thought of outwitting this fellow who had been so annoying, Barry slid
over to the stairs, and began to feel his way up them with extreme
caution. He was not more than halfway up before the fellow clattering
down for the lantern gave him a chance to take the remainder of the
flight in two jumps without risk of being overheard. The next instant,
however, he was halted in his tracks by the appearance of Joyce at the
foot of the stairs.
As long as the fellow stood there it was impossible to move without
being discovered, so Barry possessed his soul with patience, trusting
that, when the light arrived, they would enter the front room first, and
give him a chance to find a way to the roof.
Meanwhile, he stretched out one hand, and began to explore with his
fingers everything within reach. The stairs curved sharply about three
steps from the top, and just around the corner Lawrence touched the
handle of a door. From its position he knew that it could lead into
nothing more than a shallow closet. On the other side of the narrow
hall was nothing but smooth wall, with here and there a sagging strip of
moldy paper. Underfoot the floor was as bare, carpetless as the rest of
the house.
Presently the sound of thudding footsteps came to Barry's ears again,
and a moment later the fitful, dancing gleams of light below told him
that the man was hurrying back with the lantern.
"Hustle up, Billy!" Joyce cried impatiently. "You come along, too, Jim.
Don't need more than one to stay by the door. He can't get past us."
Under cover of the noise below, Lawrence gripped the knob of the closet
door, and wrenched it open. It came with a reluctant screech of rusty
hinges which sent his heart into his throat, but apparently the sound
passed unnoticed. Joyce was giving rapid directions to his men, and,
when one of them finally had been stationed at the door of the back
room, the other two advanced to the front of the lower hall.
"Better come out peaceable, Lawrence," Barry heard him say. "You're
cornered, and can't possibly get away."
There was no answer, of course. With a muttered exclamation, the
detective thrust open the lower door, calling to his men to look sharp,
and leaped into the room, followed closely by his companion with the
light.
Instantly Barry pressed the switch of the pocket light, and flashed it
swiftly around the hall. There was no sign of any ladder, or even a
skylight. Was it possible there was no way to the roof? Desperate, he
whirled around, and turned the shaft of light into the closet. His eyes
fell on the lower rungs of a ladder, and he gave a sigh of relief.
There was not an instant to lose, for they would soon find that he had
left the second floor. He meant to be more cautious than ever, but,
supposing the closet to be as empty as the rest of the house, he gave no
thought to the possible presence of obstacles. The result was that he
struck an unseen shelf with his head and shoulders, and the next moment
an empty can of some sort clattered down, and rolled out into the hall
with noise enough to wake the dead.
There was a shout of surprise and triumph from below, followed by the
sound of running feet, but Barry waited to hear no more. Slamming the
door behind him, he darted up the ladder, one hand outstretched before
him. When the fingers encountered a rusty bolt, he struck it out of the
socket with one blow of his clenched fist. Then, with lowered head, he
brought his powerful shoulders against the skylight with all the force
of his trained muscles.
Bang! bang! bang! Three times he flung himself against something as
immovable as rock. Bang! bang! The wooden covering creaked ominously,
but scarcely gave at all, and Barry groaned inwardly at the sudden
recollection of the ice and snow which must be spread over it, sealing
it most effectually.
Scrambling up another step, he placed his shoulders against the boards
and heaved strenuously. As he struggled in desperation he heard his
pursuers reach the hall below, and a hand rattled the knob of the closet
door.
"He's in here, fellows," came in a muffled voice, then, just as the door
was jerked open, admitting a stream of light to the dark hole, Lawrence
gave a final heave, and tumbled his way out on the flat, snowy roof,
white and gleaming in the brilliant starlight of the cloudless night.
Like a flash he had whirled around and slammed the cover back on the
skylight. In another second he was running with long, lithe, silent
strides across the roof.
Recklessly he leaped a low parapet to the next roof, raced across its
narrow, white expanse, cleared the second parapet, and had almost
reached the third when the lifting of the skylight behind him made him
stop like a flash and huddle down behind a chimney.
For a second he crouched there, breathing hard. Barely six feet beyond
was an abrupt descent to a lower roof. Just how much of a drop it was
he could not tell, but it could scarcely be too great for him to make
it. The houses all seemed much the same general height.
