_Struck very rich ore on the foot-wall. Recent assays
show eight per cent. copper, carrying five dollars in
gold to the ton. Try and locate Murphy's stock._
"You see," added the Colonel, "I've got to get it, if it busts me!"
"Well, you shall have it in half an hour," replied McAllister.
Out in the corridor Herbert wanted to know exactly what had happened,
and laughed heartily when McAllister described the interview. Oh, that
old Van Vorst was a sly dog! He'd steal the gold out of your teeth if
you gave him the chance. Carrying five dollars in gold to the ton! That
was even better than his brother had advised him. Well, the next thing
was to capture Murphy's stock.
On their way to the Astor House to see the sick engineer, McAllister
stopped at the Chemical National Bank, on the pretext of procuring the
money to pay for the stock, and there called up Police Headquarters.
Conville presently came to the wire, and it was arranged between them
that the detective should communicate with Tomlinson and bring him at
once to the New York Life Building. There they would await the return of
McAllister and follow him to the offices of the mining company.
McAllister then rejoined Mr. Herbert in the cab and drove at once to the
hotel. The polite clerk informed the strangers that Mr. Murphy was bad,
very bad, and that they would have to secure permission from the trained
nurse before they could visit him. They might, however, go upstairs and
inquire for themselves.
Mr. Murphy's room proved to be at the extreme end of a musty corridor,
in which the pungent odor of iodoform and antiseptics, noticeable even
at the elevator, gave evidence of his lamentable condition. A soft knock
brought an immediate response from a muscular male nurse, who was at
last persuaded to allow them to interview his patient on the express
condition that their call should be limited to a few moments' duration
only. Inside, the smell of medicine became overpowering. McAllister
could discern by the dim light a figure lying upon a bed in the far
corner shrouded in bandages, and moaning with pain. Near at hand stood a
table covered with liniment and bottles.
"Wot is it?" whined the sick engineer. "Carn't yer leave me in peace?
Wot is it, I s'y?"
For the third time in his life McAllister's heart nearly stopped beating
at the sound of that voice. It was, however, unmistakable. Should it
come from the heavens above, or the caverns of the hills, or the waters
beneath the earth, it could originate in but one unique, extraordinary
individual--Wilkins! It was a startling complication, and for an instant
McAllister's brain refused to cope with the situation.
"You really must pardon us!" Herbert began, "but we've come to see if
you wouldn't sell some of your Golden Touch mining stock."
"'Oly Moses!" wailed the sick engineer, turning his head to the wall.
"Oh, my leg! Wot do you come 'ere for, about stock, when I'm almost
dead? Go aw'y, I s'y!"
McAllister pulled himself together. He had intended buying the stock,
and on returning to the company's offices to have Conville arrest
Herbert and the Colonel, without bothering about the sick engineer. He
was pretty sure he had evidence enough. But now, with Wilkins to assist
him, he undoubtedly could force a confession from them both.
"Go ahead," he whispered to Herbert; "I'm no good at that sort of
thing."
So Mr. Herbert started in to persuade his invalid confederate to part
with his valueless stock for McAllister's money. He waxed eloquent over
the glories of the Continent and the miraculous cures effected at
Baden-Baden, as well as upon the uncertainties of this life, and mining
stock in particular.
Meanwhile the sick man tossed in agony upon his pallet and cursed the
inconsiderate strangers who forced their selfish interests upon him at
such a moment. Outside the door the nurse coughed impatiently. At last,
after an unusually persistent harangue on the part of Herbert, the
invalid, inveighing against the sciatica that had placed him thus at
their mercy, and more to get rid of them than anything else,
reluctantly yielded. Fumbling among the bed-clothes, he produced a
soiled certificate, which he smoothed out and regarded sadly.
"'Ere, tyke it," he muttered. "Tyke it! Gimme yer money, an' go aw'y!"
As yet he had not recognized McAllister, who had remained partially
concealed behind his companion.
"Now's your chance!" whispered the latter. "Take it while you can get
it. Where's the money?"
McAllister drew out the bills, which crackled deliciously in his hands,
and stepped square in front of the sick engineer, between him and
Herbert.
"Mr. Murphy"--he spoke the words slowly and distinctly--"I'm the person
who's buying your stock. This gentleman has merely interested me in the
proposition." Then, fixing his eyes directly on those of Wilkins, he
held out the bills. A look of terror came over the face of the valet,
and he half-raised himself from the pillow as he stared horrified at his
former master. Then he sank back, and turned away his head.
"Now answer me a few questions," continued McAllister. "Are you the bona
fide owner of this stock?"
Wilkins choked.
"S' 'elp me! Got it fer services," he gasped.
"And it's worth what you ask--five thousand dollars?"
Wilkins glanced helplessly at Herbert, who was examining a bottle of
iodine on the mantelpiece. Then he rolled convulsively upon his side.
