Have you forgotten how we always said you'd be taken for a foreigner
sooner or later? You wouldn't now, old chap. Give you my word, I'd
think you were a blooming Yankee if I didn't know you so well."
*CHAPTER XXXII.*
*AN EXTRAORDINARY INTERVIEW.*
It was at least three-quarters of an hour later when Lawrence left the
hotel and walked slowly toward Forty-second Street. He was puzzled,
perplexed, and rather piqued; for, in spite of all his efforts, he had
been unable to extract from the Englishman a single additional fact
which would help him solve the problem which vexed him.
Brandon evidently took him for some one else, and the resemblance must
have been astonishingly great; for it was evident that the Briton had
spent a year, if not more, with Barry's double at Cambridge.
It was the famous English university, of course, and not the equally
well-known Massachusetts college. Lawrence had realized that very early
in the talk; but, in spite of his repeated efforts, he had been unable
to elicit a single additional particular concerning his double, save the
fact that Oscar Nordstrom had evidently spent some years as a student in
England. While Brandon had plainly been on the most friendly terms with
Nordstrom, he seemed curiously ignorant regarding the man's antecedents.
"It's a queer thing from beginning to end," he murmured as he pushed
through the whirling doors of the Knickerbocker. "I wish I could find
out who I'm supposed to be. I'll wager anything that this would solve
the whole mystery."
For a moment he stood in the lobby glancing mechanically around. It was
much too early to expect Jock, and he had just made up his mind to pass
the time comfortably in the smoking room, when suddenly his eyes strayed
to the face of a woman moving slowly and gracefully toward him from the
elevator. She was tall and slim and very blond; and there was something
about her attractive face which touched a chord in Barry's memory.
Somehow the sight of her seemed to bring with it visions of a smooth,
sandy beach, with the ocean stretching out beyond it, of merry sailing
parties and clambakes, of drives and automobile excursions, and a host
of other summer pleasures.
"Southampton, of course," he muttered. "But what the mischief is her
name?"
The next instant their eyes met, and he saw that the recognition was
mutual. She gave a sudden start, and stood for a second staring
incredulously at him, a wave of color flaming into her face. Then, as
he moved forward, she seemed to recover herself, and came slowly to meet
him.
"How do you do?" she said, in a low, soft voice, which had in it an odd
note which Barry could not quite fathom. "This is a very, very great
surprise."
Hat in hand, Lawrence clasped the slender fingers she extended to him,
and smiled. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered her.
"Isn't it?" he agreed pleasantly. "But here in New York one is
constantly having surprises like this."
She raised her eyebrows a trifle. "Surely not quite--like this," she
murmured.
He laughed, racking his brain desperately for the forgotten name. "No,
of course I didn't mean just that," he returned. "This is an
exception."
He hesitated a second, wondering if she would help him out; but she made
no effort to speak. Leaning against the back of one of the crimson
velvet chairs, she seemed content simply to look at him.
"Do you know," Lawrence exclaimed, forced to say something, "that when I
saw you, my mind went back instantly to that wonderful, smooth beach,
with the cloudless blue sky above and the waves dashing up almost to
where we sat on the sand."
She smiled faintly. "I thought of that, too," she murmured; "but I saw
it all in the moonlight. With that flood of silver dancing on the water,
making everything almost as bright as day, except where the shadows of
the trees behind were denser than ever."
Lawrence did not remember any trees near the Southampton beach; but,
supposing this to be a sort of poetic license, he nodded agreement.
"It was a wonderful summer," he added. "Somehow it doesn't seem possible
that three years have passed since then."
A low, silvery laugh issued from her lips, and she tapped him lightly on
the arm.
"Always the same flatterer," she said softly. Suddenly her face grew
pensive. "Does it really seem that long to you? I've often wondered.
Men have so many things to occupy them--especially such men as you. A
woman has only her remembrances to treasure zealously, and bring out now
and then to gloat over. And memories are rather barren things
sometimes."
For an instant Lawrence stood aghast. What did she mean? Certainly he
could recall nothing of a tender nature having passed between them, and
her words were decidedly significant. He pulled himself together with an
effort; but, before he could speak, she broke the silence.
