and, to avoid actual rudeness, he was finally obliged to give in. The
instant the directory was brought, he turned hastily to the list of
American District Telegraph offices, and discovered that there were
almost fifty in Manhattan and the Bronx alone. A number of them could
be eliminated, however, and that he proceeded to do, jotting down the
phone numbers of the most likely ones on a sheet of note paper. He had
just finished the list, when the secretary, a trim, capable-looking girl
of twenty-six or so, entered the room.
Having acknowledged the introduction, Lawrence explained what he wanted.
"We must find out which of these offices handled the letter that was
delivered to Mrs. Wilmerding about half past six," he said hurriedly.
"Will you please call them up, Miss Winters, beginning with the numbers
I've jotted down here? If you fail to locate the right one, take the
rest of the numbers from the book. The instant you succeed, tell the
manager to hold the boy until I can get down, and kindly let me know at
once."
The secretary nodded, and, gathering up list and book, was leaving the
room when Barry had a sudden idea.
"Before you do anything else," he said quickly, "will you please call
the Yale Club and get Mr. Jacob Hamersley, junior? Tell him that I'm
delayed, but that it's most important he should wait at the club until I
can get down there."
The girl nodded understandingly, and disappeared into the hall; while
Lawrence followed his hostess through some wide doors at the farther end
of the drawing-room into a library lined with books and as bewilderingly
rich in its furnishings as the rest of the house.
At one end was a fireplace with a carved oak mantel and paneling black
with age, which looked as if it had been transported from some old
English country house--as it probably had. A fire of logs blazed and
twinkled there; and drawn up before it was a small round table, set for
two. Evidently Mrs. Wilmerding had not been idle while Barry was busy
with the telephone book.
"I had it brought here because it is nearer the telephone," she
explained as Lawrence drew out her chair. "It is only the simplest sort
of a supper."
It proved to be extremely satisfactory, for all that. The butler and a
footman who served the dishes seemed to realize the necessity for haste,
and there was not a second's delay. Consequently, in an incredibly
short space of time the meal was over, and they returned to the
drawing-room a moment or two before Miss Winters reappeared.
"The office is on Broadway, between Thirteenth and Fourteenth," she said
quietly. "The boy had not been sent out again, and the manager will
hold him there until you get down."
Lawrence sprang to his feet. "Good!" he exclaimed. "And Hamersley?"
"He had left the club a moment or two before I called. He left word,
however, that he would be back within half an hour."
Barry turned to Mrs. Wilmerding. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I
thought my friend might help, but I can pick him up afterward if it's
necessary."
"You might call the club again, Miss Winters," the older woman
suggested, "and have them request Mr. Hamersley not to leave until he
hears from Mr. Lawrence."
When the secretary had departed, she glanced swiftly back to Barry.
"You have enough money?" she asked.
"Plenty."
"Then hurry. Be sure and keep me informed of what you are doing when
it's possible. I trust you to find her to-night."
She held out her hand, and Lawrence took it quickly. For an instant
they stood looking into one another's eyes; then the woman threw back
her head.
"You love my niece," she said rapidly. "You think there are
insurmountable barriers between you. I tell you this, Barry Lawrence:
The moment you bring Shirley back to me those barriers shall cease to
exist. You understand? It shall be as if they had never been."
A flood of bright crimson leaped into Barry's face, and he stared at
her, unable to credit his senses.
"But that will be--impossible!" he gasped. "I'm almost a--pauper! I
have no position; my very name is--tarnished."
"Humph!" she exclaimed incredulously. "Tarnished through some fault of
yours?"
"N-o; but everybody thinks----"
Her teeth came together with a click; her eyes were flashing. "Bah!"
she retorted impatiently. "Do you suppose for a minute that I care what
everybody thinks? I trust my own judgment, and it has never failed. If
a man is clean and straight and decent, money isn't worth that!" She
snapped her fingers. "I have more of it than I know what to do with.
You understand? Well, go, then--and remember what I've said."
*CHAPTER XXXVI.*
*TAKING UP THE TRAIL.*
Dazed, bewildered, his mind in a turmoil of mingled joy and acute
anxiety, Lawrence hastened down the steps of Mrs. Wilmerding's house and
across the sidewalk to the waiting taxi.
"No. 854 Broadway, and go like the deuce!" he cried out as he leaped
inside.
