PAUL ROGERS’ BLOW FOR MILLIONS.
For a moment after the detective asked the question, Mercedes stared in
open-eyed amazement into his face. Then she slowly lowered her eyes
until their gaze had settled upon a figure in the carpet, and she
replied with the one word:
“Yes.”
She did not ask why he had put the question. She waited for the next one
which she seemed to know would follow upon the first.
“How long have you known that he was not dead?” asked Nick.
“Always,” she replied, still with her eyes lowered. “At least, I knew
almost at once that the report was untrue. As young as I was--only
ten--he trusted me to keep his secret. He sent me a long letter in which
he told me all his dreadful history--and sorrow--and, oh, I cannot talk
about it. Later, I saw him.”
“Three years later--when you were thirteen--you awoke in the night and
saw him at your bedside, did you not?” asked Nick gently.
She raised her eyes then, half-frightened.
“Are you a wizard?” she asked. “I have never told of that circumstance
to anybody--not even to Sarah Kearney, my maid, who was my confidant in
the other part of it, and whom I swore to secrecy on the most solemn
oath I could devise.”
“Sarah has not broken her oath to you. She has told me nothing.”
Mercedes clasped her hands together and gazed imploringly into the
detective’s face.
“Then you have seen my brother, Tom,” she said slowly, and with
conviction that could not be shaken. “My brother, Tom, who was my
idol--whom I worshiped. You have seen him. Nobody else could have told
you what only he and I know.”
“Yes, Mercedes----”
“Hush! You must not call me that, now; not yet.”
“I have seen your brother, Tom, and he told me about it--and yet, he
does not suspect that I know that you are his sister.”
“He is well? And happy? And--good?” she asked breathlessly, and in a
tone which seemed to demand that the answers to her questions should be
in the affirmative. And Nick replied in a gentle tone:
“Yes, he is well. I do not think he is quite happy; how could he be so,
away from the sister he loves so dearly? And--he is trying to be good, I
think.”
“Where is he?” she asked, and Nick smiled kindly as he replied:
“You are asking questions of me instead of permitting me to ask some
that are important, but I think I may promise you that he is not far
away--that he is watching over your safety at this moment in a manner
and under advantages which I could not obtain, however hard I might
try--and that he is not very far away from you.”
“Then he is--free?” she exclaimed, with a glad cry.
“Free! Yes. Why do you ask that?”
“Because I was told--oh, kind Heaven, must I confess it?--that he was a
prisoner for life in a French prison. A prisoner for life! Think of it.”
“Ah!” said Nick. “Now I think I understand. Now I think it will not be
necessary to ask you any more of these harrowing questions. Now, I think
I know all the truth.”
“Please tell me what you mean,” murmured Mercedes.
“Some time ago,” replied Nick, speaking slowly, “I had a long talk with
your maid, Sarah. From her talk I gathered that when Paul Rogers
appeared here in this house as valet to your brother, Reginald, you
discovered that he was not a stranger to you. I also discovered that
there was a secret connected with your knowing him, which she would not
under any circumstances reveal, not even to save your life. When Ramon
Orizaba was murdered by Paul Rogers, it was only the horror of the thing
which affected you--there was no sorrow in your soul. You believed
yourself well rid of both of them, and yet, you were startled lest you
could no longer supposedly communicate with your brother, Tom.
“Wait, Mercedes; let me finish. I know that while you have been abroad,
you have caused every prison in France and England to be searched, as
well as it could be done by others, for traces of somebody. I know that
you constantly supplied Orizaba with money, and that even now, in a
roundabout way, you are supplying an emissary of Paul Rogers--in short,
that you are furnishing the very funds with which he is bribing others
to murder your father, mother, and your brother, Reginald, as well as
your own self. You do not know that; but I do. You think that he is
sending a large part of that money abroad to make easier the prison life
of your brother, Tom, and you have so great an amount of money at your
command that ten thousand dollars, or even a hundred thousand, is as a
drop in the bucket against the purchase of added comforts for him.”
Her head was bowed in her hands now, but she was not weeping.
“Do you remember your horror, Mercedes, when you believed, for a time,
that Reginald was the murderer of Orizaba? Do you remember how grateful
you were when it was proved to you that he could not have done the deed?
