THE DEMAND FOR MONEY
“Oh, what shall we do—what shall we do?”
It was Mrs. Wadsworth who uttered the words. She sat in the luxuriously
furnished living room of the Wadsworth mansion, wringing her hands while
the tears stood on her cheeks. In front of her was the rich jewelry
manufacturer, pacing up and down and biting his lip in deep thought.
“Don’t take it so hard, Alice, my dear,” said the husband in a husky
voice. “It’ll come out all right—I am sure it will.”
“But, Oliver, I am so frightened! Think of those poor girls in the hands
of those awful gypsies—or somebody just as bad, or worse! It’s dreadful!
I can’t bear to think of it!” and Mrs. Wadsworth’s tears began to flow
afresh.
In a corner of the library sat old Caspar Potts, white-haired and with
eyes that were no longer bright. The professor’s head was shaking from
side to side.
“I wish Davy were here,” he quavered. “I’m sure that boy could do
something.”
“He has telegraphed that he is on the way, along with Roger Morr,” said
Mr. Wadsworth.
“Good! Good! He’ll do something—I know he will! Davy is a great boy!”
and the old professor nodded his head vigorously. Ever since he had
taken our hero from the poorhouse years before, Dave had been the very
apple of his eye.
Oliver Wadsworth walked to a writing-table, and from one of the
compartments drew a much-rumpled sheet of paper, which had come to him
in a dirty envelope several days before. The envelope had been
post-marked, “Halwick,” the name of a town about thirty miles away.
“What are you going to do about that demand for money?” questioned Mrs.
Wadsworth, as she watched her husband peruse the note—something he had
done a great number of times.
“I don’t know,” he answered helplessly. “We have been given at least ten
days in which to raise it, so there is no great hurry about deciding the
question.”
“Is Mr. Porter in favor of meeting the demand?”
“He is like myself, he doesn’t know what to do. He and Dunston Porter
are both of the opinion that this demand for fifty thousand dollars may
be just the forerunner of other demands. They may want every cent all of
us are worth before they give the two girls up,” added the jewelry
manufacturer.
“But, Oliver! if you don’t give them the money——”
“I know, I know, Alice. We’ll have to fix it up somehow,” answered the
husband hastily. Then he sat down beside her and put his arm around her
shoulder. “Please don’t worry so. I am sure we’ll be able to fix this
matter up somehow sooner or later, and that the girls will come back
safely.”
“Oh, I wish I could believe you!” burst out the distressed woman. And
then, unable to control herself longer, she burst into a passionate fit
of weeping, and betook herself away to her bedroom.
From outside came the sound of an automobile rolling along the gravel
roadway, and looking from a window the manufacturer saw Dave’s father
alight, followed by Dunston Porter. Both showed signs of weariness, and
the look on the face of each betokened keen disappointment.
“Any success?” demanded the jewelry manufacturer quickly, as the pair
entered the house.
“Nothing worth speaking about,” answered Dunston Porter. “We hired
another detective and sent him off to Halwick.”
“The authorities have no news whatever,” added Dave’s father. “They have
received telegrams from all the large cities within three hundred miles
of this place, and not a trace of the girls has come to light. They
claim that it’s the strangest disappearance on record.”
“But this demand for money——” began Oliver Wadsworth.
“Yes, they are trying to sift that out, too. But they don’t seem to be
able to get anywhere with it. They have advised that you continue to
keep quiet about it, and they said they would keep quiet, too.
Nevertheless, I think the news has leaked out somehow.”
“Let me see that letter again,” said Dunston Porter, and perused the
communication as carefully as the jewelry manufacturer had done. It was
written in heavy lead pencil in evidently a disguised hand, and was as
follows:
“The to girls Jessie Wadsworth and Laura Porter are safe in our
hands. We will take good care of them but you wil haf to pay the
price and do it inside of ten days or two weeks at longest. We mean
busines so no funy work. We want fifty thousand dollars from you Mr.
Wadsworth and from them Porters. Each of you can pay as much of the
amount as you plese. We want the money in cash and wil send you word
just were it is to be placed and at what time. If you fale us you
will be mighty sory for we mean busines. Dont make no mistak about
that. If you pay the money as we want the girls will be back home
safe inside of two days and not a hare of there head harmed. Now
take warning for we mean busines and wont stand for no nonsence.”
“This was either written by a very illiterate person or else by somebody
who tried to make out he was such,” was Dunston Porter’s comment.
“I think it is just such a letter as one of those young gypsies might
write,” answered Dave’s father. “Most of them have some education, but
not a great deal.”
Both Mr. Wadsworth and Dave’s father had had a great deal of business to
attend to during the past few weeks, and Dunston Porter had been kept
busy assisting Mr. Basswood in turning the vacant land on the outskirts
of Crumville into building plots and offering them for sale. But since
the unexpected and mysterious disappearance of the two girls all
thoughts of business had been brushed aside.
“Dave and Roger ought to be here almost any time now,” remarked Dunston
Porter. “But what good their coming on the scene is going to do, I can’t
surmise.”
“You can’t blame them for wanting to come after receiving such news,”
remarked Mr. Wadsworth. “Dave, I know, thinks a great deal of his
sister, and you all know that he and Jessie think a great deal of each
other.”