The door slammed behind him and the machine leaped forward like a thing
alive. Straight down the wide avenue it flew, past marble palaces
gleaming with lights, past the park entrance with its guarding statue of
golden bronze, past great hotels whose tiers of twinkling windows seemed
almost to touch the stars, past shadowy churches, glittering shop
windows, and looming skyscrapers stealing slowly northward in that
inexorable march of progress.
Sitting stiffly upright on the seat within, Lawrence saw nothing save
those twin lines of opalescent globes which seemed to converge with such
intolerable slowness until at last they came together miles and miles
beyond. He knew that they would have to go almost to that point before
nearing their destination, and he chafed impatiently at the slightest
delay made necessary by traffic regulations.
Now that he had commenced the quest, he seemed to feel, even more
strongly than before, the necessity for haste. While he was searching
blindly for a clew, Shirley might be suffering all sorts of annoyances,
humiliations, and fears. He ground his teeth and swore softly under his
breath at the thought of his helplessness. He had started out with the
quixotic belief that earnest effort, coupled with money, could
accomplish anything; but slowly, as the car flew southward, a doubt
began to creep into his mind.
What was he going to do if the messenger boy could tell him nothing? He
had talked bravely enough about raking the city with a fine-tooth comb,
but he knew that was an impossibility. The vastness of New York defied
him, and made him feel suddenly as small and insignificant as a tiny
insect. Without a clew, what possible chance had he to find a trace of
the girl, whose captors would naturally be doing their best to baffle
pursuit?
By the time the taxi had whirled through Thirteenth Street, and halfway
up the block, Barry was well-nigh despairing. He pulled himself
together with an effort, however, and hurried into the telegraph office.
There were telephone booths in the front, but he passed them with
unseeing eyes and made straight for the desk beyond a railing, above
which was painted, on a tin sign, the word, "Manager." A young fellow
of about his own age occupied the revolving chair, and glanced up
inquiringly as Barry stopped in front of him.
"My name is Lawrence," the latter explained swiftly. "I phoned down
some twenty minutes ago asking you to hold the boy who delivered a
letter to Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding about half past six this evening. He
hasn't been sent out, I hope."
"Nope! I only came on ten minutes ago, but the boss told me to keep
Jimmy till you showed up. He's over there."
Lawrence followed the direction of his thumb, and saw a very diminutive
youngster, with a pert, freckled face and fiery red hair, sitting
nonchalantly on the end of the bench and eying the newcomer with
undisguised curiosity.
"Want me to call him over?" continued the temporary manager. "Maybe I
can help you get what you want out of him."
Barry shook his head. "If you don't mind, I'll just talk to him over
there." He hesitated an instant and then went on, in an attempt to
assuage the other's very evident curiosity: "The letter was unsigned,
and Mrs. Wilmerding is very anxious to have a description of the person
who sent it."
"Well, go ahead and see what you can do," replied the man at the desk.
"Jimmy's a sharp little cuss, though, and if he's been paid to hold his
tongue, you'll have a job getting anything out of him."
"I can try, anyhow," smiled Lawrence. "By the way, you have a record of
where the call came from, I suppose?"
"Sure!" The young man reached across the littered desk and drew a slip
of paper toward him. "I thought you might want to know, so I looked it
up when I first came in. It was phoned in from the Merton House at
six-five. Party by the name of Brown."
"Much obliged," Barry remarked thoughtfully. "I'll see what I can get
out of the boy."
As he turned toward the youngster, he saw the latter's eyes drop and his
heels begin to kick automatically against the rungs of the wooden bench.
"Just a little too careless to be natural," Barry reflected. "Looks to
me as if you'd been well coached, my son."
The boy did not look at him squarely as Lawrence took his seat on the
bench beside him; but the man caught a flashing glint from the blue eyes
which told him that his young neighbor was on the alert.
For a second Barry sat silent. Then, turning suddenly toward the
youngster, he said quietly:
"I'm in trouble, Jimmy, and I want you to help me."
*CHAPTER XXXVII.*
*TWO SHEETS OF PAPER.*
There was no reply in words, but the boy moved uneasily and twisted one
foot around the bench leg.
"You went to the Merton House a little after six to-night," Lawrence
went on, in the same low, even voice, "and got a letter there, which you
took to Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding on Fifth Avenue. Do you remember anything
about the man who gave it to you?"
