returned. “I can keep you here, and I will. No other course is open to
me.” A clock outside struck. “It’s just three,” he observed. “In four
hours’ time a maid will go to your room and find it empty. It’s a long
time till then, so why not make yourself as comfortable as you can?
Please sit down.”
The girl sank into a chair more because she was suddenly conscious of
her physical weakness than for the reason he offered it her in mocking
courtesy.
“I can’t face it,” she cried hysterically; “the disgrace and
humiliation! I can’t face it!”
“You’ve got to face it,” he said sternly.
“I can’t,” she repeated. “It’s horrible, it’s unfair--if you’ll let me
go, I’ll promise you I won’t betray you.”
“You daren’t keep silent about me,” he answered. “How can I let you go?”
“I’m telling you the truth,” she said simply.
“Then tell me who sent you here,” he entreated her. “You know what it
means to me; you can guess what it means to you. If you tell me, it may
save us both.”
“I can’t!” she cried. “I can’t! Oh, please, please!”
He took her in his arms, roughly, exasperated by her denial.
“By God, I’ll make you tell!” he said angrily.
“Don’t touch me,” she said shuddering.
“Who sent you here?” he demanded, not releasing her.
“I’m afraid,” she groaned. “Oh, I’m afraid. I hate you! I hate you! Let
me go! let me go!”
“Who sent you here?” he repeated, still holding her.
“I’ll tell,” she said brokenly. Then, when he let her go, she sank into
a chair. “I can’t go through with it--you’ve beaten me--Oh, I tried so
hard, so hard, but you’ve won. It’s too unfair when it’s not my fault.
You can’t understand, or you wouldn’t spoil my whole life like this.
It’s not only me, it’s my mother, my sister--Amy.”
Denby, watching her hardly controllable agitation, was forced to
readjust his opinion concerning her. This was not any adventuress
trained in artifice and ruse, but the woman he had thought her to be in
the deepest sorrow. The bringing in of her mother and sister was not, he
felt sure, a device employed merely to gain his sympathy and induce
leniency in her captor.
And when it seemed she must sob out a confession of those complex
motives which had led her to seek his betrayal, Denby saw her clench her
hands and pull herself together.
“No,” she said, rising to her feet, her weakness cast off, “I won’t
quit--no matter what happens to me. I’ll expose you, and tell them
everything. I’ll let them decide between us--whether they’ll believe you
or me. It’s either you or my sister, and I’ll save her.”
He was now more than ever certain he was stumbling upon something which
would bring him the blessed assurance that she had not sold herself for
reward.
“Your sister?” he cried eagerly.
“They shan’t send her to prison,” the girl said doggedly.
“You’re doing all this to save your sister from prison?” he asked her
gently.
“She depends on me so,” she answered dully. “They shan’t take her.”
“Then you’ve been forced into this?” he asked. “You haven’t done it of
your own free will?”
“No, no,” she returned, “but what else could I do? She was my little
sister; she came first.”
“And you weren’t lying to me--trying to trick me for money?”
“Can’t you see,” she said piteously, “that I wanted to save you, too,
and wanted you to get away? I said you were innocent, but they wouldn’t
believe me and said I had to go on or else they’d send Amy to prison.
They have a warrant all ready for her in case I fail. That’s why I’m
here. Oh, please, please, let me go.”
Steven Denby looked into her eyes and made his resolve. “You don’t know
how much I want to believe in you,” he exclaimed. “It may spoil
everything I’ve built on, but I’m going to take the chance.” He unlocked
the door that led to her room. “You can go, Miss Cartwright!”
“Oh, you are a man, after all,” she cried, deep gratitude in her voice,
and a relief at her heart she could as yet scarcely comprehend. And as
she made to pass him she was startled by a shrill sharp whistle
outside.
“The devil!” he cried anxiously, and ran to the window.
“What is it?” she called, frightened. It was not the low whistle that
Monty had used, but a menacing, thrilling sound.