“Yes. And I know that Roger has his eye on Laura,” answered the girl’s
father. “And she thinks a great deal of the young man.”
At that moment the telephone rang, and Dunston Porter went to answer it.
A telegram was telephoned to him.
“Dave and Roger are now on their way from Albany,” he announced. “They
will be here in about an hour. I think I’ll run down to the depot in the
auto and meet them.” And so it was arranged.
There were no passengers as eager as Dave and Roger to leave the train
when it rolled into the little station at Crumville. Dunston Porter was
on hand, and they gazed eagerly at his face to see if it bore any signs
of good news.
“No, I’ve got nothing to cheer you with,” he announced, after shaking
hands and conducting them to the auto, into the tonneau of which they
pitched their suit-cases. “We haven’t the least idea where they are or
how they disappeared.”
“But, Uncle Dunston, you must have some news!” pleaded Dave.
“At least you can tell us how and when they left home and what was the
last word you had from them,” said Roger.
“They made up their minds to go to Boston to visit Jessie’s aunt, Mrs.
Brightling, just about two weeks ago,” answered Dave’s uncle. “They
spent two or three days in getting ready; and then a week ago this
Wednesday they started on the trip, Mrs. Wadsworth and the chauffeur
taking them down to the depot. They carried one trunk, which was checked
through to Boston, and Laura had a suit-case, and both of the girls had
handbags. They had through tickets to Boston, and got on the train; and
that was the last we saw or heard of them.
“We had expected to get a letter from Laura, and the Wadsworths expected
a letter from Jessie, stating that they had arrived safely. When no
letters came, Mrs. Wadsworth got nervous, and as a result she asked her
husband to send a telegram to find out what was wrong.
“The telegram had just been sent when a telegram was received from Mrs.
Brightling, asking how it was that the girls had not come on as
expected. Then she telegraphed a little later that she had not seen them
nor heard from them.
“A search was made at the depot in Boston, and the trunk was found just
as it had been checked from here. The suit-case the girls had kept with
them on the train.”
“But didn’t they meet anybody on the train who knew them?” questioned
Dave.
“No one that we have heard from up to the present time. We have been
making a number of inquiries, and, of course, expect to make more. You
see, the people they met on the train were going away from Crumville, so
that makes it difficult to follow them up. And besides that, so much
time was lost in the first place, that I suppose a good many people
would forget, even if they had seen them on the train.”
“But didn’t they have parlor-car chairs?” questioned Dave.
“No. The train had only one parlor car on it, and that was crowded. Mr.
Wadsworth had telegraphed for seats, but there had been some mix-up, and
as a consequence the girls had to put up with seats in one of the day
coaches. Mrs. Wadsworth told them they had better wait for another
train, but they laughed and said that they would rather go into one of
the day coaches than lose the time.”
During this conversation Dunston Porter had started up the automobile
and was on the way to the Wadsworth mansion. In a few minutes more they
rolled up to the piazza, and there Dave’s father and Mr. Wadsworth came
out to greet them, followed by the trembling form of Professor Potts.
It was a sorry home-coming for our hero, and Roger was equally affected.
They shook hands with those who were there to greet them, and for the
moment the emotions of all were so deep that nobody trusted himself to
speak. All went inside, and it was old Caspar Potts who broke the
silence.
“If I were only a younger man!” he said in a trembling voice. “Davy,
it’s up to you to do something—you and your friend Roger.”
“I’m going to do it if I possibly can, Professor,” answered the youth,
huskily.
All sat down and the Crumville folks gave to the young civil engineers
all the particulars they had concerning the strange disappearance of the
two girls.
“And are you quite sure it is the work of those gypsies?” queried Roger.
“I don’t see who else would play such a dirty trick,” responded Mr.
Wadsworth.
“Dave has another idea,” went on the senator’s son.
“What is that?” asked Dunston Porter quickly, while the others looked up
questioningly.
“I’ve been wondering if Nick Jasniff wasn’t connected with this affair,”
answered Dave.
“Nick Jasniff!” exclaimed Oliver Wadsworth. “You mean the fellow I
helped to put in prison?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you think he could have had anything to do with it?”
“I’ll tell you,” answered our hero. And thereupon he related how he and
Roger had first seen Nick Jasniff in the vicinity of the construction
camp, and how, later on, he had been instrumental in having Jasniff sent
away from the camp, and then how he had met the rascal on the road, had
a fight, and lost the two letters and the contents of his pocketbook.
“I ought to have written about this, but I didn’t want to worry you
folks too much,” he concluded.
“Dave, you may have struck the truth!” burst out Mr. Wadsworth
excitedly. “It would be just like that rascal to do such a thing as
this. And besides that, you must remember one thing—Jasniff was not
pardoned.”
“Not pardoned!” burst out our hero and Roger simultaneously.
“No, he was not pardoned,” answered the jewelry manufacturer. “His case
came up before the Board of Pardons, and after a hearing they
recommended a pardon for him to the governor. But before the governor
signed the order to let him go, Jasniff made his escape from the prison
and ran away. Then, of course, the recommendation for a pardon was torn
up and thrown in the waste-basket; so if the fellow is ever captured he
can go back to prison and serve his term over again.”