He wished that he had kept on to the parapet, and risked their seeing
him. It would be much harder to do it now unobserved, yet he could not
stay where he was. The minute they found his footprints in the snow
they had only to follow the trail, and nab him by the chimney. What a
fool he was not to have thought of that before!
A stealthy glance around the brick chimney showed him that two of the
pursuers had emerged onto the roof, but were apparently waiting for the
others. He had a moment more of grace, and instantly he began to back
noiselessly toward the dividing wall.
He reached it safely; then, just as he was lowering himself over, some
one sighted him, and sounded the alarm.
Barry dropped like a flash, and, landing, somewhat shaken, up, about six
feet below, spun around, and started across the roof. Even in his haste
he noticed that the snow here had been cleared away in a square space,
about which were hung lines for drying clothes. There was no ice on the
scuttle, either, and without a moment's hesitation he dropped on his
knees and pulled hard at the wooden frame.
It was unlatched, and, with a gasp of joy, Lawrence jerked it up, and
slid into the opening. In his haste his foot missed the ladder, and the
scuttle, descending with cruel force on his fingers, very nearly sent
him tumbling into the hall below.
He managed to keep his grip, however, till his feet were planted on the
ladder. Then, with a grunt of pain, he released his hands, and fairly
flung himself down the remaining rungs.
At the bottom he paused a second, fumbling for the flash light. He
realized that he was not much better off than he had been on the roof.
Joyce and his gang would certainly suspect where he had gone, and, ten
to one, would follow. He could not linger, therefore, and the instant
he found the location of the stairs he hurried down them, praying
inwardly that he might meet no one before he reached the door.
The thought had scarcely passed through his mind before he realized that
some one was coming up from the hall below. He stopped and listened.
It was a slow, heavy tread, but the sound of skirts brushing against the
wall told him that it was a woman. She held a candle in her hand, and
the wavering light, flickering against the wall, kept pace with her slow
ascent.
Would she stop at the second floor, or come on to where he stood in a
curve of the next flight of stairs? That was the question which pounded
monotonously through Barry's brain as he watched that spot of light
creep higher and higher. If she did not have to pass him, there was a
good chance of his escaping after she had gone into her room. If not--
As she climbed the last step and stood there, panting heavily, Lawrence
scarcely dared take a breath. Then, with infinite thankfulness, he saw
her step forward, and turn the knob of one of the doors opening off the
passage. The latch clicked, and in a moment more she would have been
out of the way, had not there come to her ears the unmistakable sound of
the scuttle being raised.
With a sharp ejaculation of surprise and fear, she turned about, and
took a quick step straight toward where Lawrence was crouching. For a
second the latter stood as one paralyzed, staring at the face now
plainly visible in the light of the candle.
It was the coarse, evil face of Mrs. Kerr, his old landlady. He had
stumbled into that very house on Twenty-fourth Street which had been the
scene of so much despair and misery, and which he had never expected to
see again.
*CHAPTER XXVI.*
*THE HAND OF FATE.*
The woman did not come forward immediately, but stood staring upward, in
the attitude of one listening. It was a very brief space of time, to be
sure, but it gave Barry a chance to pull himself together and recover
from the petrifying amazement that had stricken him at the discovery
that he was actually in his old lodging house.
When at length another sound from above started her toward him again,
Lawrence had recovered his wits, and seized upon the only possible
chance which was left him.
"Good evening, Mrs. Kerr," he said blandly, leisurely descending the
remaining few steps. "I left a few small personal belongings in my
room, and----"
The expression on the woman's face as she staggered back against the
railing was so extraordinary that it fairly took Barry's breath away.
There was amazement, of course, and a quick gasp of fear escaped her
lips, but in a second every other emotion was swallowed up in a kind of
triumphant gloating which was horrible to see.
"So you're back," she said, in an odd, suppressed voice. "I begun to
think I wasn't never goin' to see you, an' here you are of your own free
will Luck, I calls it--nothin' but luck."
Lawrence's first thought was that she had been drinking, and a moment
later he saw that she was creeping closer to him, with a crablike
motion, at the same time maneuvering so as to block the narrow passage.
