In an office on lower Wall Street, New York, overlooking the East River
with its bustle of water traffic, sat Stephen Melville, the man to whom
Rook’s message had been addressed—a message that, as we know, he had not
received. Melville was a man of about forty-five, heavy-jawed,
coarse-lipped and bulky-necked, with a big, heavy body. But about the
man there was, withal, a suggestion of brutal strength.
On the door of Melville’s office was painted the word “Private.” Without
this screened-off sanctum was a busy room full of clerks and
stenographers. On the door of this outer office appeared the words:
“General Offices of the Artillery Devices, L’t’d.—Stephen Melville,
President.”
At the precise moment that we are looking in on the offices of the
Artillery Devices, L’t’d, a man whom we have seen before—to wit, Joshua
Sawdon, owner of Sawdon’s Circus—shoved his way, and essayed to continue
to shove his way, past an office boy, who, however, held up the showman
at the rail behind which were the desks of the stenographers and clerks
aforesaid.
Mr. Sawdon appeared to be out of temper. Seeing that it was in vain for
him to try to get past the boy without sending in his name, he hastily
wrote on a bit of paper:
“Young Ingersoll has gotten away. Must see you at once.—Sawdon.”
He folded this and handed it to the boy, telling him to take it in to
Mr. Melville and “look slippy.” Then Mr. Sawdon adjusted his diamond, at
which the clerks had been gazing in awe, and awaited the great man’s
summons. It came quickly.
“De boss ses youse is ter come right in,” said the office boy on his
return, with considerably more respect in his tones than he had used
before.
Sawdon lost no time in obeying this injunction. As soon as he was inside
the private office, Melville motioned him to a chair.
“What the dickens is the meaning of this?” he demanded with a lowering
brow, indicating the circus man’s scrawl.
“It’s plain enough, aint it?” rejoined Sawdon. “The kid’s vamoosed,
gone, skipped.”
“And I paid you to see that he was kept with the show and in ignorance
of everything but the fact that he was a circus slave,” thundered
Melville. “How did this thing happen?”
“Well, what are you to do when a bunch of ginks come along in a flying
automobile and steal him right out of the air before your eyes?”
protested Sawdon, mopping his brow.
“Stop raving and tell me what happened,” demanded Melville angrily.
“Just this,” rejoined Sawdon, “he was kidnapped in the air”; and he went
on to explain to Melville how the boys had aided Ralph to escape from
the balloon.
“And,” he concluded, “we didn’t get a chance to get a hold of the kid
again. First they took him to the home of a guy named Parisgreen, or
something like that, an’ then——”
“Hold on,” demanded Melville angrily, but with a note of eagerness in
his voice, “this man Parisgreen, as you call him—he lives near to
Pokeville?”
“That’s the gook.”
“His name’s not Parisgreen at all then. It’s Peregrine; an inventor,
isn’t he?”
“Well, he and those kids invented a way of getting that kid away from
us, all right, all right.”
“Where is the boy now?”
“In Boston, I guess. I learned later that that’s where those kids were
headed for when we passed ’em on the road. But they had Ralph hidden,
else I’d have got him back all right.”
“A nice mess you’ve made of it,” growled Melville angrily. “Well?” he
demanded, looking up as the office boy tapped timidly and then opened
the door.
“Here’s Mr. Sykes to see you, sir,” he announced.
“Good!” exclaimed Melville. “Show him in. Sawdon, you’ll have to step
outside for a while.” The showman obeyed. He evidently stood in
considerable awe of Melville, and showed no hesitation in carrying out
the curt order. As he stepped out a man of a very different cut stepped
in. The newcomer was Jerome Sykes, the silent partner of the Artillery
Devices Company. He was a gray-haired man, tall, slender, with the face
of a fox, a sharp, inquisitive manner and general air of furtiveness.
As the door closed he gave Melville a crisp nod, and then asked sharply:
“Any news from Boston?”
“None from Rook or Radcliff. I don’t know whether they succeeded in
getting a line on Peregrine’s vanishing gun or not; but I’ve just heard
some bad news from that fellow you passed.”
“Who is he?”
“His name’s Sawdon. He’s the circus man who was given charge of Ralph
Ingersoll. He’s just come in to tell me that the boy has gone, and,
curiously enough, the people who have taken him are in some way
connected with Peregrine, whose invention we are after.”
“Phew! That’s odd, indeed. But Ralph Ingersoll is your personal affair.
What I came to see you about is this; we’ve got to have that device of
Peregrine’s or we’re in a hole we won’t get out of.”
“I know that,” said Melville gloomily. “From what I’ve heard it’s the
kind of thing the government has been looking for. We know it’s not been
patented yet, and if only Rook and Radcliff succeed——”
“You haven’t heard from them?”
“Not a word. But they are reliable men and if it is possible to get hold
of Peregrine’s models or papers they will accomplish it.”
“Look here, Melville,” struck in the fox-faced Mr. Sykes, “do you know
where to find your men in Boston?”
“Yes. I can lay my finger on them at any time.”
“All right then; you go to Boston yourself at once. If the Artillery
Devices Company is going to keep its head above water, we’ve got to have
that vanishing gun invention of Peregrine’s. He won’t sell, so it’s fair
to take it from him by trickery if we can. Are you able to start for
Boston at once?”
“Yes. Right away, practically. I agree with you that something must be
done and done quick, too.”
And so it came about that an hour later Melville and Sawdon were sitting
in a New York, New Haven and Hartford coach bound for Boston. As the
train flew along Melville idly asked Sawdon how his circus was getting
along.
“It ain’t getting along at all,” was the gruff rejoinder. “I’ve quit it
cold. It seems we had no luck after the boy got away from us. It had
been bad enough before that. Then we lost that lion, Wallace. He was a
big drawing card.”
“And so you quit?”
“Yes; just ducked right out. I guess my performers were a sore bunch
when they found that I’d left ’em in the lurch, but it couldn’t be
helped. But what about this kid Ingersoll, as he’s called? Of course, I
know in a general way that he’s entitled to something you’ve got, and
that you don’t want him to get.”
“Entitled to something I’ve got?” said Melville, with a sneering laugh.
“He’s entitled to all I’ve got—only he isn’t going to get it.”