The boy squirmed a little, and seemed intent on poking a minute pebble
into a crack in the floor.
"Nothin' special," he mumbled at last.
Barry laughed. "Oh, come now!" he returned. "You must remember what he
looked like."
The youngster thrust both chapped and freckled hands deep into the
pockets of his trousers, and scowled.
"Well," he muttered slowly, his eyes still on the floor, "he was sort o'
short, an' fat, an'--an' had a--a squint in one eye. His hair
was--light. That's all I know about him."
For a moment Barry sat regarding the small face screwed up into a
fearsome scowl, noted the twitching eyebrows, and the clenched fists
visible through the cloth of the blue trousers. Then he shook his head.
"I'm afraid, Jimmy," he murmured, "that your bump of observation isn't
very well developed. Are you sure the man wasn't tall and slim and dark,
and rather good looking?"
The red-headed youngster gasped, and, flinging back his head, met
Lawrence's eyes squarely for the first time.
"How in blazes did you----" he stammered; and then broke off abruptly, a
vivid flush staining his freckled face.
"I guessed," Barry returned quietly. "Look here, Jimmy," he went on, in
a low, vibrant tone. "I'm going to tell you something which I haven't
spoken of to a soul to-night. I'm doing this because I need your
help--badly. A young girl is in trouble. She's been carried off by
some men whom she's never harmed in any way, and I've got to get her
back--I've simply got to! That fellow who gave you the letter at the
Merton House is one of the gang. That's why I want to know what he
looks like. That's why I'm sure you're going to tell me everything you
can, for he's a scoundrel, Jimmy, nothing less; and no decent man would
try to shield him once he knew how bad he was."
For the second time the boy looked straight into Barry's eyes. His face
was still flushed, but there was upon it an expression of intense,
overpowering interest.
"Is that straight, mister?" he demanded excitedly. Jimmy had always
pined to be mixed up in some really big crime, but this was the nearest
he had come to realizing his dream. "You ain't stringin' me?"
"I'm telling you the solemn truth," Lawrence returned seriously. "If
the reporters got on to it, there'd be the biggest kind of excitement in
the newspapers. She's the niece of Mrs. Wilmerding; one of the richest
women in New York, you know."
The youngster's eyes were popping out by this time, but he still seemed
to hesitate.
"He gimme a dollar," he explained doubtfully, "an' I promised----"
"I wouldn't worry about that," Lawrence interposed. "He had no right to
make you promise to keep still about a crime."
"Then I'll tell you," the boy burst out impulsively; and, with a long
breath, he plunged into a recital which Barry had no doubt was the truth
this time.
He had been called to the desk at six-five, and told to report to Mr.
George Brown in the lobby of the Merton House. On arriving, he had not
even had to inquire at the desk for that person. A man had hurried up to
him as he entered the door, and, drawing him to one side, handed him a
sealed letter addressed to Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding on Fifth Avenue. It
must be delivered at once, the stranger said; then, when he had paid the
boy and Jimmy was turning to leave, he produced a dollar bill, and told
the messenger that, if any inquiries were made, he was not to tell
anything. The man was tall and slim, with dark hair and eyes, and wore
a silk hat. Jimmy pronounced him altogether a decided swell.
"He told me it was a joke, an' he didn't want the parties to get wise to
him," the boy concluded; "but I kinda thought it was something different
from that."
"It was--very different," Barry said thoughtfully. He was searching his
memory for any possible recollection of such an individual, but in vain.
"You're all to the good, Jimmy, and I can't tell you how much obliged I
am. I'd like to give you----"
"I don't want nothin'," the youngster broke in decidedly. "You jest
give my name right to the reporters, that's all."
"I will," Lawrence returned seriously, "if they get on to the case.
What is it?"
"Donovan--James F. Donovan."
Barry noted it on a bit of paper with the inward determination to reward
the boy in some way; then, after another word of thanks and a quick
handshake, he sprang to his feet and made his way hastily to the door.
Three minutes later he was interviewing the telephone girl at the Merton
House concerning the tall, slim man with the top hat who had called a
certain number earlier in the evening.
The young woman remembered the incident perfectly, and was able to add
one or two particulars which had escaped the messenger boy, but which
only made certain Barry's impression that he had never set eyes on the
unknown.
On his way out he scrutinized the hotel stationery, but without any real
hope that it would prove identical with that on which the letter, was
written.