What her idea was he could not conceive, but he had no desire to be
detained a second longer, especially as the sounds from above told him
that Joyce and his men were already descending the ladder from the roof.
"Isn't it luck?" he agreed, smiling genially. "Of course, I never
thought I'd find you up at this hour, but, since I have, I may as well
give you what you want right now."
He thrust one hand into an inner pocket, as if to produce something, and
the next instant had leaped forward, snatching the candle from her as he
did so. As he darted past her in the darkness, he felt a futile clutch
of hands on his coat, and then her voice was raised in a series of
piercing shrieks: "Help! Murder! Jim! Jim!"
Taking the stairs in great leaps, Lawrence thought he had never heard
such bedlam in his life. The woman continued to scream at the top of
her voice. Somewhere a door was jerked open, and a man's harsh voice,
adding to the tumult, accelerated Barry's flight.
He flung himself at the door, one hand instinctively touched the spring
lock, while the other yanked it open. He had the wit to remember a
second antiquated catch, seldom used, and ponderous to undo, and
promptly snapped it down before slamming the door behind him.
Without an instant's hesitation, he ran straight toward Tenth Avenue.
Fortunately the street was dark and deserted, and he reached the corner
without encountering any one.
As he whirled around into the avenue, he looked swiftly backward, and
saw the door of Mrs. Kerr's house burst open, throwing a shaft of light
out across the icy sidewalk. Into that path of light two figures
hurried--one tall, thin, and wearing a slouch hat; the other chunky and
shapeless.
"My dear landlady and Jim, whoever he may be," Lawrence murmured, as he
started briskly south on the avenue. "I wish 'em the joy of their hunt
for me. What an old harridan that woman is! She positively made my
flesh creep when she was coming at me in the hall. Wonder what she was
after?"
He did not waste much thought on the matter, however. Very likely the
woman was drunk, and it was rather startling for her to encounter a man
who did not belong in the house. At all events, it was immaterial. He
had managed to get out of the scrape successfully, so he devoted himself
to brushing off his coat and hat, and putting on his gloves, while
hastening toward the car line on Twenty-third Street.
He was more than thankful for the whim which had caused him to wear a
soft hat of black velour. It had stayed with him through all the
excitement of the evening, and now needed only a deft touch or two to
make it quite presentable.
As the car bowled eastward at a good clip, Barry chuckled one or twice
at the thought of Joyce's discomfiture when driven back to the roof by
those piercing shrieks from Mrs. Kerr.
"He'll be mad as a wet hen," he thought amusedly. "Serves him right,
though, for trying such a game."
Altogether, Barry was very much pleased with the way things had turned
out. While he had come no nearer to solving the mystery which seemed to
surround him, he had at least learned the lesson of caution, and it
would be an extremely difficult matter to catch him unawares as he had
been caught to-night.
He was very much annoyed, of course, at having been forced to break his
engagement with Jock and the others, but that had not been his fault,
and his explanation must appease them. It was only half past ten now,
and perhaps he could get hold of the Yale man that night. Hamersley
would certainly be entertained by a recital of the evening's
experiences.
Entering the lobby of the St. Albans a little later, he was hurrying
toward the telephones with that idea in mind, when one of the clerks
stopped him.
"Just a moment, Mr. Lawrence," he called. "Here's a letter for you,
which should have been delivered yesterday. It was sent to the St.
Athol by mistake, and reached us after you went out this evening."
Barry took the letter, and stared at the unfamiliar writing in a puzzled
way. Then he tore open the envelope, and hastily took out the several
sheets of closely written note paper it contained. The next instant, as
he caught sight of the inclosure, his heart began to beat loudly and
irregularly, flooding his face with flaming crimson.
It was a crisp, new ten-dollar bill, and, though he turned the pages
with slightly trembling fingers to find the signature, it really was not
necessary. Deep down in his heart he knew that it was from Shirley
Rives.
*CHAPTER XXVII.*
*THE LETTER.*
For a moment or two Lawrence stood there staring at the name. Then,
pulling himself together, he turned on his heel, and made for the
elevator. Whatever the letter contained, it was impossible to read it
down there.
