EARLE WAYNE’S BOLD VENTURE
He almost instantly fell into a profound and dreamless slumber.
How long he slept thus he could not have told, but he was suddenly
awakened during the night by a low, sobbing noise proceeding from the
room on his right.
Arousing so suddenly, and being consequently somewhat confused, it
seemed to him at first as if some one had called his name.
He sat erect in bed and listened.
All was silence for a few moments, then he heard the tones of a man
speaking as if in anger, and the same low sobbing instantly began again,
while a sweet voice seemed pleading for something.
Then he heard the man’s voice somewhat louder, and speaking impatiently,
as if he had commanded some one to do something, and had not been
obeyed.
It was followed, as before, by the low sobbing, and a faint,
heart-broken moaning that made Earle Wayne feel very strangely.
“There is something wrong going on in there,” he muttered to himself.
“The clerk said the man would not return here to-night; but it seems he
has, and I don’t like the sound of things at all.”
He arose and went softly to the door which led into the other apartment.
It was a very thick, solid door, and prevented his hearing distinctly
anything that was said.
He bent his head to the keyhole, but even then could only catch the
sound of a man and woman conversing in low tones, without distinguishing
a word.
The sobbing had ceased for the moment, but, at a question apparently
addressed to a third party, it immediately began again.
A cold sweat gathered upon Earle Wayne’s forehead.
The sounds affected him as he had never been affected before. He longed
to know what piece of wickedness—for wickedness he was convinced it
was—was being enacted within those walls at that time of night.
A faint light from the other room shone into his through the transom, so
that he could distinguish every object in it. He glanced up at the
light, a sudden thought striking him.
The transom, of course, was glazed, and he had no doubt that it was
fastened upon the other side, but possibly he might hear a little more
distinctly if he could get up to it, and it would do no harm for him to
investigate and see if it was fastened.
He brought the center-table and put it softly down by the door. He then
took a blanket from his bed and covered the marble top, set a chair upon
this, and then noiselessly mounting upon that by the aid of another, he
found himself upon a level with the transom.
To his intense satisfaction, he discovered that it was not fastened; it
was tightly closed, but it yielded beneath his cautious touch, and he
knew if he could open it ever so little without attracting the attention
of the occupants of that room, he could satisfy himself regarding the
nature of the proceedings there.
While he stood there waiting for a favorable opportunity to push the
transom open, a neighboring clock struck the hour of two.
“Unless the young lady has been taken suddenly sick, I am satisfied that
mischief of some kind is brewing,” he said to himself, and resolving not
to leave his post until he had ascertained whether he was right or not.
He found he could hear more plainly now—could catch a word occasionally,
though not enough to give him any idea of the nature of the conversation
carried on there.
As soon as he heard that low sobbing again he gently tried to move the
transom still more.
It yielded a trifle, but grated a little on the wood work. He waited a
moment, and then made another effort, and it moved just enough to admit
a line of light at the bottom. Then he could hear quite plainly.
A man seemed to be asking the strangest questions of some one.
“Your name is Ellen Wood?” he heard him say, in a mocking tone.
“Yes, Ellen Wood,” came the reply, in a plaintive voice that made
Earle’s hair at once stand on end.
“You are _sure_ your name is Ellen Wood?”
“Yes, Ellen Wood,” in the same tone as before.
“Where were you born?”
“In Texas.”
“Who is your father?”
“Judge Allen Wood.”
“Where is he now?”
“He is dead.”
“Who is this woman?”
“She is my—mother,” with a shuddering accent on the last word.
“And I am your brother, am I not?”
“N-n-o, oh!” a gasping voice uttered, with a moan between each word.
“You ain’t over fond of me, I see,” the man returned, with a low,
mocking laugh. “You’ve got your lesson pretty well learned, though, and
if any one should ask you any questions to-morrow when you go out to
take the air—as you must do for the sake of your health—you’ll know how
to answer them. Now take that ring from your finger and give it to me,”
he commanded, sternly.