"Your voice puzzles me," she said abruptly. "It doesn't seem possible
that you can have been long enough in America to have lost every trace
of accent. Of course, it was never very noticeable; but one who knew
you well could always tell."
Barry's jaw dropped, and his face took on an expression of utter
astonishment. His accent--again! What in the world did it mean? Was it
possible that she was taking him for----
"You were talking about that summer at Southampton, of course?" he
managed to ask in an odd voice.
"Southampton?" she exclaimed, her eyes fixed intently on his face. "I
don't understand. You don't mean that you've forgotten--Cannes?"
Lawrence stood as one in a trance. "Cannes!" he muttered hoarsely,
wondering whether his brain was giving way. "I have never been in
Cannes in all my life." Then, as the belated memory came to him at
last, he gasped out: "Aren't you Miss Vera Pell?"
The woman's face turned white, and one slim, gloved hand stole upward to
her lips. Her eyes, wide, almost black with the emotion which was
rending her, were fixed on his face with a look of absolute
bewilderment.
"Are you jesting?" she managed to gasp at last. "You know that I am
Mrs. Walbridge Gordon. You could never forget--it is impossible."
As Barry did not answer, a look of utter horror flashed into her face.
She swayed a little, and put out one hand to steady herself.
"Who--are--you?" she asked, in a low, trembling voice. Then swiftly she
laughed an uneven, hysterical sort of laugh. "You are jesting with me.
It is impossible that there should be two men so absolutely alike on
earth. You must be----"
She broke off abruptly, and her eyes flashed past Barry's shoulder to
the door. The next instant a spasm of fear ripped swiftly across her
face, and her white teeth came together over her lips with a cruel force
which brought forth a tiny fleck of blood to glisten there.
"Go!" she whispered in a harsh voice. "My husband is coming. He must
not see you here."
"But--who?" Lawrence managed to mutter.
"Go, I tell you--quickly!" she repeated. She was trembling violently;
and that look of fear had come back into her face to stay. "You
must--for my sake."
Without a moment's hesitation Barry obeyed, slipping around a big
pillar. With his back squarely toward the entrance, he passed quietly
and easily through the crowd toward the telephones in the narrow passage
behind the desk.
His brain was in a seething turmoil; but overtopping every other emotion
was anger at the man who had arrived so inopportunely. If he could only
have delayed a single, brief minute longer, the name trembling on the
woman's lips would have been uttered, and Lawrence would have possessed
at last the key to the mystery which was driving him almost frantic.
Who was he supposed to be? Who was the man he so resembled? Why had he
been given a thousand dollars to pass himself off for this unknown for a
single week?
These and a dozen other questions passed swiftly through Barry's brain
as he perfunctorily fumbled the leaves of the telephone book to give
some excuse for lingering there.
What did it all mean? Was he ever to know?
*CHAPTER XXXIII.*
*GONE!*
Lawrence presently closed the book and ventured back into the lobby. A
swift survey of the place told him that Mrs. Walbridge Gordon was no
longer there; so he made his way to the cafe and settled down in one
corner to wait for Hamersley.
He rather wished he did not have to talk to Jock just then. It would be
a difficult matter at any time to explain what had happened to him the
night before without breaking the pledge of secrecy he had made to the
little man in black. Besides, at the present moment his mind was so full
of the extraordinary experience he had just been through, and its
probable relation to the mystery which surrounded him, that there was
little room for anything else.
Nevertheless, when the big bulk of the Yale man loomed up before him,
and that booming voice resounded in his ears, Barry was glad, after all,
that he had come. When one is perplexed and muddled and utterly at sea,
there is nothing like a good friend whose discretion can be trusted and
whose interest and sympathy is assured, even if he lacks the cleverness
to suggest a solution of the difficulty.
The result was that Lawrence hailed Hamersley with pleasure, silenced
the upbraiding tirade Jock started, and began to pour into his ears an
account of the extraordinary things which had been happening for the
past few days. He made no mention of Shirley Rives, and he refrained
from saying anything about the man in black, the conditions the latter
had imposed, or the money which had changed hands. He simply told his
friend that he had undertaken certain trivial matters concerning which
he was sworn to secrecy. What had occurred after that strange interview
in the Pennsylvania Station, including mention of the Englishman and an
account of his interview with Mrs. Walbridge Gordon, he had no
hesitation in narrating; and, when the story was finished, the big
fellow's eyes were starting out of his head.