And that even after it was proved to you, you still felt gratitude
toward Rogers, because he left behind him a letter in which he confessed
that he did the deed himself? And do you not see the cold calculation
and planning of the fiend through it all? He thought at first that he
would convince you that Reginald killed Orizaba. Later, he became afraid
that his plans in that direction would not work, and so he made a play
to obtain your eternal gratitude by confessing that he did it himself,
and thus saving Reginald.”
“And if your own clear reasoning had not convinced me of the real truth,
I might still have reason, in my thoughts, for eternal gratitude to
him,” murmured Mercedes.
“Exactly. But, the cupidity of Rogers grows with his attainments.
Having placed himself in a position where he could command almost any
sum from you at any moment, he became dissatisfied with that, and wanted
the principal--and, remember this: But for your brother, Tom, who has
never been inside a French prison nor in France, so far as I know, and
who came to me with a warning of the plot against you, Rogers would have
been in a fair way to accomplish every hellish thing he set out to do.
Tell me, now, how you first knew Rogers.”
“When I was at school in France he came to me with a message from my
brother.”
“Forged,” said Nick.
“Perhaps so; I believed it to be real. He told me that he had been
friends with Tom, and--oh, I cannot repeat it all.”
“It is not necessary. I desire only the main facts.”
“I could not command so much money then, because I was only a child, but
I found a way to obtain a great deal.”
“And that you gave to him for your brother, Tom.”
“Yes; all of it. There has never been a month since that time when I
have been free from the demands of Paul Rogers; but I have not resented
that as long as I believed I was benefiting my wayward brother. I have
always supposed that a part of what I supplied went to him.”
“Nothing has gone to him. Did not Rogers also endeavor to force himself
upon your attentions?”
“Yes; to my shame, he did.”
“To your shame? Oh, no; but to your misfortune and your youth--yes.”
“He is well educated. He represented himself to be of good family----”
“Which I have no doubt he is. Go on.”
“But I stopped all that. I threatened even to desert my brother--which,
of course, I did not really intend to do--unless he ceased his
attentions. Then Orizaba came upon the scene. I met him before my mother
did. It was I to whom the proofs of his relationship were first
exhibited. He also had been a friend of Tom’s--at least, so it was said.
And--need we go farther into that subject?”
“No. I am very glad that we have cleared the atmosphere of things by
this talk.”
“And I am glad, too. More so than you can understand. It seems to me
right, now, that you should share my secret, although an hour ago,
before you spoke to me on the subject, I would sooner have died than
have shared it with you.”
“Has your father or your mother any idea that your brother, Tom, is
alive?”
“No. At least, father has none. Sometimes I have thought that my mother
is not convinced of his death--and yet, I am sure that she is not
convinced that he lives.”
“And Reginald?”
“Reginald believes that Tom is dead, of course. You must know, Mr.
Carter, that Tom was my childhood’s idol. He was a saint--a god--a big
brother, who was brave and fearless.”
“I understand.”
“Can you tell me no more about him?” she asked pleadingly.
“At present there is no more to tell. I know nothing more than I have
told you. He did not tell me that he was your brother, nor was I sure
that he was so until I questioned you just now.”
“And, later? Do you think you will see him again?”
“I am sure that I will see him again, and I think I may promise you that
some time in the near future, if you will be guided by me, I will bring
you together.”
“Oh, thank God!”
An hour later, Chick reappeared on the scene, wearing the disguise
which Nick had directed, and was duly installed as butler in Nick’s
place. At the same time, Nick took his departure, but only for the
purpose of traveling the short distance that was necessary to find a
place to make himself into a counterpart of what Chick had been while he
was serving in the capacity of valet.
And so their positions were reversed.
Both remained in the house, and the only real alterations in their plans
of watching, existed in the fact that Mercedes believed that the
detective himself had returned to New York and that she had now to do
only with his assistants.
As the afternoon waned, Mercedes became anxious about the extended
absence of her mother who, it will be remembered, had gone alone for a
ride in the victoria; and now fully three hours had elapsed since her
departure. It was unprecedented for her to remain out so long alone.
As Mercedes came out upon the porch for the purpose of directing that
somebody from the stable ride down the road in search of the carriage,
four men, followed by several others, appeared in the gateway. They were
carrying a litter between them, and upon it was stretched the silent and
motionless figure of Mercedes’ mother; and Nick Carter, who, as the
valet, started at once down the path to meet them, muttered to himself:
“Paul Rogers’ first blow for the Danton millions has fallen.”