street; and with some difficulty he raced forward and swung himself
aboard. A backward glance showed that his bearded friend was nowhere in
sight, and Lawrence smiled again.
Nevertheless, he did not relax his vigilance. Making his way through to
the front of the car, he sat down on one of the little seats just behind
the motorman, and made no attempt to alight until Madison Avenue had
been reached. Here he slipped off, dodged around the front of the car,
slid across the slippery pavement, and was engulfed in the comparative
shadow of the Manhattan in an instant.
The three blocks to Forty-fifth were passed in as many minutes. Around
the corner of the cross street, however, he sought a secluded doorway,
and waited patiently for as much as five minutes, with the pleasant,
ever-growing conviction that his man had been eluded.
"Not quite clever enough, my friend," he murmured, as he crossed the
dark and rather silent street, heading for the bright entrance of the
St. Albans near Fifth Avenue.
Part way down the block stood a pair of old-fashioned brownstone houses,
and, as he passed the shadowy bulk of the first high stoop, Barry
chuckled again.
"Not quite clever enough," he repeated amusedly. "You'll have to get up
a trifle early to----"
Crash! From behind, something struck his head with a crushing force
that sent him to his knees, stick flying one way, top hat the other.
With a hoarse cry of anger, he strove dazedly to turn and grapple with
the unknown assailant. Before he could do so the heavy weapon descended
for the second time. There was a shower of stars, a sickening sense of
faintness, and, with a groan, Lawrence toppled forward on his face, to
lie still and silent on the icy pavement.
*CHAPTER XII.*
*PUZZLED.*
How long Barry Lawrence lay there unconscious he did not know.
Afterward he realized that it could have been no more than a minute or
two, but at the moment he was too occupied with what was occurring near
him to waste time on that score.
Even before he opened his eyes he was vaguely aware that a struggle was
going on close at hand. The thud of feet, the heavy breathing, mingled
with occasional oaths, subdued, but fervent, told him that, and acted as
a spur on his dazed senses.
A moment later, as he pulled himself to a crouching position on the
pavement, he discerned through the darkness two figures swaying in close
embrace a dozen feet away.
What did it mean? Who were they? He could not understand why they were
fighting there, instead of carrying out the object of their attack on
him. Then, as his sight cleared, he suddenly discovered that one of
them was the bulky man in the soft hat whom he had lately been pluming
himself on having given the slip so completely. The other was taller
and wore no overcoat; beyond that Lawrence could make out no
distinguishing features.
Suddenly, out of the bewildering chaos of Barry's mind, came the swift
realization that one of these men was apparently on his side. There
could be no question that one was fighting in his behalf to prevent the
other from carrying out the object of the cowardly attack, whatever that
might be.
Of reason or motive for that attack, Barry knew none, but he was
strongly moved for a moment to join in the mix-up, and get in a blow or
two he was aching to deliver. He even secured his hat and stick, and
was on the point of struggling to his feet, when he remembered that he
had no idea which was the friend and which the enemy. He was not even
sure that either of them was a friend.
What could he do?
The answer came on the very heels of the unspoken question. The gate in
the low, old-fashioned iron fence close beside him was partly open.
Beyond loomed the friendly shadow of the high stoop.
Instinctively, with his brain still a little muddled from the blow he
had received, Barry crept silently through the gate, casting a swift,
sidelong glance at the struggling pair. He saw that the taller man was
evidently getting the worst of if, and apparently trying his best to
break away. In another moment the fellow with the beard would be
free--free to return and complete his work; for by this time Lawrence
had come to the conclusion that he was the one responsible for the
assault.
Without a second's delay the Harvard man slipped through the gate and
closed it softly behind him. Rising to his feet, but stooping low, he
felt his way forward, went down a couple of steps, and pushed against
the iron grille which gave access to a space under the stoop, and thence
to the basement door.
To his surprise it yielded to his touch, and a moment later he was
ensconced in the little square, dark space, the grille closed and
latched, peering through the openings in the ornate wrought ironwork.
He was no more than safe before he heard the beat of running feet on the
pavement, and saw a tall, thin figure dart past his hiding place, and
disappear toward Madison Avenue. An instant later another, bulkier
shadow appeared more slowly, and paused by the low fence.