"Whew!" he exclaimed, leaning back in his chair and staring at Lawrence.
"If I didn't know you better, old boy, I'd say you'd been hitting the
pipe. Shadowed, kidnaped, mistaken for another man, and---- Say! Did
you find out what that woman's name was?"
"I did; but it wouldn't be quite right to mention it, would it? I only
brought her in because it bore on the case."
"Hum! I suppose you're right. Awkward fix for a woman to be in, ain't
it? I reckon she and this double of yours must have known each other
pretty well."
"I judged so," Barry returned grimly. "Do you know, Jock, I made the
mistake of my life in giving that detective the slip. If I'd only
stayed quietly there in that empty house until his employers showed up,
there isn't a doubt in my mind that by this time I'd be wise to the
whole shooting match."
Hamersley nodded. "No doubt," he agreed. "Still, a fellow can't always
plan so far ahead. When a thug holds you up with a gun and carries you
off that way, the natural thing is to go him one better, and make a
sneak. Jove! I wish I'd been along. That chase over the roofs must
have been some time, all right."
"It wasn't quite so entertaining while it was happening," Barry said.
"You could have taken my place, and welcome, if you'd been around."
"Why don't you turn the tables on this gang of snoopers?" inquired
Hamersley suddenly.
Barry started slightly. "You mean that----"
"Turn around and follow them. Get after that duck with the beard.
Strikes me he's the head one of the push. Get him in a corner and make
him come over with the information. Two can play at the game, can't
they?"
"By Jove!" Lawrence exclaimed jubilantly. "I believe you're right, Jock.
That's a whopping good idea of yours, old fellow!"
"Didn't expect anything but good ones from me, I hope?" Hamersley
returned. "That's my specialty, you know."
Filled with enthusiasm over the notion, they made haste to leave the
hotel. There seemed no time like the present for starting in, so they
leisurely paused on the sidewalk to give any spies who were about ample
opportunity to get on the job; then, turning eastward, sauntered along
the south side of Forty-second Street.
Unfortunately, the scheme did not seem to pan out as they expected.
Though they kept the sharpest sort of a lookout around them, suddenly
turning to glance into shop windows, whirling about as if to retrace
their steps, and taking the most roundabout route possible to the Yale
Club, not a suspicious pedestrian or taxi did they see.
"Too big a crowd, I reckon," Hamersley sighed as they paused before the
building on Forty-fourth Street. "We'd better take dinner here and
start out afterward when the streets aren't so full."
"I can't dine with you, Jock," Barry said regretfully. "I've got a
date."
"Part of the game you couldn't tell me about, I'll bet," the Yale man
returned shrewdly. "Well, meet me here at eight, then."
Having left his friend, Lawrence returned at once to the St. Albans. As
he took his key, the clerk handed him a letter, the precise,
old-fashioned handwriting of which he recognized with a quick thrill.
"Wonder what the old geezer has to say now," he said to himself as he
sailed up in the elevator. "If he's thought up any more conditions, I'll
balk, hanged if I won't."
There were none, however. The letter contained five one-hundred-dollar
bills and a few lines of symmetrical writing on a single sheet of note
paper:
You are doing admirably. Keep on as you have begun, and use the
inclosed in case your expense money does not hold out.
Barry scratched his head, and sat staring at the note.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" he exclaimed. "Don't want me to do anything but
spend money. It's the weirdest thing I ever ran across, sure. What in
creation does it mean? What does he get out of it? If I only----"
The room telephone tinkled imperatively; and, cramming money and letter
into his pocket, Lawrence sprang up and took down the receiver.
"Hello!" came in a woman's voice. "Is this Mr. Lawrence--Mr. Barry
Lawrence?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"Hold the wire, please. Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding wishes to speak to you."
In the brief pause which followed, Barry stood there the picture of
amazement. What in the world could Mrs. Wilmerding want with him? He
did not know her--had never seen her. She was not the sort of woman to
give her personal attention to such trivial matters as an invitation to
call or to take dinner, anyway. Was it possible that anything had
happened to----
"Mr. Lawrence!"
The name came snapping over the wires with the force of a pistol shot,
and made Barry jump.