“Your friends of the secret service have come back,” he answered, “but
they mustn’t see us together.” Quickly he lowered the window-shade, and
stepped back to the centre of the room, coming to a sudden pause as he
saw the terror on the girl’s face.
“Oh, my God,” she screamed, “what have you done? That was the signal to
bring Taylor here.”
“Ah, then, it’s Taylor,” he cried triumphantly. “It’s Taylor!”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to tell,” she said, startled at the admission. “I
didn’t mean to let anyone know.”
“I wish you had told me before,” he said with regret, “we could both
have been spared some unhappy moments. I know Taylor and his way of
fighting, and this thing is going to a finish.”
“Go, before he comes,” she entreated.
“And leave you alone to face him?” he said more tenderly. “Leave you to
a man who fights as he does?” He looked at her for a moment in silence
and then bowed his head over her white hand and kissed it. “I can’t do
that. I love you.”
“Oh, please go while there’s time,” she pleaded; “he mustn’t take you.”
She looked up at him and without shame, revealed the love that she now
knew she must ever have for him. “Oh, I couldn’t bear that,” she said
tremulously, “I couldn’t.”
He gazed down at her, not yet daring to believe that out of this black
moment the greatest happiness of his life had come. “Ethel!” he said,
amazed.
“I love you,” she whispered; “oh, my dear, I love you.”
He gathered her in his strong arms. “Then I can fight the whole world,”
he cried, “and win!”
“For my sake, go,” she begged. “Let me see him first; let me try to get
you out of it.”
“I stay here, dearest,” he said firmly. “When he comes, say that you’ve
caught me.”
“No, no,” she implored; “I can’t send you to prison either.”
“I’m not going to prison,” he reassured her. “I’m not done for yet, but
we must save your sister and get that warrant. He must not think you’ve
failed him. Do you understand?”
“But he’ll take you away,” she cried, and clung to him.
“Do as I say,” he besought her; “tell him the necklace is here
somewhere. Be brave, my dear, we’re working to save your sister. He’s
coming.”
“Hands up, Denby,” Taylor shouted, clambering from the balcony to the
room and levelling a revolver at the smuggler. Without a word Denby’s
hands went up as he was bid, and the deputy-surveyor smiled the victor’s
smile.
“Well, congratulations, Miss Cartwright,” he cried; “you landed him as I
knew you could if you tried.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Denby cried indignantly. “Who are you?”
“Oh, can that bunk!” Taylor said in disgust.
“Where’s the necklace, Miss Cartwright?”
“I don’t know,” she answered nervously.
“You don’t know?” he returned incredulously.
“I haven’t been able to find it, but it’s here somewhere.”
“He’s probably got it on him,” Taylor said.
“All this is preposterous,” Denby exclaimed angrily.
“Hand it over,” Taylor snapped.
“I have no necklace,” Denby told him.
“Then I’ll have to search you,” he cried, coming to him and going
through his pockets with the practised hand of one who knows where to
look, covering him the while with the revolver.
“I’ll make you pay for this,” Denby cried savagely, as Taylor
unceremoniously spun him around.
“Will you give it to me,” Taylor demanded when he had drawn blank, “or
shall I have to upset the place by searching for it?”
“How can I get it for you with my hands up in the air?” Denby asked
after a pause. “Let me put my hands down and I’ll help you.”
Taylor considered for a moment. Few men were better in a
rough-and-tumble fight than he, and he had little fear of this beaten
man before him. “You haven’t got a gun,” he said, “so take ’em down, but
don’t you fool with me.”
Denby moved over to the writing-desk and picked up a heavy beaten copper
ash-tray with match-box attached. He balanced it in his hand for a
moment. “Not a bad idea is it?” he demanded smiling; and then, before
Taylor could reach for it had hurled it with the strong arm and
practised eye of an athlete straight at the patent burglar alarm a few
feet distant.
