man she liked so much was innocent, faded when she heard the figure two
hundred thousand dollars. That was the amount of the necklace’s value,
exactly. And she had wondered at Monty’s strained, nervous manner. Now
it became very clear that he was Denby’s accomplice, dreading, and
perhaps knowing as well as she, that the house was surrounded.
She told herself that the law was just, and those who disobeyed were
guilty and should be punished; and that she was an instrument,
impersonal, and as such, without blame. But uppermost in her mind was
the thought of black treachery, of mean intriguing ways, and the
certainty that this night would see the end of her friendship with the
man she had sworn to deliver to the ruthless, cruel, insatiable Taylor.
It was, as Taylor told her, a question of deciding between two people.
She could help, indirectly, to convict a clever smuggler, or she could
send her weak, dependent, innocent eighteen-year-old sister to jail. And
she had said to Taylor: “I have no choice.”
Denby looked at her a little puzzled. In Paris, a year ago, she had
seemed a sweet, natural girl, armed with a certain dignity that would
not permit men to become too friendly on short acquaintance. And here it
seemed that she was almost trying to flirt with him in a wholly
different way. He was not sure that her other manner was not more in
keeping with the ideal he had held of her since that first meeting.
“I should be anxious, too,” she said, “if I had all that money at stake.
But all the same, don’t be too long. I think I may ask you for that
cigarette presently.”
CHAPTER TEN
Denby stood looking after her. “Bully, bully girl,” he muttered.
“Anything wrong, Steve?” Monty inquired, not catching what he said.
Denby turned to the speaker slowly; his thoughts had been more
pleasantly engaged.
“I don’t understand why they haven’t done anything,” he answered. “I’m
certain we were followed at the dock. When I went to send those
telegrams I saw a man who seemed very much disinterested, but kept near
me. I saw him again when we had our second blow-out near Jamaica. It
might have been a coincidence, but I’m inclined to think they’ve marked
us down.”
“I don’t believe it,” Monty cried. “If they had the least idea about the
necklace, they’d have pinched you at the pier, or got you on the road
when it was only you and the chauffeur against their men.”
Still Denby seemed dubious. “They let me in too dashed easily,” he
complained, “and I can’t help being suspicious.”
“They seemed to suspect me,” Monty reminded him.
“The fellow thought you were laughing at him, that’s all. They’ve no
sense of humor,” Denby returned. “What I said to-night was no fiction,
Monty. Cartier’s may have tipped the Customs after all.”
“But you paid Harlow a thousand dollars,” Monty declared.
“He wasn’t the only one to know I had bought the pearls, though,” Denby
observed thoughtfully. “It looks fishy to me. They may have some new
wrinkles in the Customs.”
“That damned R. J.,” Monty said viciously, “I’d like to strangle him.”
“It would make things easier,” Denby allowed.
“All the same,” Monty remarked, “I think we’ve both been too fidgety.”
“Dear old Monty,” his friend said, smiling, “if you knew the game as I
do, and had hunted men and been hunted by them as I have, you’d not
blame me for being a little uneasy now.”
With apprehension Monty watched him advance swiftly toward the switch on
the centre wall by the window. “Get over by that window,” he commanded,
and Monty hurriedly obeyed him. Then he turned off the lights, leaving
the room only faintly illuminated by the moonlight coming through the
French windows.
“What the devil’s up?” Monty asked excitedly.
“Is there anyone there on the lawn?”
Monty peered anxiously through the glass. “No,” he whispered, and then
added: “Yes, there’s a man over there by the big oak. By Jove, there
is!”
“What’s he doing?” the other demanded.
“Just standing and looking over this way.”
“He’s detailed to watch the house. Anybody else with him?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Come away, Monty,” Denby called softly, and when his friend was away
from observation, he switched on the light again. “Now,” he asked, “do
you believe that we were followed?”
“The chills are running down my spine,” Monty confessed. “Gee, Steve, I
hope it won’t come to a gun fight.”
“They won’t touch you,” Denby said comfortingly; “they want me.”
“I don’t know,” Monty said doubtfully. “They’ll shoot first, and then
ask which is you.”
Denby was unperturbed. “I think we’ve both been too fidgety,” he
quoted.
“But why don’t they come in?” Monty asked apprehensively.
“They’re staying out there to keep us prisoners,” he was told.
“Then I hope they’ll stop there,” Monty exclaimed fervently.
“I can’t help thinking,” Denby said, knitting his brows, “that they’ve
got someone in here on the inside, working under cover to try to get the
necklace. What do you know about the butler, Lambart? Is he a new man?”
