opened accounts under three different names. Here's the list. I tailed him all the way. He handed the master detective a slip of paper, which the latter put carefully aside after a casual glance. Then what did he do? He wasted his own time and mine. The operative responded in immeasurable contempt. Eight, drank, gambled and loafed, and flandered. Flandered? Blain repeated sharply. In the park returned the other, spooning with a girl. Rotten cold it was, too, and me tailing on like a blamed chaperone. After he made his last deposit at the third bank, he went to lunch at Dujan's, ate his head off, and paid from a thick wad of yellowbacks. Then he dropped in at Wiley's, and played roulette for a couple of hours, played in luck, too. He drank quite a little, but it only seemed to heighten his good spirits without fuddling him to any extent. When he left Wiley's about five o'clock, he sauntered along Court Street until he came to Frazier's, the Jewelers. He stopped, looked at the display window for a few minutes, and then, as if on a sudden impulse, turned and entered the shop. I tailed him inside, and went to the men's counter, where I bought a tie clasp, keeping my eye on him all the time. What do you think he got? A gold locket and chain, a heart-shaped locket, with a chipped diamond in the center. The Eternal Feminine, Blaine commented, and then he added half under his breath. Fafine, de chusse, is on the job. What, sir? asked the operative curiously. Nothing, guy, merely an idle observation. Go on with your story. Paddington went straight from the Jewelers to the Democratic Club for an hour, then dined alone at Rossies. I was on the lookout for the woman, but none appeared, and he didn't act as if he expected anybody. For dinner he strolled down Beller Avenue, past the Lawton residence, and out to Fairlawn Park. Once inside the gates, he stopped for a minute near a lamppost, and looked at his watch, then hurried straight on the hydrangea path, as if he had an appointment to keep. I dropped back into the shadow, but tailed along. She must have been late, that girl, for he cooled his heels on a bench for twenty minutes, growing more impatient all the time. Finally she came, a slender wisp of a girl, but some queen, seemingly dressed, dark hair and eyes, small hands and feet, and a face like a stained glass window. They walked slowly up and down, talking very confidentially, and once he started to put his arm about her, but she moved away. I walked up quickly and passed them, close enough to hear what she was saying. Of course it's lonely for a girl in a strange country where she has no friends. That was all I got, but I'd noticed that she spoke with a decidedly foreign accent, French or Spanish I should say. Around the bend in the path I hid behind a clump of bushes, and waited until they had passed, then tailed them again. I saw him produce the locket and chain at last, and offer them to her. She protested and took a lot of persuading, but he prevailed upon her and she let him clasp it about her neck and kiss her. After that, good Lord, they spooned for about two hours, and never even noticed the snow which had begun to fall, while I shivered along behind. About half past ten they made a break away, and he left her at the park gates, and went on down to his rooms. While I put up for the night at the Hotel Gaythorn just across the way, and kept a lookout, but there was no further developments until early this morning. At a little after seven he left his apartment house, and started up State Street as if he meant business. Of course I was after him on the jump. He evidently didn't think he was watched, for he never looked around once, but made straight for a little shop near the corner of Tarleton Place. It was a stationery and tobacco store, and I was right at his heels when he entered. He leaned over the counter and asked in a low, meaning tone for a box of Cairo cigarettes. The man gave him a long, searching glance, then turned, and reaching back of a pile of boxes on the first shelf, drew out a flat one, the size which holds twenty cigarettes. He passed it quickly over to Paddington, but not before I observed that it had been opened and rather clumsily resealed. Paddington handled over a quarter, and left the shop without another word. He went directly to a cheap restaurant across the street, and ordering a cup of coffee he tore up in the cigarette box. It contained only a sheet of paper folded twice. I was at the next table, too far away to read what was written upon it, but whatever it was, it seemed to give him immense satisfaction. He finished his coffee, returned to his rooms, changed his clothes, and went directly to the office of Steddecker, the man whose divorce case he's trying to trump up. Evidently, he's good for a day's work on that, so I thought I could safely leave him at it and report to you. Huh! I'd like to have a glimpse of that communication in the cigarette box, but it isn't of sufficient importance on the face of it to show our hand by having him waylaid or searching his rooms. Blain cogitated aloud. I'll put another man on tomorrow morning. Leave the address of the tobacconist with my secretary on your way out, and if there is another message tomorrow, he'll get it first. You needn't do anything more on this Paddington matter. I think the other end needs your services more, and since you've already broken ground up there, you'll be able to do better than anyone else. I want you to return to the Bronx. Stick back your old room, if you can, and stick close to the Bernels. Back in his old rooms at Mrs. Quinlan's, Guy sat in the window seat at dusk, impatiently awaiting the appearance of a slender, well-known figure. The rain, which had set in early in the afternoon, had turned to sleet, and as the darkness deepened, the rays from a solitary street lamp gleamed sharply upon the pavement as upon an unbroken sheet of ice. Presently, the spare, long-limbed form of James Bernel emerged from the gloom, and disappeared within the door of this little house opposite. Morrow observed that the man's step lacked its accustomed jauntiness and spring, and he plotted along wearily, as if utterly preoccupied with some depressing meditation. A light sprang up in the front room on the ground floor, but after a few moments it was suddenly extinguished, and Bernel appeared again on the porch. He closed the door softly behind him, and strode quickly down the street. There was a marked change in his bearing, a furtiveness, an eager haste, which ill accorded with his manner of a short time before. Scarcely had Bernel vanished into the encroaching gloom when his daughter appeared. She too approached wearily, and on reaching the little sagging gate she paused and surprised a smay at the air of detached emptiness the house seemed to exude. Then a little furry object scurried around the porch corner and precipitated itself upon her. She stooped swiftly, gathered up the kitten in her arms, and went slowly into the house. Morrow ate his supper in absent-minded haste, and as soon as he decently could he made his way across the street. Emily opened the door in response to his ring, and greeted him with such undisguised pleasure and surprise that his honest heart quickened a beat or two, and it was with difficulty that he voiced the plausible falsehood concerning his loss of position and returned to his former abode. Through the light in the little drawing-room he noticed that she looked pale and care-worn, and her limpid, childlike eyes were veiled pathetically with deep blue shadows. As he looked at her, however, a warm tint died her cheeks, and her head drooped, while the little smile still lingered about her lips. "'You are tired?' he found himself asking solicitiously, after she had expressed her sympathy for his supposed ill-fortune. "'You found your work difficult today at the club?' "'Oh, no!' she shook her head slowly. My position is merely sinecure, thanks to Miss Lawton's wonderful consideration. I have been a little depressed, a little worried, that is all. Worried!' Morrow paused, then added in a lower tone the words coming swiftly. "'Can't you tell me, Emily? Isn't there some way in which I can help you? What is it that's troubling you?' "'I—I don't know.' A deeper, painful flush spread for a moment over her face, and ebbed, leaving her paler even than before. "'You are very kind, Mr. Morrow. But I do not think that I should speak of it to anyone. And indeed, my fears are so intangible, so vague, that when I try to formulate my thoughts into words, even to myself, they are unconvincing, almost meaningless. Yet I feel instinctively that something is wrong.' "'Won't you trust me?' Morrow's hand closed gently but firmly over the girl's slender one, in a clasp of compelling sympathy, and unconsciously she responded to it. "'I know that I'm comparatively a new friend. You and your father have been kind enough to extend your hospitality to me, to accept me as a friend. You know very little about me, yet I want you to believe that I'm worthy of trust, that I want to help you. I do, Emily, more than you realize, more than I can express to you now.' Morrow had forgotten the reason for his presence there—forgotten in his profession, his avowed purpose—everything but the girl beside him. But her next words brought him swiftly back to a realization of the present, so swiftly that for a moment he felt as if stunned by an unexpected blow. "'Oh, I do believe that you are a friend. I do trust you.' Emily's voice thrilled with deep sincerity, and in an impetuous outburst of confidence she added, "'It is about my father that I am troubled. Everything has happened, which I do not understand. There is something he is keeping from me, which has changed him. He seems like a different man, a stranger.' "'You're sure of it?' Morrow asked slowly. "'You are sure that it isn't just a nervous fancy? Your father really has changed toward you lately?' "'Not only toward me, but to all the world beside,' she responded. "'Now that I look back, I can see that his present state of mind has been coming on gradually for several months, but it was only a short time ago that something occurred which seemed to bring the matter whatever it is to a turning point. I remember that it was just a few days before you came, I mean before I happened to see you over at Mrs. Quinlan's.' She stopped abruptly, as if an arresting finger had been laid across her lips, and after waiting a moment for her to continue Morrow asked quietly, "'What was it that occurred?' Father received a letter. It came one afternoon when I had returned from the club earlier than usual. I took it from the postman myself, and as father had not come home yet from the shop, I placed it beside his plate at the supper table. I noticed the postmark, Brooklyn, but it didn't make any particular impression upon me. It was only later, when I saw how it affected my father, that I remembered and wondered. He had scarcely opened the envelope when he rose, trembling so that he could hardly stand, and coming into this room he shut the door after him. I waited as long as I could, but he did not return, and the supper was getting cold, so I came to the door here. It was locked. For the first time in his life my father had locked himself in for me. He would not answer me at first, as I called to him, and I was nearly frightened to death before he spoke. When he did, his voice sounded so harsh and strained that I scarcely recognized it. He told me that he didn't want anything to eat. He had some private business to attend to, and I was not to wait up for him, but to go to bed when I wished. I crept away and went to my room at last, but I could not sleep. It was nearly morning when father went to bed, and his step was heavy and dragging as he passed my door. His room is next to mine, and I heard him tossing restlessly about, and once or twice I fancied that he groaned as if in pain. He was up in the morning at his usual time, but he looked ill and worn, as if he had aged years in that one night. Neither of us mentioned the letter, then or at any subsequent time, but he has never been the same man since. And the letter, you never saw it, Morrow asked eagerly. His detective instinct now thoroughly aroused. You don't know what that envelope postmarked Brooklyn contained? Oh! But I do, Emily exclaimed. Father had thrust it in the stove, but the fire had gone out without his noticing