"Yes!" he gasped. "This is Mr. Lawrence."
"Get a taxi and come to my house at once. Do you understand?"
Barry flushed a little at the peremptory tone, coming as it did from a
woman he fancied he disliked so greatly.
"But I am just dressing for dinner," he expostulated, trying with not
much success to make his tone cool and dignified.
"Dinner!" snapped the voice. "What's that to me? Go without your
dinner, as I shall. My niece is gone!"
Lawrence felt an odd pounding in his head which made him certain that he
could not have caught her meaning.
"Gone?" he repeated dazedly. "Where?"
"Don't be a fool! Should I be doing this if I knew? She went out after
lunch and hasn't returned. A letter was just delivered which---- But
we're wasting time. Are you coming?"
"Yes. At once. I'll be there in five minutes."
There was no response save a sharp click, and Barry turned from the
instrument, his face ghastly. Shirley gone--disappeared! For a second
he stood there, his lips moving. Then, with an exclamation of fury, he
snatched hat and coat, tore open the door, and ran down the hall toward
the elevator.
*CHAPTER XXXIV.*
*THE PUZZLE GROWS.*
It seemed an eternity to Barry Lawrence before the taxi finally swerved
in toward the curb and stopped with a grinding jar before the
marble-fronted house facing the park. He was on the sidewalk in an
instant, and, telling the man to wait, ran up the curving steps to the
ornate doorway.
Evidently the footman was on the watch, for the door swung open before
Barry had even time to press the bell, and, without a word, the servant
took the visitor's coat and hat and led the way at once toward the
elevator.
The long drawing-room was filled with a soft radiance from shaded lamps
and ornate electric globes cunningly hidden in the heavy, carved
cornice; and the amazing richness of its furnishing showed now to even
better advantage than it had that morning.
But Lawrence was not thinking of furnishings. As he stepped through the
wide doorway his eyes sought at once the single figure the great room
contained--the figure of a woman of middle age, richly dressed and
wearing many jewels, who had been pacing back and forth the length of
the apartment, but who stopped abruptly as the man entered, and turned
swiftly toward him. She was tall, a bit angular, sharp in her movements,
and the wildest stretching of the imagination could not have conceived
her handsome. But there was something about the way she carried her
head, and an expression in the rather rugged face, which gave one an
impression of bigness, mental and moral. Such a woman might be brusque
and sharp and domineering; she could never be unjust or petty.
Barry took a few quick steps forward, and paused, a little embarrassed
by the way those keen, dark eyes were fixed upon his face, as if
searching the very depths of his soul. A faint touch of color came into
his cheeks; but his eyes never wavered, and he held his head high.
Presently, as the odd silence began to seem intolerable, his lips
parted, as if he meant to speak, only to close again without a sound
issuing. When at last the silence was broken, it was the woman who
spoke.
"So you are Barry Lawrence," she said abruptly, with an oddly puzzled
undercurrent in her voice.
He bowed.
"Humph!" she commented. "Read that!"
As she thrust her hand toward him, Barry saw that a letter was crumpled
between her fingers. Without a word, he took it eagerly and twitched it
open. It was written in a simple, running hand without any special
characteristics, and was unsigned:
DEAR MADAM: This is to let you know that your niece is all right as long
as you keep quiet and don't interfere. Very likely you think that money
and position can do everything, but in this case you're wrong.
Nothing is going to happen to the girl unless you go running to the
police; but if you do, you won't be a bit better off, and there'll only
be a big scandal raised which will do irreparable harm to her and her
husband.
This is just a tip to keep quiet and let things run their natural course
unless you want to do a lot of harm to all concerned.
Lawrence scarcely took in the meaning of the second paragraph. His
brain was reeling. Her husband! He could not believe that he had read
aright, and dazedly his eyes sought the paragraph and tried to focus
themselves upon the amazing, impossible, dastardly words.
Before he could do so, however, an impatient movement came from the
woman beside him, and her voice broke the stillness.
"Well?" she snapped. "Are you her husband?"
Barry flung back his head and stared at her with blazing eyes.
"No!" he replied sharply. "No, I'm not! I'd give anything under heaven
if there could ever be a chance for me to be."