“Lord, no,” Monty assured him. “He has been with Michael five years, and
worships him. You’d distress Lambart immeasurably if you even hinted
he’d ever handed a plate to a smuggler.”
“We’ve got to find out who it is,” Denby said decidedly, “and then,
Monty, we’ll have some sport.”
“Then we’ll have some shooting,” Monty returned in disgust. “Where is
that confounded necklace anyway? Is Michael carrying it around without
knowing it?”
“Still in my pouch,” Denby returned.
As he said this, Miss Cartwright very gently opened a door toward which
his back was turned. Terrified at the thought of Taylor’s possible
intrusion, she had been spurred to some sort of action, and had
sauntered back to the big hall with the hope of overhearing something
that would aid her.
“I know they mean business,” she heard Denby say, “and this is going to
be a fight, Monty, and a fight to a finish.”
The thought that there might presently be scenes of violence enacted in
the hospitable Harrington home, scenes in which she had a definite rôle
to play, which might lead even to the death of Denby as it certainly
must lead to his disgrace, drove her nearly to hysteria. Taylor had
inspired her with a great horror, and at the same time a great respect
for his power and courage. She did not see how a man like Steven Denby
could win in a contest between himself and the brutal deputy-surveyor.
“Oh,” she sighed, “if they were differently placed! If Steven stood for
the law and Taylor for crime!”
Everything favored Taylor, it seemed to her. Denby was alone except for
Monty’s faltering aid, while the other had his men at hand and, above
all, the protection of the law. It was impossible to regard Taylor as
anything other than a victor making war on men or women and moved by
nothing to pity. What other man than he would have tortured her poor
little sister, she wondered.
To a woman used through the exigencies of circumstances to making her
living in a business world where competition brought with it rivalries,
trickeries and jealousies, the ordeal to be faced would have been almost
overwhelming.
But the Cartwrights had lived a sheltered life, the typical happy family
life where there is wealth, and none until to-day had ever dared to
speak to Ethel as Taylor had done. She was almost frantic with the
knowledge that she must play the spy, the eavesdropper, perhaps the
Delilah among people who trusted her.
As she was debating what next to do, she heard Monty’s voice as it
seemed to her fraught with excitement and eager and quick.
“Will you have a cigarette, Dick?” she heard him call. Instantly Steven
Denby wheeled about and faced the door through which she appeared to
saunter languidly. Something told her that Monty had discovered her.
“Still talking business?” she said, attempting to appear wholly at ease.
“I’ve left my fan somewhere.”
“Girls are always doing that, aren’t they?” Denby said pleasantly. There
was no indication from his tone that he suspected she had been
listening. “We’ll have to find it, Monty.”
“Sure, Steve, sure,” Monty returned. He was not able to cloak his
uneasiness.
“Steve?” the girl queried brightly. “As I came in, I thought I heard you
call him ‘Dick.’”
“That was our private signal,” Denby returned promptly, relieving poor
Monty of an answer.
“That sounds rather mysterious,” she commented.
“But it’s only commonplace,” Denby assured her. “My favorite parlor
trick is making breaks--it always has been since Monty first knew
me--and invented a signal to warn me when I’m on thin ice or dangerous
ground. ‘Will you have a cigarette, Dick’ is the one he most often
uses.”
“But why ‘Dick?’” she asked.
“That’s the signal,” Denby explained. “If he said ‘Steve,’ I shouldn’t
notice it, so he always says ‘Dick,’ don’t you, Monty?”
“Always, Steve,” Monty answered quickly.
“Then you were about to make a break when I came in?” she hinted.
“I’m afraid I was,” Denby admitted.
“What was it? Won’t you tell me?”
“If I did,” he said, “it would indeed be a break.”
“Discreet man,” she laughed; “I believe you were talking about me.”
He did not answer for a moment but looked at her keenly. It hurt him to
think that this girl, of all others, might be fencing with him to gain
some knowledge of his secret. But he had lived a life in which danger
was a constant element, and women ere this had sought to baffle him and
betray.
He was cautious in his answer.
“You are imaginative,” he said, “even about your fan. There doesn’t seem
to be a trace of it, and I don’t think I remember your having one.”
“Perhaps I didn’t bring it down,” she admitted, “and it may be in my
room after all. May I have that promised cigarette to cheer me on my
way?”
“Surely,” he replied. Very eagerly she watched him take the pouch from
his pocket and roll a cigarette.
Her action seemed to set Monty on edge. Suppose Denby by any chance
dropped the pouch and the jewels fell out. It seemed to him that she was
drawing nearer. Suppose she was the one who had been chosen to “work
inside” and snatched it from him?