It was the mysterious person with the beard, and Barry shrank swiftly
back, wondering what he meant to do.
There was a moment's pause; then the low gate was pushed open, and the
stranger stepped toward the grille. Reaching it, he shook it briskly,
but the latch held. From where he had retreated in the shadow, with one
arm thrown up to prevent his face from being seen, Barry heard the
unknown give a guttural growl of mingled surprise and impatience. A
brief pause followed, during which his irregular breathing sounded clear
and distinct. Then he turned and walked back to the sidewalk, the gate
clicking behind him.
For a minute or two Barry did not move, but at length, unable to
restrain his curiosity, he stole to the grille and peered through. The
stranger was still standing near the fence, gazing intently up and down
the street. Presently he disappeared toward Madison Avenue, and Barry,
after waiting a few moments, undid the grille and stole out.
Peering over the fence, the Harvard man watched the mysterious stranger
move slowly down the street, staring keenly into every doorway as he
passed it. Finally, at the corner, he paused, glanced swiftly back,
stood for some time undecided, then vanished from sight.
The instant the man was gone, Barry emerged, and made his way straight
back to the hotel. He managed to brush his top hat into some semblance
of decency, and rid his coat of the bits of ice and snow which clung to
it. Happily the elevator boy was half asleep, and did not notice
anything unusual in his appearance, so that Lawrence reached his rooms
without attracting undue comment.
His first move was to examine the lump on his head, which felt about the
size of a billiard ball. He had a feeling that his hair must be smeared
and clotted with blood, and was agreeably surprised to find that the
skin had scarcely been broken. The weapon, whatever it was, had
evidently struck just the right spot to produce momentary
unconsciousness, without doing any very permanent damage.
Stripping off his clothes, and getting into pajamas and a loose dressing
gown, Barry bathed the bump carefully with warm water, then with cold,
placed a wet towel against it, and sat down to think over the night's
experiences.
They had certainly not lacked interest and excitement. When he started
out in that whimsical manner from the Waldorf he had expected nothing
quite like this.
The last adventure naturally received his attention first. Who was the
bearded man, and why had he such an interest in Lawrence? Remembering
the distasteful encounter with Tappin at the Waldorf, Barry wondered
whether it were possible that the bank president had set his detectives
again on the trail.
Swiftly he thrust the idea aside. Though he realized that the sudden
display of affluence on the part of one who had so short a time ago been
in abject poverty was sufficient reason for Tappin to make another
effort to find out what had become of the missing funds, Lawrence did
not see how there could possibly have been time to get into
communication with the agency, and summon a detective to the hotel.
"I left them at table," he murmured aloud, his forehead wrinkled in a
puzzled manner. "No one could know where I was going--I didn't even
know myself; yet that fellow was waiting outside the Broadway
restaurant."
With Tappin eliminated, what motive remained? Was the bearded man a
common thief who had marked him down as a profitable undertaking? Had
he by any chance caught a glimpse of the serpent ring? Barry had not
been oblivious to the fact that the unique jewel had attracted attention
in many quarters that evening; and now, as he lifted his hand, and
surveyed the great, square, dully gleaming stone, with its strange
setting, he wondered suddenly whether there was anything uncanny about
the thing. He had read before of jewels like this coming out of the
mysterious East, and leaving a trail of violence in their wake. Perhaps
there was something about it----
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed aloud, springing to his feet. "I'm getting dippy!
This is New York City, and the twentieth century. Such things can't
happen here. I'm going to bed."
But after the lights were out, and he had stretched himself luxuriously
between the fine sheets, the puzzle returned to torment him. How long it
might have kept him restlessly awake he did not know. Fortunately his
mind suddenly jumped to the more restful and infinitely more attractive
subject of Shirley Rives.
She affected him in a way no girl had ever done before. There was an
impalpable charm about her which he could not define, but which was very
powerful; a curve to her lips that fascinated him even to think of now.
If he only had a little influence in the proper quarters it might be
possible to find her a position. But, no! That wouldn't do at all. He
realized suddenly that hateful gossip and slander had started from
slighter beginnings than that.