it. I found it the next morning, when I raked down the ashes. You read it? Morrow carefully steadied his voice. No, she shook her head with a faint smile. That's the queer part of it. No one could have read it. No one who did not hold the key to it, I mean. It was written in some secret code, or cipher, with oddly shaped figures instead of letters, dots and cubes and triangles. I never saw anything like it before. I couldn't understand why any one should send such a funny message to my father instead of writing it out properly. What did you do with the letter? Did you destroy it? This time the detective made no effort to control the eagerness in his tones, but the girl was so absorbed in her problem that she was oblivious to all else. I suppose I should have, but I didn't. I knew that it was what my father had intended, yet somehow I felt that it might prove useful in the future, that I might even be helping father by keeping it against his own judgment. The envelope was partially scorched by the hot ashes, but the inside sheet remained untouched. I hid the letter behind the mirror on my dresser, and sometimes when I have been quite alone I took it out and tried to solve it, but I couldn't. I never was good at puzzles when I was little, and I suppose I lacked that deductive quality now. I was ashamed, too. It seemed so like prying into things which didn't concern me, which my father didn't wish me to know. Still I was only doing it to try to help him. Maro winced, and drew a long breath. Then resolutely he plunged into the task before him. Emily, don't think I want to pry, either, but if I am to help you I must see that letter. If you trust me and believe in my friendship, let me see it. Perhaps I may be able to discover the key in the first word or two, and then you can decipher it for yourself. You understand. I don't wish you to show it to me, unless you really have confidence in me, unless you are sure that there is nothing in it which one who has your welfare and peace of mind at heart should not see. He waited for her reply with a suffocating feeling as if a hand were clutching at his throat, a hot wave of shame, a fierce repugnance and self-contempt at the role he was forced to play, surged up within him, but he could not go back now. The die was cast. She looked at him, a long searching look, her childlike eyes dark with troubled indecision. At length they cleared slowly, and she smiled, a faint pathetic smile, which rung his heart. Then she rose without a word and left the room. It seemed to him that an interminable period of time passed, before he heard her light returning footsteps descending the stairs. A wild desire to flee assailed him, to efface himself, before her innocent confidence was betrayed. Emily Brinnell came straight to him and placed the letter in his hands. There can be nothing in this letter which could harm my father if all the world read it, she said simply. He is good and true. He has not an enemy on earth. It can be only a private business communication at the most. My father's life is an open book. No discredit could come to him, yet if there was anything in the cryptic message written here which others, not knowing him as I do, might misjudge, I am not afraid that you will. You see, I do believe in your friendship, Mr. Morrow. I am proving my faith in you. CHAPTER XII. It was a haggard, heavy-eyed young man, who presented himself at Henry Blaine's office early the next morning with his report. The detective made no comment upon his subordinates changed appearance and manner, but eyed him keenly, as with dogged determination Guy Morrow told his story through to the end. The letter, the cipher letter, Blaine demanded curtly when the operative paused at length. You have it with you? Morrow drew a deep breath and unconsciously he squared his shoulders. No, sir, he responded. His voice significantly steady and controlled. Where is it? I gave it back to her, to Miss Brinnell. What? Then you solved it? The detective leaned forward suddenly. The level gaze from beneath his clothes-drawn brows seemed to pierce the younger man's impassivity. No, sir. It was a cryptogram, of course, an arrangement of cabalistic signs instead of letters, but I could make nothing of it. The message, whatever it is, would take hours of careful study to decipher, and even then, without the key, one might fail. I have seen nothing quite like it in all my experience. And you gave it back to her, Blaine exclaimed, with well simulated incredulity. You actually had the letter in your hands and relinquished it? In Heaven's name, why? Miss Brinnell had shown it to me in confidence. It was her property, and she trusted me. Since I was unable to aid her in solving it, I returned it to her. The chances are that it is, as she said, a matter of private business between her father and another man, and it is probably entirely dissociated from this investigation. You are not paid, Morrow, to form opinions of your own, or decide the ethics, social, or moral of a case you are put on. You are paid to obey instructions, collect data, and obtain whatever evidence there may be. Remember that—confidence or no confidence, girl or no girl. You go back and get that letter. I don't care what means you use, short of actual murder. That cipher's got to be in my hands before midnight. Understand? Yes, sir, I understand. Morrow rose slowly and faced his chief. I'm sorry, but I cannot do it. You can't. That's the first time I ever heard that word from your lips, Guy. Henry Blaine shook his head sadly, affecting not to notice his operatives' rising emotion. I mean that I won't, sir. I'm sorry to appear insubordinate, but I've got to refuse. I simply must. I've never shirked a duty before, as I think you will admit, Mr. Blaine. I have always carried out the missions you entrusted to me to the best of my ability, no matter what the odds against me, and in this case I have gone ahead conscientiously up to the present moment, but I won't proceed with it any further. What are you afraid of, Jimmy Brinnell? Asked the detective significantly. The insult brought a deep flush to Morrow's cheek, but he controlled himself. No, sir, he responded quietly. I'm not going to betray the trust that the girl has reposed in me. How about the trust another girl has placed in me, and through me in you? Henry Blaine rose also and gazed levelly into his operatives' eyes. What of Anita Lawton? Have you considered her? I ought to dismiss you, Guy, at this moment. And I would, if it were anyone else. But I can allow you to fly off on a tangent, and ruin your whole career. Why should you put this girl, Emily Brinnell, before everything in the world, your duty to Miss Lawton, to me, to yourself? She trusted me, returned Morrow with grim persistence. So did Henrietta Goodwin in the case of Mrs. Der Wenter's diamonds. So did the little manicure in the Verdun Blackmail affair. So did Ann Richardson in the Balazi kidnaping mystery. You made love to all of them and got their confessions. And if your scruples and remorse kept you awake nights afterward, you certainly didn't show any effect of it. What difference does it make in this case? Just this difference, Mr. Blaine. Morrow's words came with a rush, as if he was glad, now that the issue had been raised, to meet it squarely. I love Emily Brinnell. Whatever her father is, or has done, she is guiltless of any complicity, and I can't stand by and see her suffer. Much less be the one to precipitate her grief by bringing her father to justice. I told you the truth when I said that the cipher letter was an enigma to me. I could not solve the cryptogram, nor will I be the means of bringing it to the hands of those who might solve it. I don't want any further connection with the case. In fact, sir, I want to get out of the sluice game altogether. It's a dirty business at best, and it leaves a bad taste in one's mouth, and many a black spot in one's memory. I realize how petty and sordid and treacherous, and generally despicable the whole game is, and I'm through. Through. Henry Blaine smiled his quiet, slow, illuminating smile, and walking around the table, laid his hand on Maro's shoulder. Why, boy, you haven't even commenced. Detective work is petty, you said. Petty because we take every case, no matter how insignificant, if it can right a wrong. You call our profession sordid, because we accept pay for the work of our brains and bodies. Why should we not? Are we treacherous because we meet malfactors and fight them with their own weapons? And what is there that is generally despicable about a calling which betters mankind, which protects the innocent, and brings the guilty to justice? Maro shook his head slowly as if incapable of speech, but it was evident that he was listening, and Blaine, after a moment's pause, followed up his advantage. You said that you love Miss Bernal Guy, and because of that you will have nothing further to do with an investigation which points primarily to her father as an accomplice in the crime. Do you realize, that if you throw over the case now, I shall be compelled to put another operative on the trail, with all the information at his disposal which you have detailed to me? You may be sure, the man I have in mind will have no sentimental scruples against pushing the matter to the end, without regard for the cost to either Jimmy Bernal or his daughter, naturally, being in love with the girl, her interests are paramount with you. I too desire heartily to do nothing to cause her anxiety or grief. Remember that I have daughters of my own. As I have told you, I firmly believe that the old forger is merely a helpless tool in this affair, but my duty demands that I obtain the whole truth. If you repeat the case now, give up your career, and go to work single-handed to attempt to protect her and her father by thwarting my investigation, you will be doing her the greatest injury in your power. The only way to help them both is to do all that you can to discover the real facts in the case, when we have succeeded in that. We shall undoubtedly find a way to shield old Jimmy from the brunt of the blame. Don't forget the big interest. Political and municipal at work in this conspiracy, they would not hesitate to try to make the old offender a scapegoat, and you know what sort of treatment he would receive in the hands of the police. Play the game, guy. Stick to the job. I'm not asking this of you for my own investigation. I have a dozen, a score of operatives, who could each handle the branch you are working up just as well as you. I ask it for the sake of your career, for the girl herself and her father. I tell you, that instead of incriminating old Jimmy, you may be the means of ultimately saving him. Go back to Emily Brinnell now, get that letter from her by Hook or Crook, and bring it to me. The detective paused at length and waited for his answer. It was long and coming. Guy Morrow stood leaning against his desk, his brows drawn down in a troubled frown, plain watch the outward signs of his mental struggle warily, but made no further plea. At last the young operative raised his head, his eyes clear and resolute, and held out his hand. I will, sir. Thank you for giving me another chance. I do love the girl, and I want to help her more than anything else in the world, but I'll play the game fairly. You are right, of course. I can be of more assistance to her on the inside than working in the dark, and it would be better for everyone concerned if the truth could be brought to light. I'll get the letter, and bring it to you to-night. Morrow was waiting at the foot of the subway stairs that evening when Emily appeared. The crisp, cold air had brought a brilliant flush to her usually pale cheeks, and her sparkling eyes softened with tender surprise and happiness when they rested on him. He thought that she had never appeared more lovely, and as they started homeward his hand tightened upon her arm with an air of unconscious possession and pride which she did not resent. May I come over after supper, he asked softly as they paused at her gate. I have something to tell you, to ask you. Won't you come in and have supper with me? She suggested shyly. Caliban and I will be all alone. My father will not be home until late to-night. He telephoned to me at the club and told me that he had closed the shop for the day and gone down town on business. A shadow crossed her face as she spoke, the faint