There was a smashing of glass and then, an instant later, the turning
off of light and a plunge into blackness. And in the gloom, during which
Taylor thrashed about him wildly, there came from all parts of the house
the steady peal of the electrical alarms newly set in motion.
And last of all there was the report of the revolver and a woman’s
shriek and the falling of a heavy body on the floor, and then a
silence.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
No sooner had Michael Harrington seated himself at the card-table with
his wife and Nora than he picked up a magazine and, as he always said,
“kept the light from his eyes.” Some men--few there be--who boldly state
they desire to sleep, but Michael was of the tactful majority and merely
kept the light from his eyes and, incidentally, prevented any observers
from noting that his eyes were closed.
He considered this a better way of waiting for Monty than to chatter as
the women were doing of the events of the night.
“I wonder what’s become of Monty?” Alice asked presently.
“He’s kept us twenty minutes,” Nora returned crossly. “I saw him go out
in the garden. He said it was to relieve his headache, but I really
believe he wanted to capture the gang single-handed. Wouldn’t it be
thrilling if he did?”
“A little improbable,” Alice laughed; “but still men do the oddest
things sometimes. I never thought Michael the fighting kind till he
knocked a man down once for kissing his hand to me.”
“It was fine of Michael,” Nora said. “The man deserved it.”
“I know, dear,” her hostess said, “but, as it happens, the man was
kissing his hand to his infant son six months old in an upper window. It
cost Michael fifty dollars, but I loved him all the more for it. Look at
the dear old thing slumbering peacefully and imagining I think he’s
keeping this very gentle light from his eyes.”
“It’s the two highballs he had in Mr. Denby’s room,” the sapient ingénue
explained. She harked back to Monty. “I wish he were as brave about
proposing. I’ve tried my grandmother’s recipes for shy men, and all my
mother ever knew, I know. And yet he does get so flustered when he
tries, that he scares himself away.”
Alice nodded. “He’s the kind you’ve got to lead to the altar. I had
trouble with Michael. He imagined himself too hopelessly old, and very
nearly married quite an elderly female. He’d have been dead now if he
had. Here’s your prey coming in now.”
Monty entered the card-room from the garden, nervously stuffing into his
pocket the precious package which Denby had thrown to him.
“I hope I haven’t delayed the game,” he apologized.
“We didn’t even miss you,” Nora said acidly.
“Were you supposed to be in on this game?”
“Don’t be cross, Nora,” Alice advised; “you can see his headache has
been troubling him. Is it better, Monty?”
“What headache?” he asked. “I haven’t had a headache for months. Oh,
yes,” he added, confused, “that neuralgic headache has gone, thanks.
Shall we play?”
“Yes, let’s,” Nora said. “Michael dealt before he went to sleep.”
“Wake up, Michael,” his wife said, tapping him with her fan, “you’re not
at the opera; you’re playing cards.”
“I haven’t slept for a moment,” he assured her, after a pause in which
he got his bearings. “The light was too strong--”
“So you shaded your eyes,” his wife went on. “Well, when they are
unshaded will you remember we’re playing?”
“Who opened it?” he demanded with a great effort.
“Bridge, my dear,” Alice reminded him, “not poker--bridge, auction
bridge.” She paused a moment while the clock struck three. “And it’s
three o’clock, and it’s quite time you began.”
“One no trump,” Nora said, after looking at her hand cheerfully.
“It isn’t your bid,” Alice corrected her, “although I don’t wonder you
forgot. It’s Michael’s; he dealt.”
Michael tried to concentrate his gaze on his hand. There seemed to be an
enormous number of cards, and he needed time to consider the phenomenon.
“What’d the dealer draw?” he asked.
“But we’re not playing poker,” Alice said.
“It was Monty who confused me,” he said in excuse, and looked
reproachfully at his vis-à-vis. “What’s trumps?”
“It’s your bid,” Nora cried. “You dealt.”