Once in his sitting room, he switched on the lights, and, flinging
himself into a chair without even taking time to remove his coat,
plunged into a perusal of the letter:
MY DEAR MR. LAWRENCE: As I sit here in a perfectly charming boudoir,
done in blue, with lovely old mahogany furniture, the things you said
last night about the strangeness of chance come irresistibly back to me.
I could not help but feel then that fate or destiny, or what you will,
must have had something to do with bringing us together, and perhaps
that was why I let myself drift with the current in a manner which was,
to say the least, decidedly unconventional. Really, you know, I'm not
in the habit of taking supper and favors from men I've never seen
before!
The story you told of what had happened to you was unreal enough in all
conscience, but never for an instant did I imagine when I left you that
something infinitely more extraordinary, something a thousand times more
impossible, was coming to me.
Lawrence started and frowned with perplexity; but he reflected that
scarcely anything could be unbelievable after what had already
transpired. He went on reading eagerly:
It is much too long to put into writing. Besides, I have a notion that
I'd like to tell it to you, so I'll only give you enough to whet your
appetite and stir your curiosity.
I went into that house on Forty-eighth Street despairing,
hopeless--perhaps not quite so hopeless as I had been two hours before;
but, still, I had little enough to hope for. I tried my best to keep
you from seeing how utterly miserable I was and how completely at my
wits' end, but I think you guessed something of it in spite of my
efforts.
I was there for less than ten minutes, then I came away in a private
brougham with a woman I had never seen before. There were two men on
the box. Inside there were furs--soft, luxurious furs--into which one
could snuggle down and be warm at last. There was some sort of electric
heating apparatus, and I could smell the perfume of roses clustered in a
hanging vase. Do you wonder that I thought of Cinderella and the
pumpkin coach, and was afraid it would all vanish into nothing?
We drove to a splendid house on the avenue, and there I was made to go
to bed at once in a wonderful, carved, four-poster, with silk hangings.
This morning it was still there; it had not vanished in the night. I
had not dreamed it, or, if I had, I am dreaming still.
Lawrence laughed aloud; but he wondered if he himself were not dreaming.
But he finished the letter with no lessening of interest:
At first I went about in a sort of daze, but, little by little, I'm
becoming convinced that it is real. We have been shopping all morning,
and somehow the quantities of lovely clothes which are constantly
arriving are not like dream clothes. There is a dance, to-night, too.
Fancy going to a dance again! That's almost the most impossible thing
of all. It isn't really so long since the last one, but I feel as if I
had lived a thousand years since then.
Isn't it stranger than any fairy tale? Do you wonder that I feel as if
this wasn't Shirley Rives at all, but some one else? And, stranger than
anything else is the fact that I owe it all to you and your helping me
through the "Gates of Chance" last night. If I had come straight to
Sally's, as I meant to, nothing would have happened. If we had not met
in the square, if we had not lingered at the restaurant, even, nothing
would have happened. If one single thing had occurred to vary the time
of my reaching the house by five short minutes, there would be nothing
to tell you now.
I know I'm perfectly hateful not to give away the secret--you see, I'm
taking it for granted that you are a little curious about it--but I have
a selfish desire to tell it to you; to try and show you something of how
strange and wonderful and utterly staggering it has all been to me. I'm
sure you'll let me, won't you--soon? Sincerely yours, SHIRLEY RIVES.
Below the girl's signature was written the address of a house in the
most exclusive section of Fifth Avenue, a section where dwelt only
people of great wealth, and usually of equally great social position.
Lawrence stared at it, his face dazed and bewildered. Then he turned
back to the first sheet, and read the letter slowly through to the very
end again. It was utterly baffling and incomprehensible, yet through it
all there ran a strain of perfect truth and high-minded sweetness which
was unmistakable. The realization of this, coupled with a remembrance
of what he had once tried to make himself believe about Shirley Rives,
brought a rush of color to his cheeks, and an expression of shame into
his pleasant face.
"She's true-blue to the very core," he murmured at length. "I can't
imagine what sort of luck it is that's come to her; the whole business
sounds like a tale from the 'Arabian Nights.' But I know one thing--I
was the biggest fool in all creation ever to have doubted her for a
second."
He glanced again at the end of the letter, and a swift smile curved his
sensitive lips.
"Will I come and let her tell me all about it?" he said aloud. "Will I?
And soon? Well, I guess yes!"