“Miss Cartwright,” he said, and noted that she seemed startled at his
voice, “can’t I get your fan for you?”
“No, thanks,” she returned, “you’d have to rummage, and that’s a
privilege I reserve only for myself.”
“Here you are,” Denby broke in, handing her the slim white cigarette.
She took it from him with a smile and moistened the edge of the paper as
she had seen men do often enough. “You are an expert,” she said
admiringly.
He said no word but lighted a match and held it for her. She drew a
breath of tobacco and half concealed a cough. It was plain to see that
she was making a struggle to enjoy it, and plainer for the men to note
that she failed.
“What deliciously mild tobacco you smoke,” she cried. Suddenly she
stretched out her hand for the pouch. “Do let me see.”
But Denby did not pass it to her. He looked her straight in the eyes.
“I don’t think a look at it would help you much,” he said slowly. “The
name is, in case you ever want to get any, ‘without fire.’”
“What an odd name,” she cried. “Without fire?”
“Yes,” he answered. “You see, no smoke without fire.” Without any
appearance of haste he put the pouch back in his pocket.
“You don’t believe in that old phrase?”
“Not a bit,” he told her. “Do you?”
She turned to ascend the stairs to her room.
“No. Do make another break sometime, won’t you--Dick?”
[Illustration: “DO MAKE ANOTHER BREAK SOMETIME, WON’T YOU--DICK?” _Page
186_.]
“I most probably shall,” he retorted, “unless Monty warns me--or you.”
She turned back--she was now on the first turn of the staircase. “I’ll
never do that. I’d rather like to see you put your foot in it--you seem
so very sure of yourself--Steve.” She laughed lightly as she
disappeared.
Monty gripped his friend’s arm tightly. “Who is that girl?”
“Why, Ethel Cartwright,” he rejoined, “a close friend of our hostess.
Why ask me?”
“Yes, yes,” Monty said impatiently, “but what do you know about her?”
“Nothing except that she’s a corker.”
“You met her in Paris, didn’t you?” Monty was persistent.
“Yes,” his friend admitted.
“What was she doing there?”
Denby frowned. “What on earth are you driving at?”
“She was behind that door listening to us or trying to.”
“So you thought that, too?” Denby cried quickly.
“Then you do suspect her of being the one they’ve got to work on the
inside?” Monty retorted triumphantly.
“It can’t be possible,” Denby exclaimed, fighting to retain his faith in
her. “You’re dead wrong, old man. I won’t believe it for a moment.”
“Say, Steve,” Monty cried, a light breaking in on him, “you’re sweet on
her.”
“It isn’t possible, it isn’t even probable,” said Denby, taking no
notice of his suggestion.
“But the same idea occurred to you as did to me,” Monty persisted.
“I know,” Denby admitted reluctantly. “I began to be suspicious when she
wanted to get hold of the pouch. You saw how mighty interested she was
in it?”
“That’s what startled me so,” Monty told him. “But how could she know?”
“They’ve had a tip,” Denby said, with an air of certainty, “and if she’s
one of ’em, she knows where the necklace was. Wouldn’t it be just my
rotten luck to have that girl, of all girls I’ve ever known, mixed up in
this?”
“Old man,” Monty said solemnly, “you are in love with her.”
Denby looked toward the stairway by which he had seen her go.
“I know I am,” he groaned.
“Oughtn’t we to find out whether she’s the one who’s after you or not?”
Monty suggested with sound good sense.
“No, we oughtn’t,” Denby returned. “I won’t insult her by trying to trap
her.”
“Flub-dub,” Monty scoffed. “I suspect her, and it’s only fair to her to
clear her of that suspicion. If she’s all right, I shall be darn glad of
it. If she isn’t, wouldn’t you rather know?”
For the first time since he had met his old school friend in Paris,
Monty saw him depressed and anxious. “I don’t want to have to fight
her,” he explained.
“I understand that,” Monty went on relentlessly, “but you can’t quit
now--you’ve got to go through with it, not only for your own sake, but
in fairness to the Harringtons. It would be a pretty raw deal to give
them to have an exposé like that here just because of your refusal to
have her tested.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Denby sighed.
“Of course I am,” Monty exclaimed.
“Very well,” his friend said, “understand I’m only doing this to prove
how absolutely wrong you are.”
He would not admit even yet that she was plotting to betray him. Those
memories of Paris were dearer to him than he had allowed himself to
believe. Monty looked at him commiseratingly. He had never before seen
Steven in trouble, and he judged his wound to be deeper than it seemed.
“Sure,” he said. “Sure, I know, and I’ll be as glad as you to find after
all it’s Lambart or one of the other servants. What shall we do?”