"Oh, my leg!" he groaned, thrashing around until his head came within a
few inches of McAllister's face. "_It's rotten_," he whispered under his
breath. "_Don't touch it!_ . . . Oh, my pore leg! . . . _Just pretend to
pass me the money_. . . . 'Ere, tyke yer stock, if yer 'ave to! . . . _I
wouldn't rob yer, sir, indeed I wouldn't!_ . . . W'ere's yer money?"
A gentle smile came over McAllister's placid countenance. Who said there
was no honor among thieves? Who said there was no such thing as
gratitude and self-sacrifice? He did not realize at the moment that it
was the only thing Wilkins could possibly have done to save himself. His
simple faith accepted it as an act of devotion upon the other's part.
With a swift wink at his old servant, McAllister stepped back to where
Herbert was standing.
"I don't know," he said doubtfully. "How can I be sure this sick man's
name is really Murphy, or that he is the fellow that worked at the mine?
I guess I'd better have him identified before I give up my money."
"Don't be foolish!" growled Herbert. "Of course he's the man! My brother
gave his description in the letter, and he fits it to a T. And then he
has the certificate. What more do you want?"
"I don't know," repeated McAllister hesitatingly. He shook his head and
shifted from one foot to the other. "I don't know. I guess I won't do
it."
Herbert seemed annoyed.
"Look here," he demanded of the sick engineer, "are you so awful sick
you can't come over to the company's offices and be identified?"--adding
_sotto voce_ to McAllister, "if he does, old Van Vorst will probably buy
the stock himself, and we'll lose our chance."
The sick man moaned and grumbled. By 'ookey! 'Ere was impudence for yer.
Come an' rob 'im of 'is stock, an' then demand 'e be identified.
"We'll take you in our cab. It ain't far," urged Herbert, nodding
vigorously at Wilkins from behind McAllister.
"Oh, I'll go!" responded the engineer with sudden alacrity. "Anything to
hoblige."
He hobbled painfully out of bed. The nurse had by this time returned,
and was demanding in forcible language that his patient should instantly
get back. Seeing that his expostulations had no effect, he assisted
Wilkins very ungraciously to get into his clothes. With the aid of a
stout cane the latter tottered to the elevator and was finally ensconced
safely in the cab. All this had occupied nearly an hour; twenty minutes
more brought them to the New York Life Building.
As McAllister and Herbert assisted their supposed victim into the
building, the clubman caught a glimpse of the lean Tomlinson and
athletically built Conville standing together behind the pillars of the
portico. The elevator whisked them up to the fifth floor so rapidly that
the sick man swore loudly that he should never live to come down again.
As they turned into the corridor toward the entrance of the office,
McAllister saw his confederates emerge from the rear elevator. Things
were going well enough, so far. Now for the _coup d'état_!
The boy admitted them at once into the inner sanctum. As before,
President Van Vorst sat there calmly smoking a cigar. At his right, in a
corner by the window, stood a heavy iron safe.
"Well," said McAllister briskly, "I've brought the stock, and I've
brought its former owner with it. Do you recognize him?"
"Well, well!" returned the President, stepping forward with great
cordiality and clasping Wilkins's hand in his. "If it isn't my old
engineer, Murphy! How are you, Murphy, old socks? It's nearly a year,
isn't it, since you were at Stafford?"
"Yes," replied Wilkins tremulously, "an' I'm a very sick man. I've got
the skyathicer somethin' hawful."
McAllister produced the stock from his coat-pocket.
"Do you identify this certificate?" inquired the clubman.
"Of course! Now think of that! I've been lookin' for that thousand
shares ever since Murphy left the mine," said the Colonel with a show of
irritation.
"Well, are you ready to pay for it?" demanded McAllister sharply.
The Colonel hesitated, looking from one to the other. Clearly he could
not determine just how matters stood.
"Well," he remarked finally, "I can't pay for it just this minute, but
I'll go right out and get the money. You see, I didn't expect you back
quite so soon. Who does the stock belong to, anyhow--you, or Murphy?"
"At present it belongs to me," said the clubman.
As McAllister spoke he stepped in front of the door leading into the
directors' room. From below came faintly the rattle of the street and
the clang of electric cars, while in the outer office could be heard the
merry tattoo of the typewriters. Could it be possible that in this
opulently furnished office, with its rosewood desk and chairs, its
Persian rugs and paintings, its plate glass and heavy curtains, he was
confronting a crew of swindlers of whom his own valet was an accomplice?
It was almost past belief. Yet, as he recalled Wainwright's vivid
description of the fall of Tomlinson, the scene at Rector's, the
advertisement in the _Herald_, and the strange occurrences of the
morning, he perceived that there could be no question in the matter. He
was facing three common--or rather most uncommon--thieves, all of whom
probably had served more than one term in State prison--desperate
characters, who would not hesitate to use force, or worse, should it
appear necessary. For a moment the clubman lost heart. He might be
murdered, and no one be the wiser. Then a vague shadow flickered against
the opaque glass of the main door, and McAllister gained new courage.