Still, something must be done. It was intolerable to think of her being
placed again in the horrible position from which he had rescued her that
evening. Something should be done. He must think up a scheme.
Probably one would come to him in the morning, when he was fresh, and
not so utterly fagged out as he was this minute.
So he dropped asleep, the last thing before his eyes a vivid mental
picture of the girl's face as he had last seen it, turned back to glance
at him over her shoulder; the last thought in his mind a little paean of
thanksgiving to the god of chance who had directed his footsteps that
evening to such wonderful and wholly unexpected purpose.
*CHAPTER XIII.*
*THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.*
Barry slept late, and, having brought some order out of the chaos in his
rooms, descended to breakfast with luxurious ease in the St. Albans
restaurant. The subdued lights, the gleam of silver and glass and
delicate white napery, the silent, swift-footed attention of his waiter,
were all very pleasing to Lawrence, and combined to make last night's
adventure seem more remote than ever, more the sort of accident which
might happen to any one rather than a plot directed especially toward
himself.
He spent little time considering it, for his mind was almost entirely
taken up with thoughts of Miss Rives, and how it would be possible for
him to serve her.
It would not be an easy matter; he realized that. The charming Southern
girl was not the sort to accept favors from any one and every one. The
utmost tact would have to be exercised in hitting upon just the right
kind of thing, and Barry finished his leisurely breakfast without the
shadow of an idea striking him. His only consolation was that the ten
dollars he had given her would keep poverty at bay for two or three days
at least.
"And before the end of that time I'll surely devise a way," he
reflected, as he strolled out into the hotel lobby.
"A letter for you, Mr. Lawrence," the clerk said deferentially, as he
passed the desk.
Barry took the missive with outward indifference, but with not a little
inward curiosity. He stared at the unfamiliar hand, then tore open the
flap hastily. The contents were brief, merely two lines of
undistinguished writing without superscription or signature:
For the week agreed upon, you will be good enough to lunch and dine
entirely alone.
Barry frowned. Somehow, the communication brought bitterly to his mind
a recollection of his self-imposed isolation. He was not likely to have
company at luncheon or dinner. For months he had gone his way alone,
shunning his old friends, avoiding their usual haunts, and crossing the
street on the rare occasions in which he saw them approaching. After
all this trouble to avoid cold snubs or equally abhorrent pity, he could
not imagine himself inviting them now. The request was rather
unnecessary.
As he strolled toward the door he looked the note over curiously. The
writing was irregular, almost to precision, and yet it had a certain
pleasing individuality about it. The envelope was postmarked "Madison
Square, 6 a.m." Evidently it had been taken up in the first collection.
The little man in black was apparently still in town.
Reaching the street, Lawrence thrust the communication into his pocket,
and turned toward the avenue. Beyond the purchase of a few small things
he had forgotten the day before, he had nothing whatever to do before
luncheon, and, strangely enough, the fact was not an unadulterated
pleasure. Time was--and not so very long ago--when he would have looked
upon this condition with unfeigned envy. To be well dressed and well
fed, with money in his pockets and unlimited leisure at his command, had
seemed a state beyond which there was little to desire. He knew now how
wrong he had been, and the unsigned note had driven home that knowledge.
What good were his money and his leisure if there were no one to enjoy
them with him?
"Of course, I'm not prohibited from seeing my friends outside of working
hours," he muttered, with a whimsical sort of sadness. "But the trouble
is I haven't any friends left to see."
From force of habit, he glanced up Forty-fourth Street toward the club
as he passed; but he made no attempt to cross the avenue, and continued
on his way downtown. The day was cloudless, and, though it was still
bitter cold, the wind had died down to some degree, and made walking
possible.
At Forty-second, Lawrence paused a moment or two, waiting for the stream
of crosstown traffic to pass. He had just stepped from the curb when a
hail from behind made his heart jump, and brought him to a standstill in
the middle of the car track.
"Barry!" came in a familiar voice, raised in protest. "Oh, you Barry!
Hold up!"