Denby pointed to the door from which Miss Cartwright had come. “Go in
there,” he commanded, “and keep the rest of the people from coming back
here.”
Monty’s face fell. “How can I do that?” he asked anxiously.
“Oh, recite, make faces, imitate Irving in ‘The Bells,’ do anything but
threaten to sing, but keep ’em there as you love me.”
Obediently Monty made for the door but stopped for a moment before
passing through it.
“And say, old man,” he said a little hurriedly, nervous as most men are
when they deal with sentiment, “don’t take it too hard. Just remember
what happened to Samson and Antony and Adam.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Monty had gone, Denby took out the pouch and placed it
conspicuously on the floor so that anyone descending the stairs must
inevitably catch sight of it. Then, as though thinking better of it, he
picked it up and placed it on one of the small tables on which was an
electric shaded lamp. After looking about him for a hiding-place from
which he could command a view of it and yet remain undiscovered, he
decided upon a door at the left of the hall.
He had waited there only a few seconds when Ethel Cartwright’s steps
were heard descending.
“Oh, Mr. Denby,” she called, “you were right, the fan was in my room
after all.” Then, as she became conscious that the room was empty, she
paused and looked about her closely. Presently her eyes fell on the
precious pouch so carelessly left. For a moment the excitement bereft
her of ability to move. Here, only a few yards from her, was what would
earn her sister’s safety and her release from Taylor’s power.
But she was no fool and collecting her thoughts wondered how it was
possible so precious a thing could be left open to view. Perhaps it was
a trap. Perhaps in the big hall behind one of its many doors or
portières she was even now being watched. Denby had looked at her in a
stern, odd manner, wholly different from his former way and Mr. Vaughan,
of whom she had heard often enough as a pleasant, amiable fellow, had
stared at her searchingly and harshly. An instinct of danger came to her
aid and she glanced over to the door behind her which was slightly ajar.
She remembered certainly that it was closed when she had gone upstairs
for her supposititious fan.
As calmly as she could she walked to the wall and touched the bell that
would summon a servant. In a few seconds Lambart entered.
“Please find Mr. Denby,” she said, “and say that I am here.”
Before he could turn to go, she affected to discover the leathern pouch.
“Oh, Lambart,” she exclaimed, “here’s Mr. Denby’s tobacco; he must have
forgotten it.”
The man took up the pouch, assuming from her manner that she desired him
to carry it to the owner. “No, I’ll take it,” she said, and reached for
it. Lambart only saw what was to him an inexcusably clumsy gesture which
dislodged it from his hand and sent it to the floor, in such a manner
that it opened and the tobacco tumbled out. But the girl’s gesture was
cleverer than he knew for in that brief moment she had satisfied herself
it was empty.
“Oh, Lambart,” she said reprovingly, “how careless of you! Have you
spilt it all?”
Lambart examined its interior with a butler’s gravity.
“I’m afraid I have, miss,” he admitted.
“I think Mr. Denby went into the library,” she said, knowing that the
door behind which someone--probably he--was hiding, led to that room.
Hearing her, Denby knew he must not be discovered and retreated through
the empty library into a small smoking-room into which Lambart did not
penetrate. The man returned to Miss Cartwright, his errand
unaccomplished. “Mr. Denby is not there,” he said.
“Then I will give him the pouch when I see him,” she said, “and,
Lambart, you need not tell him I am here.”
As soon as he was gone, she ran to the window, her face no longer
strained but almost joyous, and when she was assured that none watched
her, lowered the curtain as a signal.
Taylor must have been close at hand, so promptly did he respond to her
summons.
“Well, have you got him?” he cried sharply as he entered. “Where is
he--where’s the necklace?”
“You were wrong,” she said triumphantly, “there is no necklace. I knew I
was right.”
“You’re crazy,” he retorted brutally.
“You said it was in the tobacco-pouch,” she reminded him, “and I’ve
searched and it isn’t there at all.”
“You’re trying to protect him,” Taylor snarled. “You’re stuck on him,
but you can’t lie to me and get away with it.”
“No, no, no,” she protested. “Look, here’s the very pouch, and there’s
no necklace in it.”
“How did you get hold of it?” he snapped.
It was a moment of bitter failure for the deputy-surveyor. The sign for
which he had waited patiently, and eagerly, too, despite his impassive
face, was, after all, nothing but a token of disappointment. He had
hoped, now that events had given him a hold over Miss Cartwright, to
find her well-fitted for a sort of work that would have been peculiarly
useful to his service. But her ready credulity in another man’s honesty
proved one of two things. Either that she lacked the intuitive knowledge
to be a useful tool or else that she was deliberately trying to deceive
him. But none had seen Daniel Taylor show that he realized himself in
danger of being beaten.