“I can’t, I can’t!” moaned the plaintive voice.
“Curse your obstinacy and my lack of power!” he growled. “Now tell me
where that paper is—quick!”
“No, no, no! no, no, no!”
And immediately the sobbing and moaning were resumed, but in a way that
seemed to show that the speaker’s strength was almost exhausted.
The man swore a fearful oath, and then Earle heard another voice—a
woman’s—say:
“It’s of no use, Tom—your power is not strong enough to make her tell
that, and you are wearing her out; she can’t stand this kind of thing
much longer.”
“I’ll never let her go until she does tell me,” he answered, fiercely,
with another oath. “If I was sure,” he added, “that it was hid in that
house, I’d go and burn it down to-night, and then let her go. I’m sick
and tired of the whole thing.”
“Better let her go anyway, and run the risk,” said his companion; “you
will soon kill her at this rate.”
“Dead men tell no tales,” he answered, moodily; “but the risk is too
great, for if that paper contains a description of me, I’m a marked man
as long as I live.”
Earle now ventured to push the transom a little more.
It was clear of the wood work, now, and swung quite easily and
noiselessly, so that he could get a good view of the room, and he saw a
sight that made his heart stand still with horror, while an almost
superhuman effort alone prevented a sharp cry of agony escaping his
lips.
Upon a bed in the corner opposite him lay Editha Dalton. She was as
white as the counterpane covering her, and wasted to a mere skeleton.
She was sobbing in a nervous, excited way, her thin white hands clasped
upon her heaving breast, her eyes wild and staring, and fixed in a
fascinated gaze upon a burly, repulsive-looking man, who stood by the
bedside scowling fiercely upon her.
By his side there also stood a nicely dressed, rather prepossessing
woman of about fifty-five.
Their backs were toward the door where Earle was stationed, consequently
they had seen nothing of the almost noiseless movement of that transom
behind them.
It took all the force of Earle’s will to control his intense excitement
as he looked upon the scene just described.
Never in his life had he felt so dizzy and faint as he did at that
moment, while a weakening, sickening tremor pervaded every nerve in his
body.
“Better let her alone now, Tom, and don’t come here again for a week.
Let her get a little strength before you exert your power over her
again,” the woman said in reply to the man’s last observation.
“The weaker she is the less will she will have,” he muttered.
“Her will is so strong that you will never move her to tell what you
want to know; and you do not want to kill her, I know.”
“No,” he admitted, with a scowl.
“She will do almost anything you tell her, except to reveal what will
injure that one person; that seems to be an instinct which nothing can
conquer, and your magnetic force is not sufficient to overcome it.”
“You do not need to tell me that,” he growled.
“Well, I want you to let her alone for awhile; _I_ don’t want her dying
on _my_ hands,” returned the woman, with decision.
The ill-looking man did not reply, but made a few passes over Editha’s
head and face, touching her on the forehead and in the region of the
epigastrium.
Almost instantly the wild look faded from her eyes, her clasped hands
dropped apart, and fell limp and nerveless upon the counterpane, while
she lay panting and exhausted, but looking much more natural to Earle
than she had done a moment before with that strained look on her face.
The woman came forward, gently raised her head, and held a bowl to her
lips, from which she drank eagerly, and seemed much refreshed.
Once more the villain turned toward her, and said, with sullen ferocity:
“Well, my plucky fine lady, how much longer do you suppose you can stand
this kind of thing?”
Editha made no reply, but her eyes, which seemed unnaturally large, now
that she was so thin, gleamed defiance at him.
“You are getting weaker every day, and you’re getting so pale and poor
that that fine young chap you’re so fond of would not know you if he
should see you now,” he continued, heartlessly.
A look of inexpressible sadness settled upon the fair face, the white
lids quivered a moment and then drooped over the blue eyes, and the pale
lips trembled painfully; but she made no other sign of her suffering,
uttered no word to his cruel taunt.