shadow of hidden trouble which he had noticed before. It was an auspicious moment, and Morrow seized upon it. I will gladly, if you will, let me wash the dishes," he replied with alacrity. We will do them together. The brightness which but an instant before had been blotted from her face returned in a warm glow, and side by side they entered the door. With Caliban, the black kitten upon his knees, Morrow watched as she moved deftly about the cheerful spotless kitchen, preparing the simple meal. He made no mention of the subject which lay nearest his heart and mind, and they chattered as gaily and irresponsibly as children. But when supper was over, and they settled themselves in the little sitting-room, a curious constraint fell upon them both. She sat stroking the kitten, which had curled up beside her, while he gazed absently at the rosy gleam of the glowing coals behind the eyes and glass door of the little stove, and for a long time there was silence between them. At length he turned to her and spoke. Emily, he began, I told you out there by your gate to-night, that I had something to ask of you, something to tell you. I want to tell you now, but I don't know how to begin. It's something I've never told any girl before. Her hands paused, resting with sudden tenseness upon Caliban's soft fur, and slowly she averted her face from him. He swallowed hard, and then the words came in a swift, tender rush. Dear, I love you. I've loved you from the moment I first saw you coming down the street. You—you know nothing of me, save the little I have told you, and I came here as a stranger. Someday I will tell you everything, and you will understand. You and your father admitted me to your friendship, made me welcome in your home, and I shall never forget it. It may be that some time I shall be able to be of service to you, but remember that whatever happens, no matter how you reply to me now, I shall never forget your goodness to me, and I shall try to repay it. I love you with all my heart and soul. I want you to be my wife, dear. I never knew before that such love could exist in the world. You have your father, I know, but oh, I want to protect you and care for you, and keep all harm from you, for ever. Guy—her voice was a mere breathless whisper, and her eyes blurred with sudden tears, but he slipped his arm about her and drew her close. Emily, won't you look at me, dear? Won't you tell me that you care too, that at least there's a chance for me? If I have spoken too soon, I will await patiently and serve you as Jacob served for Rebecca of old. Only tell me that you will try to care, and there is nothing on this earth I cannot do for you. Nothing I will not do. Oh, my darling, say that you care just a little. There was a pause, and then very softly a warm arm stole about his neck, and a strand of rippling brown hair brushed his cheek lightly, as her gentle head drooped against his shoulder. I—I do care now," she whispered. I knew that I cared when you went away. The moments lengthened into an hour or more, while Mauro in the thrall of his exalted mood forgot for the second time in the girl's sweet presence his battle between love and duty. Forgot the reason for his coming, the mission he was bound to fulfill, the letter he had promised his employer to obtain. For many minutes Guy Mauro and Emily forgot all else, but the new found happiness of the love they had just confessed for each other. Mauro had even forgotten that most important letter which, after many misgivings, he had solemnly promised his employer to obtain from Emily. It was a phrase which fell from her own lips that recalled him to the stern reality of the situation. My father, she exclaimed, starting from Mauro's arms in sudden confusion. What do you suppose father will say? We will tell him when he returns. Mauro spoke with reassuring confidence, but a swift feeling of apprehension came over him. What indeed would Jimmy Brunel say? The thought of lying to Emily's father was repugnant beyond expression, and yet what account could he give of himself, of his profession and earlier career? What credentials? What proof of his integrity and clean, honest life could he present to the man whose daughter he sought to marry? At the first hint of detective, the old forger would inevitably suspect his motive and turn him from the house, forbidding Emily to speak or even to look upon him again. There was an alternative, and although he shrank from it as unworthy of her faith and trusted him, Mauro was forced to accept it as the only practicable solution to the problem confronting him. Oh, no, don't let us tell him, yet, unconsciously Emily smooths the way for him. I don't mean to deceive him, of course, or keep anything from him which is really necessary that he know it once, but it seems too wonderful to discuss, even with father, just now. It is like a fairy promise, like moonshine, which would be dispelled if we breathed a word of it to any one. Of course, dearest, if that is your wish, we will say nothing now. He returned slowly. In his heart a fierce wave of self-contempt at his own hypocrisy surged up once more, but he forced it doggedly down. He had promised his chief to play the game, and after all it was for the sake of the girl beside him that he might be able, when the inevitable moment of disclosure came, to be of real service to her and her unfortunate father, and to shield her from the brunt of the blow. I should not like your father to think that we deceived him, but perhaps it would be as well if we kept our secret for a little time. Later, when I have succeeded in landing a good permanent position with a prospect of advancement, I can go to him with greater assurance and ask him for you. Poor father, sighed Emily, with a wistful, tremulous little smile. We have been inseparable ever since I can remember. He has lived only for me, and I cannot bear to think of leaving him, especially now, when he seems weighted down with some secret anxiety, which he will share with no one, not even me. I feel that he needs me more than ever before. It rings my heart-guy to see him age before my very eyes, and to know that he will not confide in me. I may not help him. He seems to lean upon me, upon my presence near him, as if somehow I gave him strength. Although he maintains a steadfast silence, his eyes never leave me, and such a sad, hungry expression comes into them sometimes, almost as if he were going away from me forever, as if he were trying to say farewell to me, that I have to turn away and hide my tears from him. Poor little girl, it must make you terribly unhappy! Moral paused, and then added, as if in afterthought, perhaps when we tell your father that we care for each other, that when I have proved myself, you are going to be my wife, he may confide in me, that is, if he is willing to give you to me. You know, dear, it is sometimes easier for a man to talk to another of his private worries, than to a woman, even the one nearest and dearest to him in the whole world. I may possibly be of assistance to him. You told me last night that the change in him had been coming on gradually for several months. When did it first occur to you that he was in trouble? I don't know. I can't remember. You see, I didn't realize it until that letter came, and then I began to think back, and the significance of little things which I had not noticed particularly when they occurred, was borne in upon me. Although I have no reason for connecting the two happenings beyond the fact that they coincided, I cannot help feeling that Mr. Penhold, the young man whom you have observed when he called to see my father, has something to do with the state of things, for it was with his very first appearance, more than two years ago, that my father became a changed man. Tell me about it. Moral urge gently. Can you remember, dear, when he first came? Oh, yes! We have so few visitors. Father doesn't as a rule encourage new acquaintances. You know, Guy, although he did seem to like you from the very beginning, that the reception of a perfect stranger into our home as a constant caller puzzled me. It occurred on a Sunday afternoon in summer. I was sitting on the porch reading. When a strange young man came up the path from the gate and asked to see my father, I called to him. He was weeding the flower bed around the corner of the house, and when he came I went up to my room, leaving them alone together. I didn't go, though, until I had seen their meeting, and one thing about it seemed strange to me. Even then, the stranger, Mr. Penald, evidently did not know my father, had never even seen him before, from the way he greeted him. But when father first caught sight of his face, his own went deathly white, and he gripped the porch railing for a moment as if for support. You wish to see me, he said, and his voice sounded queer and hollow and dazed, like a person awaking from sleep. What can I do for you? This is Mr. James Bernal, the young man asked. You are a map-maker, I understand. I have come to ask for your estimate on a large contract for wall-maps, for suburban schools. If you can spare half an hour, we can talk it over now, sir, in private. I have a letter of introduction to you from an old acquaintance. My name is Penald. I know. My father smiled as he spoke, an odd, slow smile which somehow held no mirth or welcome. I noted the family resemblance at once. A relative of yours was at one time associated with me in business. The young man laughed shortly. You mean my uncle, I guess. He's retired now. Well, Mr. Bernal, shall we get to business? I left them then, and when I came downstairs from my room, the young man had gone. Father was standing in the window over there, with a letter crushed in his hand. He turned when I spoke to him, and oh, guy, if you had seen his face at that moment, I almost cried out in fear. It was like one of the terrible despairing faces in Dante's description of the inferno. He looked at me blankly, as if he scarcely recognized me, then gradually that awful expression was blotted out, and his old, sweet, sunny smile took its place. Well, little girl, he said, our Sunday together was spoiled, wasn't it, by that young fellow's intrusion. Not spoiled, I replied, if he brought you work. The smile faded from Father's face, and he responded very gravely. With a curious, halting pause between the words, yes, he brought me work. I forgot all about that episode. In the weeks and months which followed, Charlie Pennell called irregularly. Sometimes he would come three or four times a week. Then again we would not see him for two or three months. Father was busier than ever in the shop, and Charlie Pennell's orders must have been very profitable, for we've had more money in the last two years than ever before that I can remember. And yet Father has been melancholy and morose at times, as if he were brooding over something, and his disposition has changed steadily for the worse, although in the last few months the difference in his moods has become more marked. Then when that letter came he seemed to give himself wholly up to whatever it is which has obsessed him. Emily, will you let me see the letter again? Morrow asked suddenly, if you really care for me, and will be my wife some day, your troubles and vexations are mine. I want you to let me take the letter home with me tonight. I feel that if I can study it for a few hours undisturbed, I shall be able to read the cipher. I'll promise, dear, to bring it back the very first thing in the morning. Of course you may have it, Guy. The young girl rose impulsively, and went to the little desk in the corner. I hid it last night after you had gone, among some old receipts. Here it is. You need not return it to Morrow. Keep it for several days, if you like, until you have studied it thoroughly. I don't see how you or anyone could solve it without possessing the key, but I should feel as if a load were taken off my shoulders, if you will try. She gave him the letter, and after a long, tender farewell he took his departure. Going straight to his room at Mrs. Quinlan's he lighted the lamp, so of Emily chance to look over the way she would fancy him at work upon the cryptogram. Morrow waited until the little house opposite was plunged in darkness. Then very stealthily he crept down the stairs and let himself out. The precious letter carefully tucked into an inside pocket. Morrow proceeded at once to Blaine's