“I go one spade.”
“One no trump,” Monty declared.
“Two royals,” Nora cried, not that she had them, but to take it away
from Monty.
“Pass,” said Alice glumly. She could have gone two royals, but dared not
risk three.
“Give me three cards,” Michael cried more cheerfully. The way was
becoming clearer.
“Michael,” his wife said reprovingly, “if you’re really as tired as
that, you’d better go to bed.”
“I never broke up a poker game in my life,” he cried. “It’s only the
shank of the evening. What’s happened, partner?” he yawned to Nora.
“I went two royals,” she said.
Michael looked at his hand enthusiastically. “Three aces,” he murmured.
“I’d like to open it for two dollars--as it is, I pass.”
“Two no trumps,” said Monty. When the rest had passed, Nora led and
Monty played from the dummy. Michael, at last feeling he was rounding
into form, played a low card, so that dummy took the trick with a nine.
“Anything wrong?” he asked anxiously as Nora shook her head.
“If you don’t want to win you’re playing like a bridge article in a
Sunday paper,” she returned.
“This game makes me sick,” he said in disgust. “Nothing but reproaches.”
“I wish Mr. Denby were playing instead of poor Michael,” Nora remarked.
“Steve’s got the right idea,” Monty commented. “He’s in bed.”
“Great man, Denby,” said Michael. “He knows you can’t sit up all night
unless you drink.”
“We’ll finish the rubber and then stop,” his wife said comfortingly. “Do
remember it’s not poker.”
“I wish it were,” he exclaimed dolefully. “No partners--no
reproaches--no post-mortems in poker. If you make a fool of yourself you
lose your own money and everybody else is glad of it and gets cheerful.”
“After this then, one round of jacks to please Michael,” said Alice.
“And then quit,” Monty suggested. “I’m tired, too.”
“I’m not tired,” Michael asserted. “I’m only thirsty. It takes this form
with me. When I’m thirsty--”
Michael stopped in consternation. Overhead, from all parts of the house,
came the mechanical announcement that burglars had broken in. The four
rose simultaneously from the table.
“Burglars!” cried Michael, looking from one to the other.
“Good Heavens!” Nora gasped.
“What shall we do?” cried Alice.
“It’s gone off by accident,” Monty asserted quivering, as there came
suddenly the sound of a shot.
“Somebody’s killed!” Alice exclaimed, with an air of certainty.
Michael was the first to recover his poise. “Monty,” he commanded
sternly, “go and find what’s the matter. I’ll look after the girls.”
Alice looked at him entreatingly. “You’d better go,” she said; “I shall
feel safer if you see what it is. You’re not afraid, Michael?”
“Certainly not,” he said with dignity. “Of course they’re armed. Hello,
who’s here?”
It was Lambart entering, bearing in his hand a .45 revolver.
“The burglar-alarm, sir,” he said, with as little excitement as he might
have announced the readiness of dinner. “The indicator points to Mr.
Denby’s room.”
“Good old Lambart,” his employer said heartily. “You go ahead, and we’ll
follow. No, you keep the beastly thing,” he exclaimed, when the butler
handed him the weapon. “You’re a better shot than I am, Lambart.”
“Mikey,” Alice called to him, “if you’re going to be killed, I want to
be killed, too.”
The Harringtons followed the admirable Lambart up the stairway, while
Nora gazed after them with a species of fascinated curiosity that was
not compounded wholly of fear. Intensely alive to the vivid interest of
these swiftly moving scenes through which she was passing,
Nora--although she could scream with the best of them--was not in
reality badly scared.
“I don’t want to be killed,” she announced with decision.
Monty moved to her side. He had an idea that if he must die or be
arrested, he would like Nora to live on, cherishing the memory that he
was a man.
“Neither do I!” he cried. “I wish I’d never gone into this. I knew when
I dreamed about Sing Sing last night that it meant something.”
“Gone into what?” Nora demanded.