He turned swiftly, and the blood flamed into his face as he saw hurrying
after him the great, almost hulking figure of Jock Hamersley, the famous
Yale full back of two seasons ago.
The two fellows had chummed it at Groton. They had kept up their
friendship to a certain degree ever since, in spite of the fact that
they had different Alma Maters, and had more than once fought fiercely
against each other on the gridiron. There was no one, perhaps, whom
Lawrence would rather have seen just at this moment than big, lumbering,
good-natured, soft-hearted Jock; yet his face flushed and grew tense,
and his eyes held a touch of nervous fear as he waited for the other's
first words.
Hamersley, his big mouth stretched in a wide grin, fairly flung himself
at Barry, and gripped his hands with a force which made the bones crack.
"You blamed old quitter!" he roared. "Where have you been keeping
yourself? Haven't got my lamps on you in months--nobody has! What do
you mean by dropping all your friends as you have?"
The blood began to tingle in Barry's finger tips, and his eyes sparkled.
The sound of that booming voice was sweeter in his ears than the most
ravishing music. The sight of that great, muscular figure, clad in a
loose, woolly coat of English frieze, was a pleasure greater than the
most world-famous masterpiece of painting had ever produced. Of a
sudden he was smitten with a doubt as to whether his course had been
right or not. He stammered something vague about the trouble at the
bank, but Hamersley promptly cut him short.
"Rot!" he bellowed. "Bosh! I'd punch your head, only I'm afraid of the
concussion all that gas would make rushing out. What have you done with
the sense the Lord gave you when you think the boys paid any attention
to that stuff? You're more a fool than I thought you, and that's saying
a lot."
He had linked his arm through Barry's, and the two proceeded briskly
down the avenue together.
Within three minutes Lawrence had a feeling that nothing had ever
happened. After that first outburst, Jock slipped back into his old
manner, quite as if they had parted only the night before. He asked no
questions, even by inference, seeming content with what his companion
volunteered; and by the time they paused before the building where the
Yale man had offices, Lawrence felt as if he had come into his own
again.
"You'll lunch with me, of course," the big fellow said.
Barry's face fell. "I'm beastly sorry, Jock," he returned slowly, "but
I've an engagement. I'm booked for luncheon and dinner both."
"Humph! Well, drop in at the yacht club around five, and we'll have a
good talk. Yes? Right! Don't forget, now."
He started into the building, but was back in an instant.
"Say," he exclaimed. "There's a dance at Sherry's to-night, and I've
got an extra card. Don't start till eleven or so. How about it?"
Barry's mind was made up in a flash. That would give him time for
dinner and a call on Miss Rives. His meeting with Hamersley had set
stirring within him an intense desire to mingle with his kind, to be one
of the passing show, instead of a mere onlooker, no matter how
spectacular a part the latter was. He wanted to go to that dance. He
would go.
"That hits me all right," he said; "nothing I'd like better."
As he walked on down the street the smile still lingered on his lips.
He was thinking of what he had been twenty-four hours before. Already
the pain and suffering and sordidness of that phase of his life seemed
nebulous and unreal. At times he caught himself wondering if it had not
been an amazingly vivid and horrible nightmare.
The wheel of fortune was whirling him higher with every passing moment.
*CHAPTER XIV.*
*FOLLOWED.*
Having completed his purchases at several shops along the avenue,
Lawrence finally emerged from the last one near Thirty-first Street, and
paused on the sidewalk to consider how he should put in the time before
lunch. It was not long after twelve, and he did not feel as if he could
possibly lunch before half past one or two o'clock.
He glanced back at the dull-red facade of the Waldorf. He might go back
there and take his place among the loungers in one of the corridors or
smoking rooms, but he had an instinctive dislike for that sort of thing.
His eyes, ranging swiftly in the other direction, suddenly encountered
the shifting glance of a man who stood looking into a window of the shop
Barry had just come from; and at once Lawrence's mind, for some reason
or another, reverted to the mysterious fellow with the beard.
There was no resemblance between the two. This one was young and tall,
smooth-shaven, and very blond. His clothes, while inconspicuous, bore a
certain foreign touch which Barry had learned to recognize in that year
he had spent abroad, directly after leaving college, as secretary to
Doctor Grenfell, wealthy scientist and Harvard lecturer.