office, and found his chief awaiting him. Here is the letter, sir, he announced, as he placed a single sheet of paper on the desk before the detective. I can't make anything out of it, but you probably will. It's curious, isn't it? Why, for instance, are some of those little dots placed near some of the crazy figures, and not others? Blaine picked the letter up and examined it with eager interest. It's comparatively simple, he remarked, as he spread it flat upon the desk, and taking up pen and paper copied it rapidly. Symbolic cryptograms are usually decipherable, with the expenditure of a little time and effort. There is a method which is universally followed and has been for ages. For instance, the letter E is recognized as being the most frequently used in ordinary English of the whole alphabet. So that the vowels and consonants in an accepted rotation, which I will not take up our valuable time in discussing with you now, since we will not even need to use it in this case. Here, take this copy, and see if you can follow me. He passed the sheet of paper across to his operative, and Morrow gazed again upon the curiously shaped characters which from close scrutiny had become familiar, yet still remained maddeningly baffling to him. Vow, resumed Blaine, presupposing that in an ostensibly friendly message beginning with a word of four letters, that word is dear, and we have two important vowels to start with. We know the letter was addressed to Brinell from an old partner in crime. We will assume, therefore, that the two words of three letters each, following dear, are either old Jim, old man, or old boy. Let us see how it works out. The detective scribbled hastily on a pad for several minutes, and leaned back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. It can only be boy, he announced. That gives us a working start of eight letters. Add to that the fact that this character is printed twice consecutively in three different places. He pointed to the figure, left bracket period, as he spoke, which confirms the supposition that it is L, and you have this result immediately. Blaine handed the pad across to Morrow, who read eagerly, Y-O, blank, blank, O, R, blank, blank, blank, blank, L-L, blank, A-L-L, O blank, Y-O blank, blank, blank, blank, R, blank, D-A-Y, A blank, blank, O, blank, R, blank, E, blank, period. The operative started to speak, but checked himself, and listened while Henry Blaine went on slowly but steadily. Each letter gained helps us to others you see, guy. For instance, blank, O, blank, E-Y must be money. The character following Y-O three times in different places must be you. The word blank, blank, blank, blank, R, blank, day can only be Thursday. Blank A-L-L is call, A blank is at, and blank, O, blank, R is four. That gives us eight more letters and makes the message read like this. Blaine wrote it down and handed the result to Morrow, who read, dear old boy, B, blank, blank, money, C-O-M, blank, and blank, to you from old score, left, U-N, blank, A, blank, D, blank, H-A-T, blank, S, my share for collect, blank, N, blank, for you, no R-I-S, blank, blank, blank, L-L, call on you Thursday at four, blank, E-N. It looks easy now, admitted Morrow, but I never should have thought of going about it that way. I suppose the sixth word is coming. That gives us I and G. Right you are, Blaine chuckled. Knowing too that the message came from Walter Penhold, we can safely assume that blankie N is pen. Use your common sense alone now and you will find that the message reads, dear old boy, big money coming to you from old score, left unpaid, what is my share for collecting for you, no risk, we'll call on you Thursday at four, pen. The word risk was misspelled, R-I-S-L. Evidently Penhold was a little bit rusty in the use of the old code. Our bait landed the fish all right, guy. The money we planted in the Bank of Brooklyn and Queens certainly brought results. No wonder Pearl Jimmy Bernal was all broken up when he received such a message. More crafty than Penhold, he realized that it was a trap, and we were on his trail at last. We've got him cinched now, but he's only a tool, possibly a helpless one, in the hands of the master-workmen. We'll go after them, tooth and nail, for the happiness and stainless name of two innocent young girls who trust in us. And we'll get them, guy. We'll get them if there is any justice and honor and truth left in the world. CHAPTER XIII. With the last instructions of his chief ringing in his ears, the following morning Guy Morrow set out for Brooklyn to interview his erstwhile friends, the Penholds, in his true colors. Main Penhold, who was cleaning the dingy front room, heard the click of the gate and peered with habitual caution from behind the frayed curtains of the window. The unexpected reappearance of their young banking acquaintance sent her scurrying as fast as her palsy legs could carry her back to the kitchen, where her husband sat luxuriously smoking and toasting his feet at the roaring little stove. Wally, who do you think's coming up the walk? The young feller, Alfred Hicks, who skipped from the Brooklyn and Queens Bank. Good Lord! Walter Penhold took his pipe from his lips and stared at her. What do you suppose brought him back? Think he's broke and wants a touch? No, his wife responded somewhat doubtfully. He looked prosperous all right by the flash I got at him and his walk in real brisk and business-like. Maybe he's back on the job. Tain lightly, not after the way he left his board in place, if that Lindsay woman didn't lie. Penhold laid aside his pipe and frowned thoughtfully, as steps echoed from the rickety porch and a knock sounded upon the door. He's a lightweight, every way you take him. He'd never stick anywhere. Maybe he's come to try to get you into something, ma'am suggested. Don't you go taking up with a bad penny at your time of life, Wally. He might know something and try blackmail if he's real up against it. Well, go ahead and open the door, ordered Walter impatiently. We're straight with the bank. If he's working there again, we ain't got nothing to worry about. And if he ain't, we got nothing against him. Let him in. With obvious reluctance, ma'am shuffled through the hall and obeyed. Hello, Mrs. Penhold. Guy greeted her heartily, but without offering his hand. He brushed past her half-defensive figure with scant ceremony and entered the kitchen. Hello, Penhold. Thought I might find you home this cold morning. How goes it? Same as usual. Penhold rose slowly and looked at his visitor with swiftly narrowed eyes. There was a new note in the young man's voice, which the other vaguely recognized. It was as if a lantern had suddenly flashed into his face from the darkness, or an authoritative hand had been laid upon his shoulder. He motioned mechanically toward a chair on the other side of the stove, and added slowly, Brice to see you, Al. Didn't expect you'd be around here again after your getaway. Working once more? Oh, I'm right on the job! responded Guy briskly. He drew the chair close to the square deal-table, so close that he could have reached out had he pleased, and touched his host's sleeve. Penhold seated himself again in his old position, significantly half-turned, so that when he glanced slightly at his visitor, it was over his shoulder, in the furtive fashion of one on guard. Ain't back with the Brooklyn Queens, are ya? He asked. No, it got too slow for me there. I found something bigger to do. Main Penhold, who had been hovering in the background, came forward now, and faced him across the table. Her shrewd eyes fastened upon him. Must have easy hours when you can get off in the morning like this, she observed. Didn't forget your old friends, did ya? No, of course not. I hadn't anything more important to do this morning, so I thought I'd drop in and see you both. His hand travelled to his breast pocket, and at the gesture, Main's gaunt body stiffened suddenly. Didn't come to acquire about our health, did ya? She shot at him acrimoniously. I came to see you about another matter. Not on the trail of Jimmy Bernel still, on that business of the bonds found at the bank. Walter's voice was suddenly shrill, with simulated mirth. There's nothing in that for you, Al. Not a nickel, if that's what you're here for. I'm not on Bernel's trail. I found him, moreover turned quietly, and in the tense pause which ensued he added dryly. You led me to him. So that's what it was, a plant. Walter started from his chair, but Main laid a trembling, sinewy hand on his shoulder and forced him back. What do ya mean, young man? She demanded. What do we know of old Bernel? You wrote him a letter. You knew where to find him. I only wish we did, she ejaculated. We didn't write him. You must be crazy. Big money coming to you from old score left unpaid. What is my share for collecting for you? Quoted Morrow, adding. I have a friend who is very much interested in ciphers, and he wanted me to ask you about the one you use, Penelde. His name is Blaine, ever hear of him? Blaine? Main's voice shrank to a mere whisper, and her sallow face whitened. Blaine? Henry Blaine? The guy they call the mastermind? Penelde's shaking voice rose to a breaking cry, but again his wife silenced him. Suppose we did write such a letter, and we ain't admitting we did for a minute. What's Blaine got on us? Demanded Main Cooley. It's no crime, as I ever heard, to write a letter any way you want to. Who are you, young man? You are no bank clerk. He's a tech, of course. Shoulda be a full-mouth maim. And as for you, damn you, get out of this house and get out quick, or I'll call the police myself. We've been leading straight, clean, respectable lives for years, maiming me. And nobody's got nothing on us. I ain't gonna have no private tech snooping in and trying to put me through the third degree. Beat it, now. He rose blusteringly and advanced toward Morrow with upraised fist, but the other, with the table between them, drew from his pocket a folded paper. Not so fast, Penald. I have a warrant here for your arrest. Don't you believe him, Wally? Shrilled maim. It's a fake. Don't you talk to him. Put him out. The warrant was issued this morning, and I am empowered to arrest you. You can look at it for yourselves. You've both seen them before. He opened the paper and spread it out for them to read. Walter Penald, Alias Walter Perry, Alias Wally the Scribbler, number 09203 in the Rogues Gallery, first term at Joliette for forgery, second at Sing Sing for Shoven the Queer. This warrant only holds you as a suspicious character, Penald. But we can dig up plenty of other things if it's necessary. There's a forger named Griswold in the tombs now, a waitin' trial, who will snitch about that Rochester check for one thing. Don't let him bluff you, Wally. Maim faced Morrow from her husband's side. They can't rake up a thing that ain't outlawed by time. You've lived clean for more than seven years, and you're free from the bulls. They can't hold you. I haven't any warrant yet for you, Mrs. Penald, observed Morrow imperturbably. I admit that it's more than seven years since every department store detective was on the lookout for left-handed maim. I believe you specialized in furs and laces, didn't you? What's in it to you? You can't lay a finger on me now, the woman stormed defiantly. Not for shoplifting or forgery, but how about receiving stolen goods? The shot found an instant target. Walter Penald slumped and crumpled down into his chair, his arms outspread upon the table. He laid his head upon them, and a single, dry, shuttering sob tore its way from his throat. The woman backed slowly away. For the first time, a shadow as of approaching terror crossed her hard, challenging face. Stolen goods, she repeated. What are you trying to put over? Do you think we're so green at the game that you can plant the goods here and get us put away on the strength of a past record? You're a... Nothing like it. Morrow leaned forward impressively. We don't have to do any planting, ma'am. It's a good deal less than seven years since the Mortimer chases Silverplate lay in your cellar. Silverplate in our cellar? Echoed ma'am in genuine amazement. She stepped forward again. Her shrewish chin outthrust, but Walter Penald raised his face, and at sight of it, she stopped as it turned to stone. It's no use. He cried brokenly. They've got me, ma'am. Got you, they'll never get you. Her startled scream rang