“I’m liable to get shot any minute.”
“What!” she cried anxiously.
“This may be my last five minutes on earth, Nora.”
“Oh, Monty,” she returned, “what have you done?” She looked at him in
ecstatic admiration; never had he seemed so heroic and desirable. “Was
it murder?”
“If I come out of it alive, will you marry me?” he asked desperately.
“Oh, Monty!” she exclaimed, and flung herself into his arms. “Why did
you put it off so long?”
“I didn’t need your protection so much,” he told her; “and anyway it
takes a crisis like this to make me say what I really feel.”
“I love you anyway, no matter what you’ve done,” she said contentedly.
He looked at her more brightly. “I’m the happiest man in the world,” he
declared, “providing,” he added cautiously, “I don’t get shot.”
She raised her head from his shoulder and tapped the package in his
pocket. “What’s that?” she asked.
“That’s my heart,” he said sentimentally.
“But why do you wear it on the right side?” she queried.
“Oh, that,” he said more gravely, “I’d forgotten all about it. It
belongs to Steve. That shows I love you,” he added firmly; “I’d
forgotten all about it.”
As he spoke there was the shrill call of a police whistle outside. “The
police!” he gasped.
“Don’t let them get you,” she whispered. “They are coming this way.”
“Quick,” he said, grabbing her arm and leading her to a door. “We’ll
hide here.” Now that danger, as he apprehended it, was definitely at
hand, his spirits began to rise. He was of the kind which finds in
suspense the greatest horror. They had barely reached the shelter of a
door when Duncan and Gibbs ran in.
“Come on, Harry,” Duncan called to the slower man, “he’s upstairs. Get
your gun ready.”
Nora clasped her lover’s hand tighter. “There’ll be some real shooting,”
she whispered; “I hope Alice doesn’t get hurt. Listen!”
“The Chief’s got him for sure,” Gibbs panted, making his ascent at the
best speed he could gather.
“They’ve gone,” Nora said, peering out; then she ventured into the hall.
“Who’s the chief?” she asked.
“The chief of police I guess,” he groaned. “This is awful, Nora. I can’t
have you staying here with all this going on. Go back into the
card-room, and I’ll let you know what’s happened as soon as I can.”
“But what are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to wait for Steve; he’s very likely to want me.”
“I’m not afraid,” Nora said airily.
“But I am,” he retorted; “I’m afraid for you. Be a good girl and do as I
say, and I’ll come as soon as the trouble’s over.”
“I just hate to miss anything,” she pouted. “Still if you really wish
it.” She looked at him more tenderly than he had ever seen her look at
any human being before. “Don’t get killed, Monty, dear.”
Monty took her in his arms and kissed her. “I don’t want to,” he said,
“especially now.”
When the door had shut behind her he took out the necklace with the idea
of secreting it in an unfindable place. He remembered a Poe story where
a letter was hidden in so obvious a spot that it defied Parisian
commissaries of police. But the letters were usual things and pearl
necklaces were not, and he took it down from the mantel where for a
second he had let it lie, and rammed it under a sofa-cushion on the
nearby couch. That, too, was not a brilliant idea and, while he was
wondering if the pearls would dissolve if he dropped them in a decanter
of whiskey on a table near him, there were loud voices heard at the head
of the stairway, and he fled from the spot.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When the Harringtons followed their butler into Denby’s room, they were
appalled at what they could not see but heard without difficulty. A
strange voice, a harsh, coarse voice rapping out oaths and imprecations,
a man fighting with some opponent who remained silent. While they who
owned the house stood helpless, Lambart turned on the lights.
The sudden glare showed them Denby was the silent fighter. The other
man, a heavily built fellow, seemed for the moment blinded by the
lights, and stopped for a second. And it was in this second that Denby
uppercut him so that he fell with a thud to the floor.
Then they saw Denby pick up a revolver that was lying by the stranger’s
side.