In the doorway he paused undecided. The fact that the man had sent his
message from the Merton House showed absolutely nothing. He might have
come from a totally different part of town in order to divert suspicion
and throw possible pursuers off the track. That would be a natural
move, anyway, and Lawrence hesitated a long time before an idea came to
him.
Then suddenly his eyes brightened and he glanced swiftly up Fourth
Avenue. He knew the neighborhood very well, and could recall no
stationery shop near it. Nevertheless, he told the chauffeur to drive
slowly around the square, and to stop if he rapped on the glass.
The circuit was of no avail. The taxi reached the southwest corner
without the signal having been made, and Barry told the man to proceed
on down University Place at the same slow speed. A block passed, then
another; but before the third corner had been reached Lawrence struck
the glass with such force as nearly to shatter it, and, leaping out of
the still-moving machine, darted into a narrow little shop bearing a
sign above the door to the effect that stationery and cigars could be
had within.
As the girl came forward, he fumbled in his pocket and produced the
letter.
"Have you any writing paper like this?" he asked, extending it to her,
but still retaining a hold upon one corner.
She bent forward to glance at the texture, and at that instant Barry
realized with a start that he had handed her the letter which had come
from the little man in black, inclosing the five one-hundred-dollar
bills.
"I beg pardon," he said hastily. "I've made a mistake. This is the
kind I want."
He drew forth the other letter; then, with a swift catching of the
breath, stood staring stupidly from one to the other. For a second he
did not move. He could not believe this odd coincidence. He held the
two sheets to the light. The watermarks were identical. He lowered the
sheets and examined them intently. In size, color, texture, quality
they could not have been more alike had they come from the same box.
What did it mean?
*CHAPTER XXXVIII.*
*IN CAPITALS OF RED.*
In a moment Barry had recovered himself. After all, the sheets being
identical did not prove that they had come from the same shop. No doubt
there were hundreds of stores in New York which kept that kind of paper
in stock. It was an odd coincidence, that was all.
"This is the sort I want," he said quietly, meeting the girl's curious
glance with indifference. "About two quires will be enough--with one
package of envelopes."
His perfect ease of manner seemed to reassure her, and she glanced at
the paper he held out, then shrugged her shoulders.
"I'm afraid I can't give you even a quire," she said, reaching up to a
shelf behind her and taking down a box. "I noticed when I sold a sheet
and envelope this afternoon that there were only a few left."
"This afternoon!" Lawrence exclaimed, with well-simulated surprise. "I
wonder if it could have been my friend Davis, who wrote this letter?
Was he tall and slim and dark?"
"That's him," the girl answered. "He was dressed swell, too, and wore a
high hat."
"Funny, isn't it?" Barry commented. "Well, give me what you have. I
suppose you'll be getting in some more of the same kind soon."
"I'm afraid not," she returned, wrapping the few sheets with accustomed
deftness. "The firm that supplied us with this has gone out of
business. This box is three or four years old. It got lost in the
stock, and I only ran across it about a week ago, and put it on sale.
You'd have a hard job locating a bit of it anywhere in town. We've got
some which is just as good, though."
It was with difficulty that Lawrence made an easy, casual answer, paid
for the paper, and left the shop. The girl's explanation had left no
doubt in his mind that the thing which had seemed so impossible was
true. The man in black and the agent of those who had kidnaped Shirley
Rives had both come to this obscure little shop to purchase writing
paper.
It was incredible that there could be any connection between the two,
yet Barry had seen so many apparently impossible things transpire within
the past week that he began to doubt everything.
Out of the whole intricate medley of events, however, one fact stood
clear and distinct: The men who had sent both letters must be living
somewhere within a comparatively short distance of the little shop.
University Place is not a main artery, like Broadway or Sixth Avenue;
people do not pass through it, as a rule, unless they have business
there or live in the neighborhood. There are no car lines on it--it is
a sort of back eddy, away from the rush and turmoil and passing of great
throngs.
But, now that he was sure Shirley's place of captivity was not so very
far away, Barry could not make up his mind what to do. He could
traverse the streets one by one, to be sure, but what would that
accomplish? It was scarcely likely that chance would again direct his
footsteps as it had done in sending him here from Union Square.