Her silence exasperated him, and, leaning down so that his face came
almost on a level with hers, he hissed:
“You _shall_ tell me where that paper is, or you shall never see the
outside of these walls again. Do you hear?”
“I will _never_ tell you,” she now said, in a weak voice, but with a
firmness that made another fierce oath leap to his lips, and sent a
shudder through her slight frame.
Earle ground his teeth, but waited to hear no more.
He noiselessly descended from his perch, dressed himself with all
possible dispatch, all excepting his boots; then quietly unlocking his
door, opened it a crack, and stood there in the dark waiting.
His mind was made up to do a bold thing.
His weariness and illness were all forgotten; his nerves were steady and
quiet, and the strength of a Samson seemed quivering in every muscle.
He waited perhaps fifteen minutes, when he heard the key turn in the
door of the room on his right.
Another moment and the wretch whom he had seen there came forth and took
a preliminary survey of the hall before proceeding further.
How he expected to get out of the hotel at that hour of the night
without being discovered, particularly when he had three flights of
stairs and as many halls to traverse, was a point Earle did not allow
himself time to consider.
The man, apparently satisfied that there was nothing to impede his
progress, glided velvet-shod over the soft carpet.
Earle allowed him to get well past his door, then, stealing out without
a sound, he crept up behind him and hit out square from his shoulder a
tremendous blow, which taking his prey just behind the ear, doubled him
up in an instant.
He caught him in his arms before he could fall to the floor, for he had
no desire to make any disturbance at that hour of the night, and then by
main strength half carried, half dragged him back into the room he had
occupied, laid him upon the floor, and locked him in.
Not a sleeper had been aroused.
The blow he had dealt was quick and powerful, but not loud enough to
awaken any one from a sound slumber, though it had rendered his victim
unconscious for the time, and the noise of dragging him the short
distance to his room had not disturbed any one.
The next thing was to get inside that other room without creating any
confusion.
He knew that his captive was only stunned, and would doubtless soon
recover from the effects of the blow he had given him; but locked within
that room, he knew he could not escape for he was in the fourth story,
and could not, of course, make his way out by the window.
He did not think, either, that he would make any noise upon returning to
his senses, for he would be sure to bring upon himself deeper trouble if
he did so.
He stood and listened a moment or two outside the door of the room where
Editha lay, thinking that something of the disturbance must have reached
its occupants, since both were awake, and the affair had occurred so
near to them.
He hoped the attendant would come to the door and look out to see what
was the trouble, when he would easily be able to get inside, and into
Editha’s presence, without using any forcible means.
If her attendant had not been attracted, and she did not come, he had
resolved to knock gently for admittance. Even then he feared he should
not gain it, since he surmised, and correctly, too, that the man must
have some signal by which his presence could be known from that of any
one else.
Earle’s conjectures, however, proved correct. Editha’s attendant had
heard a slight noise in the hall and been startled by it.
“Did you hear anything?” she asked, turning to the girl on the bed.
“No, nothing,” she answered, wearily.
“Something has happened, I fear,” she said to herself, and then going to
the door, bent her head to listen, an expression of great anxiety on her
face.
She could hear nothing, however; but apparently not quite satisfied, she
ventured to unlock the door and peer forth into the hall. This was Earle
Wayne’s opportunity.
With noiseless tread he stepped quickly up to her, and, before she was
hardly aware of his intention, pushed the door open, forced her back
into the room, and entered himself.
Another instant and the door was again shut, locked, and the key in his
pocket.
His next movement was to see if the door leading into that other room
was locked also.
It proved to be, but the key was in the lock, and he pocketed this, too,
thus gaining all the power he wanted for the present.
The whole transaction had not occupied above six or seven minutes, nor
had a word been spoken; but Earle had done a good thing, for in that
time he had captured single-handed, one of the most successful robbers
in the United States, as well as his accomplice, and doubtless had saved
the girl he loved from even greater sufferings than she had already
experienced.
With this accomplished, and both keys in his pocket, he now turned his
attention to the occupant of the bed.
But Editha had fainted dead away.