“What’s the matter?” cried Michael, while Lambart busied himself with
making the room tidy and replacing overturned chairs.
“This man,” said Denby, still panting from his efforts, “tried to break
in, and Miss Cartwright and I got him.”
“Good Lord!” Michael ejaculated.
“How splendid of you!” Alice cried. “Ethel, you’re a heroine, my dear.”
Taylor, who had not been put out by the blow, scrambled to his feet and
was pushed into a chair. Denby stood conveniently near with the revolver
a foot from his heart.
“I never saw a more typical criminal,” Michael said, severely looking at
the captive; “every earmark of it. I could pick him out of a thousand.
Now, Denby, we want to hear all about it.”
“He’s crazy,” Taylor shouted indignantly. “Don’t you believe him. He’s
the crook. I’m an agent of the United States Customs and I came here to
get Denby.”
“That’s a pretty poor bluff,” Denby scoffed. “This porch climber was one
of the two who held up Monty and Miss Rutledge in the grounds to-night.”
“I said they’d break in!” Alice cried, and believed her statement. “And
how fortunate Ethel moved her room. This man looks like the sort who
wouldn’t stop short of murder, Michael.”
“The lowest human type!” Michael cried. “Look at his eyes and ears, and
nose!”
“I tell you I came to arrest him!” Taylor cried, striving to keep his
already ruffled temper.
“Arrest that charming man?” Mrs. Harrington cried with scorn. “Was
there ever anything so utterly absurd!”
“Absurd!” he sneered. “You won’t think so when you learn who I am. Ask
that girl there; she knows; she’ll tell you whether I’m absurd.”
Instantly they all centred their gaze on Ethel. For a second she looked
at him blankly. “I never saw the man before,” she told them.
“You didn’t, eh?” Taylor cried, after a pause of sheer astonishment, “I
guess you’ll remember me when I serve a warrant for your sister’s
arrest. It’s in my pocket now with other papers that prove I’m working
for the United States Government.” He made a motion as though to get
them but found Denby’s gun close under his nose.
“No you don’t,” Denby warned him. “You’ve probably got a neat little
automatic pistol there. I know your sort.”
But when he seemed about to relieve the deputy-collector of his papers
Taylor shouted a loud protest.
“Very well,” Denby cried. “If you had rather Mr. Harrington did, it’s
all the same to me. Mr. Harrington,” turning to his host, “will you
please remove whatever documents you find in his inner pocket, so that
we may find out if what he says is true.”
“Surely,” Michael returned. “I like every man to have justice even if
the electric chair yearns for him.” Carefully he removed a bundle of
papers neatly tied together. And one of them, as Ethel Cartwright saw,
was the warrant made out for her sister’s arrest. She wondered why Denby
had invited inspection of them, but was not long to remain in doubt.
“Now,” said Michael judicially, “we’ll do the thing properly.”
But before he had unfolded a single one of the papers, they were
snatched violently from his hand, and Denby, gun pointed at Taylor, was
backing to the door. “Keep out of range, Harrington,” the retreating man
warned. He cast a swift look of triumph toward Ethel. “It’s all right,
Miss Cartwright,” he called cheerfully. “Don’t worry, it’s all right
now.”
As the door closed, Taylor sprang from the chair with a curse. “Grab
him, I tell you,” he cried raging. “He’s a crook. The Government wants
him, and they’ll hold you people responsible if he gets away.” He blew
his whistle loudly, and then rushed out of the door and down the hall
taking the steps four at a time.
The French windows were open and out of them he ran, calling sharply for
his men. But Gibbs and Duncan were even now fiercely searching the other
wing and disturbing frightened servants above. It was not for some
minutes that they made their way to their chief, and searched the
grounds as he bade them.
And even here they were frustrated. Lambart’s tactical genius had
forbidden him to remove the clothes-lines he had laid to bring wandering
tramps low, and among them Duncan and Gibbs floundered with dreadful
profanity.