Puzzled and undecided, he told the chauffeur to follow him, then set out
slowly toward Fourteenth Street. If he only had some one with whom to
talk things over it would be much easier. Two heads are always better
than one; and even Jock Hamersley might be able to suggest some feasible
plan.
"I suppose there's nothing to prevent my hustling up and getting the old
chap," he murmured as he reached the corner of the busy cross street.
"It'll only take a few minutes. Hang it all! I believe I'll do it."
He turned toward the taxi, which had come to a stop beside the curb, and
had almost reached the door when a newsboy darted toward him, waving a
sheet with gaudy scareheads.
"Wuxtry!" he shrilled, thrusting the paper under Barry's nose. "All
about banker's suicide! All about turrible shootin'! Wuxtry! Paper,
mister?"
Lawrence shook his head impatiently, and was about to step into the taxi
when his eyes fell upon the flaming headlines of the paper, and for a
second his heart almost ceased to beat:
Trust Company Official Shoots Himself! Julian Farr, of the Beekman
Trust, Blows His Brains Out. Defaulter in Many Thousands, He Leaves
Behind a Confession Exonerating Former Employee.
Without a word, Barry snatched the sheet and thrust a coin into the
boy's hand.
"Never mind the change," he said hoarsely.
Eagerly, feverishly, his eyes raced over the lines of large print. It
was the old, old story, sordid in detail, inevitable as to conclusion.
Julian Farr, cashier of the Beekman Trust, had started in by living
beyond his means, and, getting in a hole, used the funds of the bank to
speculate with. Once, when exposure threatened, he had saved himself by
the despicable device of throwing the blame upon another man. The second
time such a thing was impossible, and so, penniless, desperate, with a
bank examiner due the following day, he had solved the whole problem,
after the fashion of many cowards, with a little piece of lead.
The one graceful, decent action, which stood out in vivid contrast to
all the rest, was the full and complete confession he had left behind,
taking the responsibility of that first defalcation and explaining in
detail how entirely blameless Barry Lawrence was. And, as the latter
read the last word of this printed document, his eyes sparkled and a
great joy surged through him.
He was free again--free from the shackles of suspicion and accusation
which had been fastened upon him so unjustly! His name was no longer
tarnished. It had been cleared in a manner which could leave no doubt
in the mind of a single soul concerning his absolute honesty.
Then, like a flash, he came back to the present. What did this
matter--what did anything matter when Shirley Rives was still in the
hands of this unknown gang? He was wasting precious time, and,
thrusting the paper into his overcoat pocket, he jerked open the door of
the taxi.
"The Yale Club--and hustle!" he said tersely as he stepped hastily into
the car.
*CHAPTER XXXIX.*
*HAMERSLEY TAKES A HAND.*
Jock Hamersley, after leaving his friend, entered the club briskly, and,
having freshened up a little, took the elevator to the dining room. It
was early, but his appetite had been making itself felt for some time,
so he did not wait for a congenial companion to sit at his table.
The result was that he finished the meal and descended again to the
lower floor before seven. Here he strolled about a little, chatting
briefly with one or two friends, but with his mind altogether on the
problem which faced Barry Lawrence.
When Jock once got something well fixed in his mind it was extremely
difficult to find room for anything else. The more he considered the
scheme of tripping up the mysterious persons who had been following
Lawrence, the more he liked it, and the more anxious he was to put it
into operation. He knew that Barry would not be likely to show up much
before eight, and consequently, after fretting and fuming impatiently
for some ten or fifteen minutes, he decided to take a stroll to use up
the intervening time, with the added hope that something more might
occur to him.
Leaving word with the hall man that he would be back shortly, he slipped
into his coat and sallied forth into the street. For a moment he
hesitated; then, turning to the right, he walked briskly toward Fifth
Avenue.
He had scarcely reached the corner, and had not even decided which way
to turn, when suddenly a man, coming up behind, touched him lightly on
the arm.
"Beg pardon, sir," said a voice in his ear, "but have you any idea where
I can find Mr. Barry Lawrence?"
Whirling about in surprise, Hamersley saw, standing beside him, a slim,
slight individual of medium height, smooth-shaven and dressed in an
inconspicuous manner. He was holding an envelope in one hand; and Jock
first sized him up as a clerk from some banking or brokerage house. He
was about to answer freely, when he suddenly recalled the varied
assortment of men who had been trailing Barry of late, and paused.
"What do you want him for?" he asked abruptly, at length.