THE MESSAGE STOLEN AGAIN.
“The time has come!”
The words came from the lips of Frank Merriwell, who was standing
beside a small table in a room of one of New York’s big hotels. In his
hand he held the two oilskin envelopes. Across each envelope had been
written:
“To Frank Merriwell; to be opened the day after he graduates from Yale.”
Frank had studied the writing on those envelopes, and he was convinced
that the words on one had been imitated and copied from the other.
Bart Hodge was Merry’s companion, sitting near and showing no small
amount of interest in the singular envelopes.
“Which contains the message?” was the question that came from Bart’s
lips.
“That is a conundrum,” admitted Frank, as he gazed from one to the
other.
“This is the one Oliver Packard returned that night the old grads were
celebrating on Osborne corner.”
“Which one is that, the original or the fake?”
“The original.”
“Then what do you make of it?”
“I believe it does not contain the message. I believe the original
envelope was opened by Roland Packard.”
“Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know, unless he expected he would have to give up something
and was determined to hang on to the real message. I am convinced that
there was somebody behind Roland Packard. He was not working on his own
hook. The messenger was pursued all the way from Colorado to New Haven
by a man who seemed determined to do him injury. That man failed, but
is it not possible he instigated the action of Roland Packard?”
“And you think the stranger employed him to get hold of the message?”
“I have arrived at that belief.”
“Still, that does not explain the fake envelope.”
“It seems to me that Roland Packard’s curiosity was aroused and he
determined to find out what the original envelope contained. He opened
it. In fact, having studied and examined this envelope closely, I think
I can detect indications that it has been broken open.”
“Then it is likely that Oliver Packard did not restore to you the
message, after all.”
“Not in this first envelope, but you know he brought me this other,
which was taken from the body of his dead brother.”
“Then it is possible that the second envelope is the one that contains
the message.”
“Yes,” nodded Frank. “I almost dread to open it, although the time to
do so has come. Something seems to whisper that it contains a great
surprise for me.”
Frank sat down beside the table, and, with a firm hand, tore open the
envelope he regarded as the original. An exclamation escaped his lips
as he drew forth the contents.
“Look, Bart!” he cried. “I was right! Nothing but blank paper!”
He held the unsoiled sheets up before the eyes of his almost breathless
companion.
“By Jove! you were right!” said Hodge. “You have a way of figuring
things out correctly, Merriwell. The other envelope must contain the
message.”
But, strange to say, Merriwell seemed to hesitate again.
“What if it should not!” he muttered. “What if that also contains
nothing but blank paper!”
“But it must contain the message!” exclaimed Bart.
“Why?”
“Because--because the message was not in this one.”
“A poor reason, Bart. It’s likely this envelope was fixed to deceive
the man who employed Roland Packard to secure the message. I presume
that man offered Packard money to get the message and turn it over to
him. Packard’s curiosity was aroused, and he decided to find out what
the message contained, which led him to remove it from the envelope.
Then he fixed up the original envelope to deceive the man who had paid
him to do the crooked work, but his brother took it from him in the
fight. Following that it is likely that he fixed up this other envelope
for the purpose of fooling his rascally employer. In such a case, it is
almost certain that envelope No. 2 contains blank paper, the same as
the first.”
“Open it!” panted Hodge.
“That will settle it,” said Frank, as he did so.
Bart was rigid as a marble image as Merry drew the contents of the
envelope forth.
From Frank’s lips came a sigh of satisfaction.
“It is the message!” he said.
Had he not been so preoccupied, so absorbed, Frank Merriwell would have
heard the slight rustling sound in the alcove bedroom behind him. In
times of expected danger his alertness was something remarkable, but
just now his mind was concentrated on the mysterious message which he
had taken from the envelope.
Nor did Bart hear anything to arouse his suspicions.
A slight breeze came through the open bedroom window, and gently
stirred the portières behind Frank’s back.
Merriwell’s face grew very pale as he read the opening words of the
message, and his watching companion knew something had produced a
profound effect on him.
“What is it?” Bart was compelled to ask.
“It is from my father, as I believed,” said Merriwell, plainly making
an effort to steady his voice. “I have read nothing but the opening
sentence, but this is what it says:
“‘This, my son, is the confession of your father, who, near to the
point of death and beyond all hope of recovery, is lying in the cabin
of Juan Delores, near Urmiston, which is about fifty miles from
Denver.’”
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Hodge. “Your father dying?”
“Dead by this time, it is likely,” came sadly from Frank’s lips. “And I
not near in his last moments!”
The expression of regret and grief on Frank’s face was sincere and
profound.
“Too bad!” muttered Bart. “But he always was such a strange man!”
“Strange, indeed,” nodded Frank. “I knew little of his life after
he went to seek his fortune amid the mines, save that part which is
closely connected with his fight against his great enemy, Santenel. He
told me that portion of it, but concerning the rest he has said little
or nothing.”
“This may throw light upon it. He calls it a confession.”
“And the fact that he has called it that makes me hesitate once more
about reading. But it must be done.”
Again Merry lifted the message to read.
Over his shoulder darted a hand that snatched the message from his
grasp!
At the same moment, uttering a cry of warning, Bart Hodge sprang to his
feet, pointing toward the parted portières behind Merriwell.