out. Wally, do you know what the next term means? It's a lifer on any count. I don't know what he means about any Silverplate, but it's a bluff. Don't let him get your nerve. Is it a bluff, Penald? Asked Morrow with dominant insistence. The broken figure huddled in the chair shuddered uncontrollably. No, it ain't. He muttered, I held out on you, ma'am. I knew you wouldn't risk it, so I didn't say nothing unto you about it, but the money was too easy to let it get by. The old gang offered me five hundred bucks just to keep it ten days and pass it on to Jennings. He came here with a rag picker's cart, you remember? You wondered what I was giving him, and I told you it was some rolls of old carpet I got from that place I was night watchman at in Vanderwater Street. I hid the stuff under the coal. Shut up! cried ma'am fiercely. You don't know what you're saying, Wally. Hold your tongue for God's sake. Where's your spirit? Are you going to break down now? Like a reformatory brat? You that had him all guessing for twenty years? The gaunt woman had recovered from the sudden shock of her husband's unexpected revelation, and now towered protectingly over his collapsed form, her pulsed hands for once steady and firm upon his shoulders, while her keen eyes glittered shrewdly at the young operative confronting them. Look here, she said shortly, if you wanted us for receiving stolen goods, you wouldn't come round here with a warrant for Wally's arrest as a suspicious character, and you wouldn't have worked that Bernal plant. What's your lay? Information," responded Moro frankly. The police don't know where the plate was for those ten days, and there is no immediate need that they should. Blaine cleaned up that case eventually, you know, recovered the plate and caught the butler in Southampton under the noses of the Scotland Yardmen. I want to know what you can tell me about Bernal, and about your nephew, Charlie Penald. Walter opened his lips, but closed them without speech, and his wife replied for him. We are no snitchers, she said coldly. There's nothing we can tell. Jimmy Bernal's run straight for nearly twenty years so far as we know. And Charlie, persisted Moro? It's no use, maim. Walter Penald repeated dully, if I go up again, it means the end for me. Charlie's gotta take his chance, same as the rest of us. God knows I tried to do the right thing by the boy, same as Jimmy did by his daughter, but Charlie's got the blood in him. It's hell, the peach on your own, but it's worse to hear that iron door clank behind you and to know it's for the last time. After all, there ain't nothing in what we can tell about Charlie that a lot of other people wouldn't spill and nothing that could land in behind the bars. I ain't the man I was, or I take my medicine without squealing, but I can't face it again, maim. I can't. I'm an old man now, old before my time, perhaps, but it's been so long since I smelled the prison taint, so long since I had a number instead of a name that I'd die now, quick, before I'd rot in a cell. The terrible droning monotone ceased and for a moment there was silence in the squalid little room. The woman's face was as impassive as Maro's, as she waited, only the tightening of her hands upon her husband's shoulders until her bony knuckles showed white through the drawn skin, betrayed the storm of emotion which swept over her at the memories evoked by the broken words. I'm not asking you to snitch-penald, Maro said, not unkindly. We know all we want about Brunel's life at present, his home in the Bronx, and his little map-making shop, and we're not trying to rake up anything from the past to hold him over now. It is only some general information I want. As to your nephew, you've got to tell me all you know about him, or it's all up with you. Blaine will give you away if you'll answer my questions, frankly, and make a clean breast of it, and this is your only chance. Penald licked his dry lips. What do you want to know? He asked at last. When did Jimmy Brunel turn his last trick? Years ago, I've forgotten how many. It's no harm speaking of it now. For he did his seven years up the river for it, his first and only conviction. That was the time old Copperthwaite's name was forged to five checks, a mountain to 30,000, all told, and Jimmy was caught on the last. Where was his plant? In a basement on Dye Street, the Bulls never found it. He was run on a little printer shop in front as a blind. Oh, he was clever, old Jimmy, the sharpest in his line. What became of his outfit when he was sent up? Dunno, it just disappeared. Some of his old pals cribbed it, I guess. Or Jimmy might have fixed it with them to remove it. He was always closed mouth, and he never would tell me. I knew where his plant was, of course, and I went there myself after he was sent up. And the coast was clear to get the outfit, too, to take care of it for him till he came out. Oh, I ain't afraid to tell now. It's so long ago. I could take you to the place today, but the outfit's gone. And when he had served his term, what happened? He came out to find that his wife was dead, and Emily, the little girl that was born just after he went up, was none too well treated by the people her mother had to leave her with. He learned in the pen to make maps, and he'd opened a little shop and made up his mind to live straight. And, and so far as I know, he has. Penelte faltered, as if from weakness, and for a moment his voice ceased. Then he went on. I ain't seen him for a long time, but we kept track of each other. And when you come with that cock-and-bull story about the bonds, and the bank backed you up and ate why I, I went to see him. You wrote him first. Why did you send a cipher letter? Because I suspicion the whole thing was a plant, just like it turned out to be, and I didn't want to get an old pal into no trouble. The cipher's an old one we used years ago, in the gang, and I knew he wouldn't forget it. I'd never thought he'd squeal on me to blame. He didn't. The letter, or came into Blaine's possession, and he read it for himself. He did? Penelte looked up quickly, with a flash of interest on his cell and face. He is a wonder of that, Blaine. If he'd only got started the other way, the way we did, what a crook he would have made. As it is, I guess we ain't afraid of all the organized police on earth combined, as much as we are him. It's a queer thing he ain't been shut up or blown into eternity long ago, and yet they say he's never guarded. He must be a cool one. Anyhow, I'm glad Jimmy didn't squeal on me. I'd hate to think it of him. When I went to see him about the bonds, he wouldn't have had nothing to do with him. Swore there was a plant he did, then warned me off. He seemed real excited, considering he had nothing to worry about, but I took his word for it and beat it. That's the last I seen of him. Did you send your nephew to him? Me? Penelte's tones quickened and surprised. I ain't seen him in a long while, and I don't believe he even remembers old Jimmy. He was only a kid when Jimmy went up the river. What would I send Charlie for, when I'd gone myself and it hadn't worked? It was evident tomorrow that the man he was interrogating was ignorant of Brunel's connection with the Lawton case, and he changed his tactics. Tell me about Charlie. You say you tried to do right by him? Of course I did. Wasn't he my brother's boy? Penelte hunched over the table and continued eagerly. Mame kept him clean and fed, and we sent him to public school, just like any other kid. But it wasn't no use. He had it in him to go wrong, without the wit to get away with it. He was caught pinchin' lead piping when he was sixteen and sent to Elmira for three years. Them three years was his finish. When he came out he'd had what you call a graduate course in every form of crookedness under the sun, from fellers harder and cleverer than he'd ever thought it'd be in, and he was bitter besides and desperate. There was no chance for him then, and he just drifted on down the line. I never heard of him turnin' a real trick himself, and he never got caught at nothin' again, but he'd chumbin' with the gang, and he always seemed to have coin enough. I ain't seen him in more than a year. The last I heard of him, he was workin' as a stool pigeon and snitcher for the worst scoundrel of the lot. Who was that? asked Morrow. Penel'd hesitated and then replied with dogged reluctance. I don't know what that's got to do with it, but the feller's name is Paddington, and he's the worst kind of crook, a tech gone wrong. At least that's what they say about him. But I ain't got nothin' on him. I don't believe I ever seen the man that I know of. He's worked on a lot of shady cases I know that much, and he's clever. More than a dozen crooks are floatin' round town that would be up the river if he told what he knew about him, so naturally he owns him, body and soul. Not that Charlie's one that'd go up. He's only in for the coin, but I'd rather see him get pinched and do time for pullin' off somethin' on his own account than runnin' around doin' dirty work for a man who ain't in his father's class or mine. He's a disgrace, that's what Charlie is, a plain disgrace. Penel's voice rang out in highly virtuous indignation, morrow forbore to smile at the oblique moral viewpoint of the old crook. What does he look like, he asked. Short and slim, isn't he, with a small dark mustache? That's him, ejaculated Penel disgustedly, dresses like a dude, and chases after a bunch of skirts. Spreads himself like a word politician when he gets a chance. He's my nephew, all right, but as long as he won't run straight, same as I'm doin' now, I'd rather he'd crack a crib than play errand boy for a man I wouldn't trust on lookout. Where does Charlie live, asked Morrow. How should I know? He hangs out at Lafferty Saloon down on Sand Street, when he ain't off on some other steer or other, least twice he used to. Morrow folded the warrant slowly, in the pause which ensued, and returned it to his pocket, while the couple watched him intensely. All right, Penel'd, he said at last. I guess I won't have to use this now. If you've been square and told me all you know, he won't be bothered about that matter of the Mortimer Chase silver plate. If you've kept anything back, Plain will find out, and then it's good night to you. I ain't, returned Penel'd with tremendous eagerness. I've told you everything you asked, and I don't savvy what you're gettin' at anyway. If you're tryin' to mix Jimmy Bernal up in any new case, you're dead wrong. He's out of the game for good. As for Charlie, he wouldn't know enough to pick up a pocketbook if he saw one lying on the sidewalk, lest he was told to. Well, I may as well warn both of you that you're watched, and if you try to make a getaway, you'll be takin' up, and it won't be on suspicion either. Play fair with Plain, and he'll be square with you, but don't try to put anything over on him, or it'll be the worst for you. It can't be done. Marrow closed the door behind him, leaving the couple as they had been almost throughout the interview. The woman erect and stony of face, the man miserable and shaken, crouched dejectedly over the table. But scarcely had he descended the steps of the ramshackle little porch, when the voice of main Penel'd reached him, pitched in a shrill key of emotional exultation. Oh, Wally! Wally! Thank God you ain't a snitcher! Thank God you didn't tell! The voice ceased suddenly, as if a hand had been laid across her lips, and after a moment's hesitation, Marrow swung off down the path, conscious of at least one pair of eyes watching him from behind the soiled curtains of the front room. What had the woman meant? Penel'd obviously had kept something back, but was it of sufficient importance to warrant his returning enforcing a confession? Whether it concerned Brunel or their nephew Charlie mattered little at the moment. He had achieved the object of his visit. He knew that Penel'd himself had no connection with the Lawton forgeries, nor knowledge of them, and at the same time he had learned of Charlie's affiliation with Paddington. The couple back there in the little house could tell him scarcely more which would aid him in his investigation, but the dapper viciously weak young stool pigeon, if he could be located at once, might be made to disclose enough to place Paddington definitely within the grasp of the law. Guy Marrow boarded a Sand Street car, and behind