Conville was just outside, with Tomlinson--although the latter could not
be regarded as a valuable auxiliary in the event of a hand-to-hand
struggle. Was he safe in counting on Wilkins? What if the ex-convict
should go back on him? How did the valet know but that, by assisting
his master, he was sending himself to State prison? McAllister had a
fleeting desire to turn and dart from the room. What business had a
middle-aged clubman turning detective, anyway? Then he braced himself,
took a good grip of his stout walking-stick, and turned to the Colonel
with an assumption of calmness which he was very far from feeling. The
noonday sun streamed into the windows and threw into strong relief the
muscular figures of the group about him.
"I'm afraid you've been deceived in Murphy," he remarked coolly. "He
isn't an engineer at all; he's just an ex-convict."
The Colonel uttered a swift oath and snatched a Colt from an open drawer
of the desk. Herbert turned fiercely upon the clubman. Wilkins dropped
his crutch.
"What are you giving us!" cried the Colonel.
"I'll leave it to _him_," added McAllister. "By the way, his name isn't
Murphy at all--it's Wilkins--or Welch, if you prefer."
"What's this--a plant?" yelled Herbert. "By God, if----"
"Don't be upset, Mr. Summerdale," said the clubman. "You might lay down
that pistol, Colonel Buncomb. Wilkins is an old friend of mine--in fact
he used to work for me."
The two thieves glared at him, speechless. Wilkins picked up his crutch
by the small end, remarking:
"Better go easy there, Buncomb."
"I think you gentlemen had the pleasure of meeting another friend of
mine last summer, a Mr. Tomlinson," continued McAllister. "He's told me
a good deal about you. I am under the impression that he paid for an
automobile and a little trip you took on the Riviera. How would you like
to turn back the money?"
Buncomb stood in the middle of the room pale and motionless, while the
clubman opened the door into the hall and called Tomlinson's name.
"Yaas, I'm here, McAllister. What do you want?" replied the club bore as
his lank figure entered the room. At the sight of Buncomb, Summerdale,
and Wilkins he stopped short.
"By Jove!" he drawled, "I'm dashed if it ain't the Colonel--and Larry!"
"Look here, you--you--chappie!" snarled Buncomb, "clear out of here! And
you, too, Tomlinson. Understand?" He waved the revolver threateningly.
"Colonel," remarked McAllister, "I'm here for just one purpose, and
that's to collect the debt you gentlemen owe my friend Mr. Tomlinson.
Wilkins, or Welch, or Murphy, or whatever _you_ call him, is ready to
turn state's evidence against you. I promise him immunity. There's an
officer just outside. Shall I call him?"
"Is that straight, Fatty?" cried Summerdale, his face livid with fright
and anger. "Are you going to squeal on us?"
"Sure!" replied Wilkins. "I'm through with you, you miserable
shell-gamers! The best thing for you is to hopen the old coal-box hover
there and count hout what's left of that ten thousand."
"Curse you!" hissed Summerdale. "How do we know you won't have us
pinched whether we pay up or not?"
"I reckon we'd better take a chance," muttered the Colonel, laying down
his revolver and dropping on his knees before the safe. The little knob
spun around, the lock clicked, and the heavy door swung open, but at the
same moment there was a terrific crash of glass behind them.
"Excuse noise," exclaimed Conville, thrusting his face through the
broken pane and covering Buncomb with a long black weapon. "Kindly keep
your arms up, Colonel--and you too, Larry. How stout you've grown! Thank
you! I was peekin' through the keyhole, and kinder thought this would be
a good time to freeze on to what was in the safe without callin' in an
expert."
The next instant he had unlocked the door with his other hand and
snapped the handcuffs on Summerdale's uplifted wrist. While the
detective was doing the same to the Colonel, McAllister caught sight of
Wilkins's frightened glance, and gave a slight nod toward the door
leading into the next room. Like a flash the valet had jumped through
and closed and locked the door behind him. Another door banged. Conville
sprang into the hall across the fragments of the shattered glass, with
McAllister at his heels. They were just in time to see Wilkins leap into
the room where the men were testing the fire-escape.
"Let me try it," said he, and swung himself calmly into the tube. For an
instant he delayed his flight, with only his head remaining visible.
"Good-by, Mr. McAllister," he called over his shoulder, "and thank you
kindly. I won't forget, sir."
At the same instant Conville bounded through the door and rushed to the
window. As he reached the sash Wilkins let go, and plunged downwards.
His descent was rapid, his position being discernible from the sagging
of the canvas.
Barney started for the elevator in the hope of cutting off the valet's
escape below, but he had miscalculated the force of gravitation. As
McAllister reached the window he saw the little bulge that represented
Wilkins slide gently to the bottom. There was a cheer from the
bystanders as the convict stepped lightly to his feet. Then he turned
for an instant, and, looking up at McAllister, waved his hand and
disappeared among the crowd.