Merry shot to his feet like a flash, but he was barely in time to see a
man disappearing between the portières.
A second time had the precious message been snatched from his fingers.
“Stop him!” shouted Hodge.
Merry was first to leap between the portières, and yet he was barely
in time to see a man disappearing through a window that led out upon a
fire-escape.
A single glimpse of the man’s face Merriwell obtained as he plunged
after him. He saw him entering the open window of an adjoining room,
the fire-escape running from one window to the other.
At a single bound Frank reached the other window and followed the man
into the room. The fugitive was passing out through a door that led
into the hall as Merry jumped in by the window.
Toward that door bounded Merry. It was slammed in his face.
It had a spring-lock, and for a moment it bothered Frank, who was
compelled to pause to open it. By that time Hodge had reached the
window of the room, into which he looked in great surprise, seeing that
Merry was there alone.
“Where is the----” Frank heard no more of Bart’s question, for he tore
open the door and leaped out into the corridor.
The fugitive had disappeared.
Frank went dashing along the passage, looking for the man, but seeing
nothing of him. The fellow had disappeared in a most remarkable manner
after leaving the room.
“Search, Hodge!” called Merry, and Bart joined in the hunt.
But though they searched everywhere, they found nothing of the man
they were after. The hotel was aroused. The clerk in the office was
notified, and he sent the hotel detective to join in the search.
But, after an hour of hunting, the searchers were forced to give up, as
the unknown thief had not been found.
Then Merry went to the office and took a look at the register to find
out who had occupied the room next to his--the one through which the
desperate rascal had made good his retreat from the fire-escape.
The name on the register was “Anton Mescal, Fair Play, Col.”
“Fair Play!” muttered Hodge, who was looking over Frank’s shoulder.
“What does a scoundrel like that know of fair play?”
Frank asked the clerk if he could give a description of Mescal.
“He is slender, looks like a Spaniard, and has a small, pointed, black
mustache,” was the answer. “I do not remember how he was dressed, so
his clothes must have been fairly within the style.”
“That’s the man!” exclaimed Hodge. “I saw his face, and the description
fits.”
Frank nodded.
“I believe Mescal is the man,” he said. “I will give one thousand
dollars for his capture and the restoration to me of the document which
he snatched from my hands.”
The clerk looked at Merry, as if doubting his ability to pay such a
sum; but the young Yale graduate was taking a small roll of bills from
his pocket. From the roll he drew off two five-hundred-dollar bills,
which he handed to the cashier, who stood near the clerk.
“The money is to be paid to the person or persons who capture or cause
to be captured the thief who stole the document from me, in case it is
restored to my hands,” said Merriwell quietly. “You are to enlist the
services of the regular police and do everything in your power.”
“The police have been called already,” said the clerk. “I telephoned
the nearest station immediately, and two officers appeared very
shortly. They have been guarding the entrances to the hotel, while the
regular house detectives have been searching. I suspected this Mescal
and gave an accurate description of him to the policemen. They have not
stopped him as yet.”
“Only two officers on guard!” exclaimed Frank. “Yet there is a front
and back entrance, and one through your barber’s shop and by the way of
the bar. Mr. Mescal is out of the hotel by this time.”
“We have done everything we could” declared the clerk.
Frank turned away.
“The message is lost, Bart,” he said.
“Lost?” said Bart, astonished that Frank should give up so easily.
“Yes,” Merry nodded, his face wearing a grim expression.
Hodge was trembling with rage at the outcome.
“It’s an infernal shame!” he hissed. “Merriwell, you must----”
Frank’s hand gripped his arm.
“Come!” said Merry’s voice, still calm and restrained.
Together they went to the nearest police-station, where Frank told
his story to the sergeant in charge, repeating his offer for the
arrest of the thief and the restoration of the message. He was told
that everything possible should be done, and with that promise he was
compelled to be satisfied.
Frank scarcely spoke as they returned to the hotel. Bart wiped the
perspiration from his face and said things to himself.
In his room Merry sat quite still for some time, the look on his face
indicating that he was in deep thought.
Bart did not venture to break in upon his meditations. To Hodge this
second loss of the message, at the moment when Merry had begun to read
it, was something to throw him into a perfect tempest of rage; but
Frank had shown that he was master of his temper.
Bart knew Merry was thoughtfully considering the situation and
studying over it in view of the proper course to pursue. After half an
hour he quietly said:
“That is what I’ll do.”
“What is it?” asked Bart, unable to repress his curiosity longer. “What
have you decided to do?”
“I believe there is not one chance in a thousand that the man who
snatched that message will be captured before he can get out of New
York, and this has led me to decide on a course of action. In the
single sentence that I read my father said that he was at the cabin of
Juan Delores, near Urmiston, which is about fifty miles from Denver. I
shall wait here until to-morrow. If the police have not made a capture
by that time, I shall leave New York.”
“Whither bound?”
“For the cabin of Juan Delores, near Urmiston, Colorado. I am going to
find out the truth, if possible. There is a mystery to be solved, and I
mean to solve it. Bart!”
“Frank!”
“Are you with me?”
Merry had risen. Hodge leaped to his feet. Their hands met, as Bart
exclaimed:
“To the end, through thick and thin!”