Nevertheless, there was something in that hastily averted glance he had
surprised which made Lawrence wonder whether the unknown stranger was
anything more than an ordinary lounger, and decided him to put into
operation a little test he had found extremely effective during his late
unpleasant experience with Tappin's detectives.
Still swinging his stick gently back and forth and humming a tune under
his breath, he turned and began to survey the man critically. Slowly
his gaze wandered from the narrow-brimmed, precisely dented felt hat,
down the length of belted overcoat to the narrow, flat, rather clumsily
shaped shoes. Then he reversed the process. And when his eyes came to
rest upon the strong, rather rough-hewn profile presented to him, Barry
was interested to observe that the stranger was fidgeting nervously, and
that a dull red was slowly stealing upward from the high, close-fitting
collar.
All this proved nothing, for any man was likely to be embarrassed by
being stared at in such a pointed way. But when, as the scrutiny
continued, the fellow finally turned from the window, and walked slowly
on down the avenue, without so much as a glance at Barry, the latter
felt that his suspicions were more than justified. An ordinary
individual would have glared at him, or shown other signs of ill temper.
The affair was only beginning, however, and, as Lawrence moved leisurely
toward Thirty-first Street, he decided that he would have no difficulty
in being entertained until luncheon time.
Rounding the corner, he hurried toward Broadway for a hundred feet or
so, then stopped abruptly to look into a shop window.
As he expected, the blond individual appeared almost instantly, crossed
the street, and came briskly along on the opposite side.
From that moment the game progressed merrily for nearly an hour. Barry
did not exert himself at first. He wanted to test the stranger's
cleverness, so he confined himself to entering one door of a department
store or hotel, and hastily departing by another; leaping on a surface
car just as it was starting, only to alight as swiftly a few blocks
farther on, and take one going in the opposite direction.
These, and half a dozen other tricks of a like nature, he tried, only to
end up at Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue with the blond fellow
sticking to him like a leech.
"He's no slouch," Barry reflected, as he turned slowly eastward. "I
reckon I'll have to be a little spryer."
Turning uptown at Fifth Avenue, he kept a sharp lookout for a solitary
taxi. When one finally came along behind him, he hailed it swiftly, ran
out into the street, and leaped in almost before the car had come to a
stop.
"Metropolitan Building--Madison Avenue entrance," he said quickly.
"Hustle!"
The chauffeur did hustle, and Lawrence, glancing back through the little
window, was pleased to see his pursuer swiftly lost in the crowd of
noon-day pedestrians.
There was a short delay at the Flatiron Building, then the car sped up
the west side of the square, on account of traffic regulations, east
along Twenty-sixth, and thence into Madison. It was just as they
rounded the last corner that Lawrence spied another flying taxi which
seemed to be following them.
He had a bill ready, however, and, as the car slowed down, he leaped
out, thrust it into the chauffeur's hand, and darted into the building.
The arcade was full of people moving in both directions, and Barry,
hurrying through them, slipped suddenly into a little cigar store midway
to Fourth Avenue, which had another entrance on Twenty-third Street.
Less than a minute later he was diving into the subway entrance.
Fortunately a local was just drawing into the station, and, as he took
his seat, he chuckled a little to himself.
"You'll have some trouble in following that trail, my friend," he
murmured.
He got out at Fourteenth Street, and took an uptown train, but long
before reaching Fifty-ninth Street the smile had vanished, and a puzzled
frown furrowed his forehead.
There seemed no doubt now that his encounter with the bearded man last
night had not been the result of chance. He was being followed
deliberately, and there were at least two men who seemed tremendously
interested in every move he made. What was their object? What motive
governed this inexplicable pursuit?
Try as he would, Barry could find no answer to the questions. If they
had been attracted by the emerald ring, and were following him for the
purpose of robbery--and last night's experience certainly pointed
strongly toward that solution--what earthly sense was there in the
actions of the blond stranger? Did he expect to sandbag and rob a
victim in broad daylight, amid the crowds which swarmed the city
streets? It was absurd, Barry told himself, yet what else was there to
think?