*CHAPTER XXVIII.*
*THE HOUSE ON THE AVENUE.*
Though he tried his house and one or two other places where Jock
Hamersley was likely to be at this hour, Lawrence was unable to get his
friend on the phone. Somehow, he was not altogether sorry. He
certainly owed an apology and some sort of reparation to the men he had
been forced to leave in the lurch in this abrupt, seemingly ill-mannered
fashion, but he was just as well pleased to have it all put off until
to-morrow. With a mind full of Shirley Rives and her extraordinary
letter, he did not particularly fancy the idea of doing anything but
just sit there in his room and think it all over.
Having taken off his things, and made himself comfortable, he read her
letter over for the third time, gaining nothing from this perusal save
an intense desire to see the girl as soon as he could, and hear from her
own lips the details of the amazing good fortune which had come so
opportunely.
Of course, it could not be stranger than his own experiences during the
past three days; but the manner in which it had followed so close upon
the heels of that, brought again to Barry that odd feeling of being in
the grip of circumstance, the conviction that fate was molding her life
as well as his, without consulting either of them even in the smallest
detail.
"I suppose it wouldn't be at all the thing to call there in the
morning," he thought impatiently, as he was getting into bed, long after
midnight. "Hang it all! I don't see how I'm going to restrain myself
until the conventional hour."
While he was breakfasting the next morning, however, he resolved to set
convention at defiance for this once, at least. Almost as fervent as
his desire to hear Miss Rives' story was his eagerness to set himself
right with her. He did not wish her to labor an hour longer than was
absolutely necessary under the impression that his failure to call in
answer to her letter was due to any possible lack of interest on his
part. He must see her this morning, and so he determined to send up
some flowers with his card, and the intimation that he would follow
himself in an hour or so.
On his way out he stopped at the desk to obtain some more money from the
wallet he had left in the safe. He had done this every morning, but
now, as he opened it, the realization came to him for the first time
that his supply was growing low. The thousand dollars had been placed
in one compartment, leaving his expense money in another, and, as he
took out about a hundred dollars, he was astonished to find how
comparatively little was left. He was not conscious of having been
especially extravagant, but he had obeyed the unknown donor's
injunctions to the letter, and had not spared expense.
"By Jove!" he muttered, as he left the hotel and walked toward Fifth
Avenue. "I'll have to go slow, or I'll be dipping into my capital.
It's astonishing how money melts away on comparatively little things. I
must begin to economize."
Evidently he did not mean to begin quite at once, however. He made his
way directly to an expensive flower shop on the avenue, where he
selected a huge box of very costly roses, wrote a line on his card, and
ordered them sent at once to Miss Rives. As he left the shop he
consoled himself for the flatness of his bill case by the reflection
that this was a private matter, which could be paid out of his own
money.
The hour and a half which followed seemed to pass on leaden wings.
Barry had never known a period of time to drag so boringly. He could
not enjoy his morning walk, and, though he had several errands to do,
which ordinarily would have consumed the better part of an hour, it
seemed as if the salesmen were conspiring to attend to his wants with
positively supernatural briskness.
"If I were in a hurry," he thought crossly, "I'd cool my heels in each
store for fifteen or twenty minutes. That's always the way when you
want to kill time."
At length, when the hands of his watch had crept around to eleven, Barry
squared his shoulders with a determined gesture, and, making his way
swiftly through from Broadway to the Waldorf cab stand, procured a taxi
which deposited him less than ten minutes later before a very imposing
residence up in the seventies, facing the park.
And, now that he was actually here, and the taxi dismissed, a sudden,
curious timidity began to besiege Lawrence. The marble front, with its
heavy, ornamental carvings, was almost oppressive in its atmosphere of
wealth and exclusiveness. The wonderfully wrought bronze grille which
guarded the imposing approach, even though one of the doors was flung
back, revealing the elaborate mosaic of the square entrance, seemed
fashioned for the sole purpose of excluding the presumptuous stranger
who sought admission.
The amazing contrast between this palatial residence and the desperate,
homeless girl he had encountered in Madison Square little more than
forty-eight hours before, struck Barry anew with startling force, and
made him hesitate at the foot of the broad, shallow sweep of marble
steps.