The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he realized, with a pang
of dismay, that he had been stung into saying something he never meant
to say. All day he had been telling himself over and over again that no
word concerning his feelings for Shirley Rives should ever pass his
lips, yet now he had blurted it out like a blundering fool. The color
flamed into his face, and his lids drooped before the curious expression
in Mrs. Wilmerding's eyes.
"Indeed!" she said tersely. "And may I ask why you think there isn't?"
Lawrence stared at her in astonishment. Then he pulled himself together
and glanced again at the crumpled letter.
"If this is true----" he began.
But Mrs. Wilmerding cut him short with a most emphatic snort.
"Fiddlesticks!" she snapped. "You don't believe that, I hope? Haven't
you any faith at all in Shirley? It's all a lie from beginning to end."
"But what----"
"I don't know," she broke in, frowning. "I don't understand it yet, but
I know it's a lie."
Barry's spirits began to rise. There was something about her tone of
positiveness which heartened him instinctively. He had not really
doubted Shirley; but the statement of the unknown writer was so
nonchalant and matter-of-fact that it bewildered him.
"Still," he remarked more calmly, "you asked me----"
"I had my reasons; but it wasn't because I thought it true." She stood
leaning against the side of a heavy, carved table, both hands resting
lightly on the dull, waxed surface, her shrewd, bright eyes holding his
in thrall. "What stands between you and Shirley?" she questioned
quietly.
Lawrence threw out his hands in an impatient gesture. "Everything!" he
exclaimed. "Her money and my lack of it are enough, without wasting
time to go into any others."
"Her money!" Mrs. Wilmerding repeated. Then, with a sudden frown, she
went on swiftly: "You're right. We are wasting time. Let us get down
to business at once. Shirley must be found to-night, and yet I don't
feel like putting the matter into the hands of the police."
"You don't believe there can be a particle of truth in this letter?"
Barry questioned.
"Of course not. I told you it was a lie. At the same time, you must
see that if the matter became public it might do my niece an irreparable
amount of harm. No. We must work it out ourselves. To be strictly
accurate, you must find her. Being a woman, I can't very well traipse
around town without causing all sorts of talk. You won't fail me, I
know."
"Fail you!" Lawrence cried. "I should say not! I won't rest or sleep
until Miss Rives is found. I'll rake the city with a fine-tooth comb,
and if any harm has come to her----"
He broke off abruptly, his face hard, almost cruel, his eyes narrowed.
The momentary silence which followed was more expressive than many
words.
*CHAPTER XXXV.*
*THE ASTONISHING MRS. WILMERDING.*
Mrs. Wilmerding looked at him with an odd touch of wistfulness in her
gaze. Then she sighed a little. "Youth is a very wonderful thing," she
murmured. "I shouldn't make such a vow as that, though. You might have
to break it. Have you thought of any plan?"
"Not yet. I only know I'll find her in some way. You must tell me
everything you know quickly. We haven't any time to lose. When did she
go out?"
"A little after three. She said she was going to call on a girl friend
she met at the dance--a Miss Jennings."
"And did she?"
"Yes. When I reached home, about half past five, and did not find her
here, my secretary called up the Jennings house on Fifty-seventh Street,
and found that Shirley had left there an hour before. Even then there
was nothing to worry about. She might easily have gone shopping. But
when another hour had passed I began to be troubled. At twenty minutes
to seven this letter was delivered at the door."
"Delivered!" Barry exclaimed. "Did the man notice by whom?"
"An ordinary messenger boy in uniform."
Barry's eyes sparkled. "By Jove!" he burst out. "You're sure there
isn't any mistake about that?"
"Perfectly. Naturally, I asked Pagdon about it instantly.
Unfortunately, he did not notice the boy's number; but there was no
mistaking the uniform."
"May I have a telephone book?" Lawrence asked abruptly. "It may take a
little time, but there won't be any real difficulty in running the boy
down."
Mrs. Wilmerding stepped over to the fireplace and pressed a button
concealed in the carving. Almost instantly the velvet hangings were
parted, and the footman stood in the doorway.
"Bring a New York telephone directory, Pagdon," Mrs. Wilmerding directed
tersely; "and then tell Miss Winters I wish to see her at once. My
secretary can do the telephoning as well as you," she went on, turning
to Lawrence. "It will give you time for a bite of dinner, which you
might not otherwise have."