the sporting page of a newspaper he kept a sharp lookout for Lafferty's saloon. He came to it at last, a dingy, down-at-heel resort with much-faded guilt work over the door, and fly-spec posters of the latest social function of the district's political club, showing dimly behind its unwashed windows. He rode a block beyond, then alighting, turned back and entered the bar. It was deserted at that hour of the morning, save for a disconsolate-looking individual who leaned upon one ragged elbow, gazing mournfully into his empty whiskey glass at the end of the narrow, varnished counter. The bartender emerged from the door leading into the back room with a tall, empty glass in his hand, and Marrow asked for a beer. As he stood sipping it, he watched the bartender replenish the empty, unwashed glass he had carried with a generous drink of doubtful-looking absinthe and a squirt from a siphon. "'Bum-drink on a cold morning,' he observed tentatively, "'have a whiskey straight on me?' "'I will that,' the bartender returned heartily. "'This green-eyed fairy-stuff ain't for me. "'It's for a dame in the back room, one of the regulars. "'She's been hittin' it up all the morning, "'but it don't seem to affect her. "'Funny, too, for she ain't a boozer as a general thing. "'Her guy's gone back on her, and she's sore. "'I'll be with ya in a minute.' He vanished into the back room with the glass, and before he returned, the disconsolate individual had slunk out, leaving Marrow in sole possession. If this place was indeed the rendezvous of the gang of minor criminals with which Charlie Penald had allied himself, he had obviously come at the wrong time to obtain any information concerning him, unless the valuable bartender could be made to talk, and that would be a difficult matter. "'Look here,' Marrow decided on a bold move, as the bartender reappeared and placed a bottle of whiskey between them. He leaned forward, after a quick furtive glance about him, and spoke rapidly, with a disarming air of confidential frankness. "'I'm in an awful hole. "'I'm new at this game, and I've got to find a fellow "'I never saw, and find him quick. "'He hangs out here, and the big guy sent me for him.'" What big guy! The cordiality faded from the bartender's ruddy countenance, and he stepped back significantly. "'You know, Pad,' Marrow shot back on a desperate bluff. The fellow's name's Charlie Penald, and Pad wants him right away. He didn't tell me to ask you about him, but he made it pretty plain to me that he'd got to get him. "'Say,' the bartender approached cautiously. He rested one hand upon the counter, keeping the other well below it, but Marrow did not flinch. "'What's your allay?' "'Anything there's coin in,' replied the operative with a knowing leer. "'Anything from plant and divorce evidence to shoving the queer. "'I've been working for a pall of pads in St. Louis "'for three or four years. "'That's why I'm strange around here. "'Pads up in the air about something, "'and wants this Charlie boy right away, "'and he tells me to look here for him, "'and not come back without him, see? "'This is on the level. "'If you know where he is, "'be a good fellow and come across, will ya?' The bartender felt under the counter for the shelf, and then raised his hand empty toward the bottle. "'I guess you're all right,' he remarked. "'Anyway, I'll take a chance. "'What's your moniker?' "'Guy, the blinker, returned Marrow promptly. "'Guess you heard of me all right? "'I pulled off. "'Well, I haven't got time to chin now. "'I gotta find this boy if I want to keep him with pad, "'and there's coin in it.' "'For sure there is,' the bartender affirmed. "'But he's a queer one.' "'The big guy, as you call him. "'What's his game?' "'Why, only this morning, "'he tipped Charlie off to beat it, and Charlie did. "'Maybe he thinks the kids double-crossed him.' Marrow's heart leaped in sudden excitement at this astounding news, but he controlled himself and replied nonchalantly. "'Search me. "'He told me I'd find this Charlie boy here. "'That's all I know. "'He isn't talking for publication. "'Not pad.' "'You bet not,' the bartender nodded. "'Then he jerked a grimy thumb "'in the direction of the back room. "'Why, the dame in there, crying into her absinthe. "'Is Charlie's girl. "'She's a queen, straight as they make them. "'If she does work the shops now and then.' "'And Charlie was fixin' to hook up with her next month. "'Preture fashion, settle down. "'Now he gets to the office and skips without a word to her. "'And she's all broke up over it.' The door at the rear opened suddenly, and a girl stood upon the threshold. She was tall and slender, and her face showed traces of positive beauty, although it was bloated and distorted with weeping and dissipation, and her big black eyes glittered feverishly. "'What's that you've been sayin' about Charlie?' "'She demanded half hysterically. "'He's gone. He's left me. "'I don't believe Pad gave him the office, "'and if he did, Charlie's a fool to beat it. "'They've got nothin' on him. "'It's Pad, who's got to save his own skin.' "'Shut up, Annie.' "'Advised the bartender, not unkindly. "'Pad sent this here fellow for him now.' "'Then it was a lie, a lie. "'Pad didn't tell him to beat it. "'He's gone on his own account, gone for good. "'But I'll find him all.'" The girl suddenly burst into a storm of sobs and, turning, reeled back into the inner room. "'Yes, see?' The bartender observed confidentially, as the door swung shut behind her. "'She thinks he's gone off with another skirt. "'That's the way with women. "'I knew Pad had given him the office, though. "'I got it straight. "'You're right about Pad being up in the air. "'He must have bitten off more than he can chew this time. "'I heard Reddy Thosby talkin' to Gil Hennessey about it. "'Right where you're standin', not two hours ago. "'They're both Pad's men, met him yet?' Morrow shook his head, not trusting himself to speak, and the loquacious bartender went on. "'It was Reddy brought the word for Charlie to skip, "'and he dropped something about a raid "'on some plant up in the Bronx. "'Know anything about it?' For a moment, the rows of bottles on their shelves seemed to reel before Morrow's eyes, and his heart stood still, but he forced himself to reply. "'Oh, that? "'I know all about it, of course. "'Wasn't I in on the ground floor? "'But that's only a fake steer, "'this Charlie boy hasn't got anything to do with it "'that I know of. "'Maybe the big guy thought he hadn't got out of the way "'and sent me to find out. "'No use of my hangin' round here any longer, anyhow. "'I'll gamble back until Paddy's gone. "'Swell-dame that, Annie. "'Some queen, eh? "'Let's have one more drink, and I'll blow.'" With assurances of an early return, Morrow contrived to beat a retreat without arousing the suspicions of the bartender, but he went out into the pale, wintry sunlight with his brain a whirl. To his apprehensive mind, a raid on the plant in the Bronx could meet only one place, the little map-making shop of Jimmy Brunel. Something had happened in his absence. Someone had betrayed the old forger, and Emily, one of her. Morrow sped as fast as elevated in subway could carry him to the Bronx. Anxious as he was about the girl he loved, he did not go directly to the house on Meadow Lane, but made a detour to the little shop a few blocks away. Morrow's instinct had not misled him. Before he had approached within a hundred feet of the shop, he knew that his fears had been justified. The door swung idly open on its hinges, and the single window gave forth a vacant stare. Within, everything was in the wildest disorder. The table was served as a counter, the racks of maps, the high stool, the printing apparatus, all were overturned. The trapdoor leading into the cellar was open, and Morrow flung himself wildly down the sanded steps. The forger's outfit had disappeared. What had become of Jimmy Brunel? His purpose served, had patting him betrayed him to the police, or had some warning reached him to flee before it was too late? With mingled emotions of fear and dread, Morrow emerged from the little dismantled shop and made the best of his way to Meadow Lane. The Brunel cottage appeared much as usual as he neared it, and for an instant, hope served within him. Emily would be at the club, of course. If her father had been arrested or had succeeded in getting away safely alone, she would not know of it until she came back in the evening. He would wait for her, intercept her, and tell her the whole truth. Instead of entering his own lodgings, he crossed the road and paused at the Brunel's gate. Something forlorn and desolate in the atmosphere of the little home seemed to clutch at his heart, and on a swift impulse he strode up the path, ascended the steps of the porch, and peered in the window of the living room. Everything in the usually orderly room was topsy-turvy, and everywhere there was evidence of hurried flight. From where he stood, the desk, her desk, was plainly visible. Its ransacked drawers pulled open. The floor before it strewn with torn and scattered papers. Its top was bare, amid the surrounding litter, and even his photograph which he had recently given her, in which usually stood there in the little frame she had made for it with her own hands, was gone. A chill settled about his heart. Had Brunel been captured, and the police detective searched the house, his picture could hold no interest for them. Had the old forger fled alone, he would not have taken so insignificant an object from among all his household goods and chattels. Emily alone would have paused to save the photograph of the man she loved from the wreckage of her home. Emily, too, had gone. Scarcely knowing what he was doing and caring less, Morrow rushed across the street and descended upon Mrs. Quinlan, his landlady, at her post in the kitchen. What has happened to the Brunels? He demanded breathlessly. Land sakes, but you scared me, Mr. Morrow. Mrs. Quinlan turned from the stove with a hurried start, and wiped her plump, steaming face on her apron. I should like to know what's happened to myself. All I do know is that they've gone, bag and baggage, or as much of it as they could carry with them, and never a word to a soul, as would Emily ran across to say to me. What was it? He fairly shouted at her. But there were few interests in Mrs. Quinlan's humdrum existence, and seldom did she have an exciting incident to relate, and an eager audience to hang upon her words. She sat down ponderously, and prepared to make the most of the present occasion. I thought it was funny to see a man going into their yard at five o'clock this morning, but my tooth was so bad I forgot all about him, and it never came into my mind again until I seen him going away. I sleep in the room just over yours, you know, Mr. Morrow, and my tooth aches so bad I couldn't sleep. It was five by my clock when I got up to come down here to get some hot vinegar, and I don't know what made me look out my window, but I did. I seen a man come and running down the lane, keeping well in the shatters, and looking back as if you were afraid he was being chased for all the world like a thief. While I looked, he turned into the Brunel's yard, and instead of knocking on the door, he began throwing pebbles up at the old man's bedroom window. Pretty soon it opened, and Mr. Brunel looked out. Then he came down quick and met the man at the front door. They talked him in it, and the feller handed over something that looked white in the light of the street lamp like a piece of paper. Mr. Brunel shut the door, and the man run off the way he had come. I come down and got me hot vinegar, and when I dug back to my room I seen there were lights in Mr. Brunel's room, and Emily's, and one in the living room too, but my tooth was jumping so. I went straight to bed. About half an hour after he'd left for business, I was shaking our rug out in the front-sitting room window. When Emily came running across the street, oh Mrs. Quinlan, she calls to me, and I see she'd been crying. Mrs. Quinlan, we're going away. For good, I asked. Forever, she says. Will you give a message to Mr. Morrow for me, please? Tell him I'm sorry I was mistaken. I'm sorry to have found him out. She burst out crying again, and ran back as her father called her from the porch. He was bringing out a pile of suitcases and roll-ups, and pretty soon a taxi cab drove up with a man inside. I couldn't see his face, only his coat sleeve. They got in and went off kiting, and that's every last thing I know. What you supposed she meant about finding you out, Mr. Morrow? He turned away without reply and went to his room, where he sat for a long sunk in a stupor of misery. She had found out the truth before he could tell her. She knew him for what he was, knew his despicable errand in ingratiating himself into her friendship and out of her father. She believed that the real love he had professed for her had all been a mere part of the game he was playing, and now she had gone away forever. He would never see her again. By God, no! He cried aloud to himself in the bitterness of his sorrow. I will find her again. If I search the ends of the earth, she shall know the truth. End of CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIV of THE CREVICE by William J. Burns and Isabelle Ostrander. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. IN THE OPEN. Guy Morrow's resolve to find Emily Brunel at all costs stirred him from the apathy of despair into which he had fallen, and roused him to instant action. Leaving the house he went to the nearest telephone pay-station, where he could converse in comparative privacy, and called up Henry Blaine's office, only to discover that the master detective had departed upon some mission of his own, was not expected to return until the following morning, and had left no instructions for him. This unanticipated setback left Morrow without definite resource. As a forlorn hope he telephoned to the Anita Lawton Club, only to learn that Miss Brunel had sent in her resignation as secretary early that morning, but told nothing of her future plans, except that she was leaving town for an indefinite period. There was nothing more to be learned by another examination of the dismantled shop, and the young operative turned his steps reluctantly homeward. A sudden suspicion had formed itself in his mind that Blaine himself, and not the police, had been responsible for the raid on the Forger's Little Establishment, that Blaine had done this without taking him into his confidence, and was now purposely keeping out of his way. When the early winter does came, Guy could endure it no longer, but left the house. Drawn irresistibly by his thoughts he crossed the road again, and entering the Brunel's gate he strolled around the deserted cottage to the back. At the kitchen door a faint piteous sound made him pause. It was an insistent wailing cry from within, the disconsolate meowing of a frightened, lonely kitten. Caliban had been left behind, forgotten. Blaine's panic and haste must have been great indeed, to cause her to forsake the pet she had so tenderly loved. Much as he detested that spiteful little creature, he could not leave it to starve, for her sake. Mauro tried the kitchen door, but found it securely bolted from within. The catch on the pantry window was loose, however, and Mauro managed to pry it open with his jackknife. With a hasty glance about to see that he was not observed, he pushed up the window and clambered in, closing it cautiously after him. He stumbled through the semi-obscurity and gloom into the kitchen. Instantly the piteous cry ceased, and Caliban rose from the cold hearth and bounded gladly to him, purring and rubbing against his legs. Mechanically he stooped and stroked it, and then, after carefully pulling down the shades, he lighted the lamp upon the littered table and looked about him. Everything bore evidence, as had the living-room of a hasty exodus. The fire was extinguished in the range, and it was filled to the brim with flakes of light ashes. Evidently Brunel or his daughter had paused long enough in their flight to burn armfuls of old papers, possibly incriminating ones. On the table was the debris of a hasty meal. Mauro poured some milk from the pitcher into a saucer and placed it on the floor for the hungry kitten. Then, taking the lamp, he started on a tour of inspection through the house. Everywhere the wildest confusion and disorder reigned. Mauro turned aside from the door of Emily's room, but entered her father's. There, safe for a few articles of old clothing strewn about, he found comparative order and neatness. The simple toilet articles were in their places. The narrow bed, just as Jimmy Brunel had left it, when he sprang up to admit his nocturnal visitor. On the floor near the bureau on which the lamp stood, something white and crumpled met Mauro's eye. He stooped quickly and picked it up. It was a large, single sheet of paper, and as the operatives smoothed it out, he realized that it must be the message which had been hurriedly brought to Brunel in the early hour before the dawn. The paper had lain just where he had dropped it, crushed from his hand after reading the warning it contained. Mauro turned up the wick of his own lamp and stared curiously at the missive. The sheet of paper was ruled at intervals, the lines and interstices filled with curious hieroglyphics, and at first glance it appeared to the operatives' puzzled eyes to be a mere portion of a page of music. Then he observed that old figures in letters, totally foreign to the notes of a printed score, were interspersed between the rest, and moreover only the treble clef had been used. Oh, Lord! He groaned to himself. It's another cryptogram, and I don't believe Blaine himself will be able to solve this one. He stared long and uncomprehendingly at it. Then with a sigh of baffled interest he folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket. As he did so, there came a sudden sharp report from outside, the tinkle of a broken window-pane and a bullet whistling past his ear embedded itself in the wall behind him. Instinctively Mauro flung himself flat upon the floor, but no second shot was fired. Instead he heard the muffled receding of flying footsteps from the sidewalk, and an excited cry or two as neighboring windows were raised and curious heads were thrust out. Hastily extinguishing the lamp, Mauro felt his way to the kitchen, where he pocketed Caliban with scant ceremony and departed swiftly the way he had come, through the pantry window. By scaling a backyard wall or two he found an alley leading to the street, and making a detour of several blocks he returned to his lodgings, to find Mrs. Quinlan waiting in great excitement to relate her version of the revolver shot. Mauro listened with what patience he could muster, and then handed Caliban over to her mercy. "'It's Miss Bernel's cat,' he explained. "'You'll take care of it for a day or two, at least, won't you? I expect to hear from her soon, and I'd like to be able to restore it to her.' "'Well, I ain't what you would call crazy about cats,' the landlady returned somewhat dubiously, but I couldn't let it die in this cold. I'll keep it, of course, till you hear from Emily. Where did you find it?' "'Over in their yard,' he responded, with prompt mendacity. I was in the neighborhood and heard the shot fired, so I ran in to have a look around and see if anybody was hurt, and I came across as poor little chap yowling on the doorstep. I won't want any supper to-night, Mrs. Quinlan. I'm going out again.' Within the hour Mauro presented himself at Henry Blaine's office. This time he did not wait to be told that the famous investigator was out, but writing something on a card, he sent it into the confidential secretary. In a moment he was admitted to find Blaine seated imperturbably behind his desk, fingering the card his young operative had sent into him. "'What is it, guy?' he asked, not unkindly. "'You say you have a communication of great importance?' "'I think it is, sir,' returned the other stiffly. "'At least I have the message which warned Brunel of your raid upon his shop. It's another cipher, a different one this time.' "'Indeed, that's good work, guy. But how do you know it was a warning to old Jimmy of the raid? Could you read it?' Mauro shook his head. "'No, and I don't see how anyone else could. It must have been a warning of some sort, for it was what caused them both, old Jimmy and his daughter, to run away. Here it is.' He passed the cryptogram over to his chief, who studied it for a while with a meditative frown, then laid it aside and listened in a non-committal silence to his story. When the incidents of the day had been narrated, Blaine said, "'That was a close call, guy. That shot from the darkness. It must have come from the opposite side of the street, of course, from before your own lodgings. The bullet glanced upward in its course, didn't it? No, sir, that's the funny part of it. The spot where it is embedded in the wall is very little higher than the hole in the window-pane. And Mrs. Quinlan's, where you're bored, is directly opposite? Yes. It's the only house on the other side of the street for fifty feet or more on either side. Then you'd better look out for Trouble Guy. That shot came from your own house—probably from the window of your own room, if it is the second floor front, as you say. There's a trader in camp. Any new lodgers today that you know of?" "'No, sir,' Mara replied, startled at the theory evolved by his chief. But how do you account for the fact that I distinctly hurt someone running away immediately after the shot was fired?" It was probably a lookout, or a decoy to draw an investigation away from the house, had a prompt pursuit ensued. Be careful when you go back, Guy, and don't take any unnecessary chances. "'I'm not going back, sir,' the younger man returned, with quiet determination. "'I'm sorry, but I'm through. I wanted to resign before, to protect the woman I love from just this Trouble which has come upon her. But you overruled me, and I listened and played the game fairly. Now I've lost her, and nothing else matters under the sun, except that I must find her again and tell her the truth, and I mean to find her. Nothing shall stand in my way.' "'And your duty?' asked Blaine quietly. "'My duty is to her, first last and all the time. I know I have no right, sir, to ask that I should be taken into your confidence in regard to any plans you make in conducting an investigation. But I think, in view of the exceptional conditions of this case, that I might have been told in advance of the raid you intended, so that I might have spared Emily much of the Trouble which has come upon her, or at least have told her the truth, and squared myself with her, and known where she was going. I've got to find her, sir. I cannot rest until I do.' "'And you shall find her, guy. I promise you on my word that, if you are patient, all will be well. It is not my custom to explain my motives to my subordinates. But as you say, this case is exceptional, and you have been faithful to your trust under peculiarly trying circumstances.' I raided Jimmy's little shop last night, and carried off his forgery outfit, because I had received special information of a confidential nature that Paddington intended to make the same move, and lay it to the work of the police, not only to scare poor old Jimmy out of town, but to obtain possession of the outfit himself, and destroy the evidence, in case the old forger was caught, and lost his spirit and confessed, implicating him. I did not know the raid would be discovered, and the warning take effect so soon. I had arranged to have the burnels watched, and tailed later in the day, but they escaped my espionage. I shall at once set the wheels in motion to discover the number of the taxicab in which they went away, and I will leave no stone unturned to find their ultimate destination, and see that no harm comes to either of them. You may depend upon that. I don't mind going a little further with this subject with you now, than I have before, and I'll tell you confidentially that I believe whatever part Jimmy played in this conspiracy, in forging the letter, note, and signatures, was a compulsory one, and in the end we shall be able to clear him. You know that I am a man of my word, guy. I want you to go on with this case under my instructions, and leave the search for the burnels absolutely in my hands. Will you do this on my assurance that I will find them? If I can have your word, sir, that at the earliest possible moment I may go to her, to Emily, and tell her the truth," Marrow replied earnestly, you don't know what it means to me to have her feel that I have been such a dog as to not mean a word of all that I said to