“He left it lying on the table,” she assured him eagerly.
Taylor’s sneer was not pleasant to see.
“Oh, he left it on the table, did he?” he scoffed. “Well, of course
there’s no necklace in it then. Don’t you see you’ve let him suspect
you, and he’s just trying to bluff you.”
“It isn’t that,” she asserted. “He hasn’t got it, I tell you.”
“I know he has,” the implacable Taylor retorted, “and you’ve got to find
out this very night where it is. You’ll probably have to search his
room.”
She shrank back at the very thought of it. “I couldn’t,” she cried. “Oh,
I couldn’t!”
“Yes you could, and you will,” he said, in his truculent tone. “And if
you land him, use the same signal, pull down the shade in his room.
We’ll be watching, and I’ve found a way to get there from the balcony.”
“I can’t,” the girl cried in desperation. “I’ve done what you asked. I
won’t try to trap an innocent man.”
He looked at her threateningly. “Oh, you won’t, eh? Well, you will. I’ve
been pretty nice to you, but I’m sick of it. You’ll go through for me,
and you’ll go through right. I’ve had your sister followed--see here,
look at this--” He showed her the fake warrant Duncan had prepared at
his bidding. “This is a warrant for her arrest, and unless you land that
necklace to-night, she’ll be in the Tombs in the morning.”
“Not that, not that?” she begged, covering her face with her hands.
“It’s up to you,” he retorted, a smile of satisfaction lighting up his
face. He could see that he would be able to hold Amy’s warrant over her
head whenever he chose. She was beaten.
“But what can I do?” she said piteously. “What can I do?”
“I’ll tell you,” he said less harshly, “you’re a good-looking girl;
well, make use of your good looks--get around him, jolly him, get him
stuck on you. Make him take you into his confidence. He’ll fall for it.
The wisest guys are easy when you know the way.”
“Very well,” she said, brightening. It seemed to her that no better way
could be devised than to convince Taylor he was wrong. “I will get
around him; I will get his confidence. I’ll prove it to you, and I’ll
save him.”
“But you don’t have to give him your confidence, remember,” Taylor
warned her. “Don’t give him the least tip-off, understand. If you can
get him out in the garden, I’ll take a chance he has the necklace on
him. We’ll nail him there. And don’t forget,” he added significantly,
“that I’ve got a little document here with your sister’s name on it.
There’s somebody coming,” he whispered, and silently let himself out
into the garden.
It was Denby who came in. “Hello,” he said, “not dancing, then?”
“Hello,” she said, in answer to his greeting. “I don’t like dancing in
August.”
“I’m fortunate to find you alone,” he said. “You can’t imagine how
delightful it is to see you again.”
Her manner was particularly charming, he thought, and it gave him a pang
when a suspicion of its cause passed over his mind. There had been other
women who had sought to wheedle from him secrets that other men desired
to know, but they were other women--and this was Ethel Cartwright.
“You don’t look as though it is,” she said provocatively.
He made an effort to appear as light-hearted as she.
“But I am,” he assured her. “It is delightful to see you again.”
“It’s no more delightful than for me to see you,” she returned.
“Really?” he returned. “Isn’t it curious that when you like people you
may not see them for a year, but when you do, you begin just where you
left off.”
“Where did we leave off?” she demanded with a smile.
“Why--in Paris,” he said with a trace of embarrassment. “You don’t want
to forget our Paris, I hope?”
“Never,” she cried, enthusiastically. “It was there we found that we
really were congenial. We are, aren’t we?”
“Congenial?” he repeated. “We’re more than that--we’re--”
She interrupted him. “And yet, somehow, you’ve changed a lot since
Paris.”
“For better or for worse?” he asked.
She shook her head. “For worse.”
He looked at her reproachfully. “Oh, come now, Miss Cartwright, be
fair!”
“In Paris you used to trust me,” she said.
“And you think I don’t now?” he returned.
“I’m quite sure you don’t,” she told him.
“Why do you say that?” Denby inquired.
“There are lots of things,” she answered. “One is that when I asked you
why you were here in America, you put me off with some playful excuse
about being just an idler.” She looked at him with a vivacious air.
“Now didn’t you really come over on an important mission?”
Poor Denby, who had been telling himself that Monty’s suspicions were
without justification, and that this girl’s good faith could not be
doubted even if several circumstances were beyond his power to explain,
groaned inwardly. Here she was, trying, he felt certain, to gain his
confidence to satisfy the men who were even now investing the house.