her, to have her believe that it was all part of a plan to trap her into betraying her father. It drives me almost mad when I think of it. This inaction, the suspense of it, is intolerable. Then go home and find out who fired at you from the window of your own house. Watch the burnel cottage, too. There will be developments there, if I am not mistaken. Tomorrow I may want you to go out on another branch of this investigation, the search for Raymond Hamilton. Very good, sir, I'll try," Marrow promised with obvious reluctance. I know how busy you are and how much every day counts in this matter just now, but for God's sake, do what you can to find the burnels for me." Then repeated his assurances, and Marrow returned to the Bronx with considerably lightened spirits. The sight of the little cottage across the way, dark and deserted, brought a pang to his heart, but it also served to remind him of the duty which lay before him. He must find out whose hand had fired that shot at him from the house which had given him shelter. Mrs. Quinlan had not yet retired. He found her reading a newspaper in the kitchen, with calibane curled up in drowsy content beside the stove. "'Cold out, ain't it?' she observed. I went round to the store, and I'd like to have froze before I got back. They said they'd send the things, but they didn't. I'll go get them for you," offered Marrow. Was it the grocery to which you went? "'No, the drugstore. I—I've got a new larger upstairs at the back. An old gentleman who's kind of sickly and romantic, and he asked me to get some things for him. Thank you just the same, Mr. Marrow, but there ain't no hurry for them." Mrs. Quinlan's wide, ingenious face flushed, and for a moment she seemed curiously embarrassed. Could she have guessed that the revolver shot which had created so much excitement that afternoon had been fired from beneath her roof? "'A new larger,' replied Marrow, came to-day, didn't he? "'No, yesterday,' she responded quickly, too quickly," the operative fancied. The ruddy flush had deepened on her cheek, and she added, as if unable to restrain the question rising irresistibly to her lips. "'What amaze you think he came to-day?' I thought this afternoon that I heard furniture being moved about in the room directly over mine,' he returned, with studied indifference. "'Oh, you did,' Mrs. Quinlan affirmed. "'That's my room, you know. I was exchanging my beer off of the old gentleman's. Let me see. That makes four lodgers now, doesn't it?' Marrow remarked thoughtfully, as he toasted his back near the stove. "'Peter sent the shoe-clerk, accurate the photographer, me, and now this old gentleman. What's his name, by the way?' "'Mr. Brown,' again there was that obvious hesitation, followed by a hasty rush of words as if to cover it. "'Yes, my house is full now, and I think I'm mighty lucky. Consider in the time of year. Just think. It's most Christmas. The winters just fly in along.' The next morning from his bed Marrow heard the clinking of China on a tray, as Mrs. Quinlan laboriously carried breakfast upstairs to her new border. The sky rose quickly and dressed, and when he heard her descending again, he flung open his door and met her face to face, quite as if by accident. She started violently at the sudden encounter and nearly dropped the tray. "'Land sakes! How do you scare me, Mr. Marrow?' she exclaimed. "'You're up earlier than usual. I'll have your breakfast ready in the dining-room in ten minutes.' She hurried on quickly, but not before the operative's keen eyes had noted in one lightning glance the contents of the tray. Upon it was a teapot, as well as one for coffee, and service for two. Peterson and Acker had both long since gone to their usual day's work. Mrs. Quinlan had lied then, after all. She had two new lodgers. Instead of the single, rheumatic old gentleman she had pictured, two, and one of them had entered his own room, and from the window fired that shot across the street at him, as he bent over the lamp in the Brunel cottage. He had one problematic advantage. It was possible that he had not been recognized as the intruder in the deserted house. He must contrive by hook or crook to obtain a glimpse of the mysterious newcomers, and learn the cause of their interest in the Brunels and their affairs. They were in all probability emissaries of Paddington's. Possibly one of them was Charlie Penult himself. At that same moment Henry Blaine sat in his office, receiving the report of Ross, one of his minor operatives. I tried the tobacco in his shop yesterday morning, sir, but there wasn't any message there for Paddington, and although I waited around a couple of hours, he didn't show up, Ross was saying. This morning, however, I tried the same stunt, and it worked. I wasn't any too quick about it, either, for Paddington was just after me. I strolled in, asked for a package of kairos, and gave the man the office, as you told me. He handed it over like a lamb, and I walked out with it, straight to that little cafe across the way. I had four of the boys waiting there, and my entrance was a signal to them, to beat it over and buy enough tobacco to keep the shopkeeper busy while I made a getaway from the dairy lunch place. I only went three doors down to a barbers, and while I was waiting my turn there, I watched the street from behind a newspaper. In about ten minutes Paddington came along, looking as if he was in quite a hurry. He went into the tobacconist, but he came out quicker than he had entered, and his face was a study, purple with rage one minute and white with fear the next. I don't believe he knows yet who's tailing him, sir, but he looks as if he realized we had him coming and going. He went straight over to the little restaurant, with murder in his eye, but he only stayed a minute or two. I tailed him home to his rooms, and he stamped along at first as if he was so mad he didn't care whether he was followed or not. When he got near his own street, though, he got cautious again, and I had all I could do to keep him from catching me on his trail. He's a sharp one, when he wants to be, and he's on his metal now. I know the breed. He'll turn and fight like any other rat if he's cornered. But meanwhile, he'll try at any cost to get away from us," Blaine responded. You have him well covered, Ross? Thorpe is waiting in a high-powered car a few doors away, Van or Nataxi, and Daley is on the job until I get back. He won't take a step today without being tailed," the operative answered confidently. Here's the cigarette-box, sir. I opened it as soon as I got in the restaurant, to see if it was the real goods and not a plant as you instructed. It's the straight tip, all right. There were no cigarettes inside. Only this single sheet of paper covered with little marks. Looks like music, only it isn't. I don't know much about sight-reading, but some of those figures couldn't be played on any instrument. Henry Blaine opened the little box and drew from it the bit of folded paper, which he spread out upon the desk before him. A glance was sufficient to show him that it was another cryptic message, similar to that which Guy Morrow had found in the Bernel's deserted cottage, and which he had vainly studied until far into the night. Very good, Ross. Get back on the job now, and report any developments as soon as you have an opportunity. When the operative had gone, Blaine drew forth the cryptogram received the previous evening and compared the two. They were identical in character, although from the formation of the letters and figures the message each conveyed was a different one. The first had baffled him, and he scrutinized the second with freshly awakened interest. The three lines fascinated him by their tantalizing problem, and he could not take his eyes from them. The musical notes could be easily read in place of letters, of course, with the sign of the treble clef as a basic guide, but the other figures still puzzled him. All at once a word upon the lowest line which explained itself caught his eye, then another and another, until the method of deciphering the whole message burst upon his mind. One swift gesture, a few eagerly scrawled calculations and that truth was plain to him. Calling his secretary, he hastily dictated a letter. I want a copy of that sentence once by special delivery to every physician and surgeon in town, no matter how obscure. See to it that not one is overlooked. Even those on the staffs of the different hospitals must be notified, although they are the least likely to be called upon. Above all, don't forget the old retired one, those of the shady professional reputation and the fledglings just out of medical colleges. It's a large order march, but it's bound to bring some result in the next forty-eight hours. With the closing of the door behind his secretary, Henry Blaine rose and paced thoughtfully back and forth the length of his spacious office. The problem before him was the most salient in its importance of any which had confronted him during his investigation of the law and mystery, probably the wadiest of his entire career. Should he, dared he, throw caution to the winds and step out into the open in his true colors at last? It was as if he held within his hands the kernel of the mystery, yet surrounded still by an invulnerable shield of cunning and duplicity with which the master criminals had so carefully safeguarded their conspiracy. He held it within his hands, and yet he could not break the shell of the mystery and expose the kernel of truth to justice. There seemed to be no interestus, no crevice into which he might insert the keen probe of his marvellous deductive power, and yet his experience told him that there must be some rift, some hiatus in the scheme. If only he could discover that rift. Could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt the facts which he had circumstantially established he would not hesitate to lay his hands upon the culprits, high in power and influence throughout the country as they were, and bring them before any court of so-called justice, however it might be undermined by bribery and corruption. He had accomplished much, working as a mole-works in the dark. Could he not accomplish more by declaring himself? Could he not by one bold stroke lay bare the heart of the mystery? Seating himself again at his desk, he took the telephone receiver from its hook, and called up Anita Lawton at her home. Not upon the private wire he had had installed for her, but on the regular house wire. Oh, Mr. Blaine, what is it? Have you found him? Have you news for me of Raymond? Her voice, faint and high-pitched with the hideous suspense of the days just past, came to him tremulous with eagerness and an abiding hope. No, Miss Lawton, I am sorry to say that I have not yet found Mr. Hamilton, but I have definite information that he still lives, at least," he returned. I hope that in a few days at most I may bring him to you. Thank heaven for that," she responded fervently. I have tried so hard to believe, to have faith that he will be restored to me, and yet the hideous doubt will return again and again. These days and nights have been one long, ceaseless torture. You have taken my advice in regard to receiving your visitors? Oh, yes, Mr. Blaine. My three guardians have been unremitting in their attentions, particularly Mr. Rockamore, who calls daily. He has just left me. Miss Lawton, I have decided that the time has come for us to declare ourselves openly. Not in regard to the mystery of your father's insolvency, but concerning the disappearance of Raymond Hamilton, I want you to call his mother up on the telephone as soon as I ring off, and tell her that you have resolved to retain me on your account to find him for you. Should she put forward any objections, overrule her, and refuse to listen, I will be with you in an hour. In the meantime, should anyone call, you may tell them that you have just retained me to investigate the disappearance of your fiancée. Tell that to anyone and everyone, the more publicity we give to that fact, the better. The moment has arrived for us to carry war into the enemy's camp, and I know that we shall win. Keep up your courage, Miss Lawton. We are done with maneuvering now. You have borne up bravely, but I believe your period of suspense, in regard to many things, is past. Before this day is done, they will know that we are in this fight to the finish, and to fight to win.