ACROSS THE POTOMAC
AFTER getting his special story on the wires, Dick had only time for
a hasty meal at a down-town restaurant. Then he hurried over to the
_Star_ office, and was soon at work in the city room. About half past
nine his chief sent for him.
“This is the busiest Saturday night we’ve had in years,” grumbled
Colonel Byrd. “You know Dr. Gibson, superintendent of St. Elizabeth’s,
don’t you?” Dick nodded assent. “Well, go over there as quick as you
can and see if you can get him to talk. Word has just come in that
two of the criminally insane have escaped and are still at large
terrorizing the neighborhood. Get all the details, for it is local news
and we will feature it.”
St. Elizabeth’s, The U. S. Government Hospital for the Insane, is
on Nichols Avenue beyond Anacostia. Anacostia, one of the most
beautifully situated suburbs of Washington, is on the Eastern Branch
of the Potomac, and directly across from the Navy Yard. The scenery in
that vicinity is very fine, and from the extensive grounds about the
Insane Asylum there is a wonderful view of the winding Potomac, with
Washington and its environs in the distance.
At no time an accessible place even in summer, on that stormy night it
was a fearful journey to the Government Reservation; and Dick prepared
for his trip with no great alacrity.
Some hours later he stopped, footsore and weary, at the intersection
of Sheridan Road and Nichols Avenue and sought shelter from the storm
on a porch of a vacant house. He had not only interviewed Dr. Gibson,
but, joining one of the searching parties, had been present at the
capture of the two escaped lunatics. The pursuit and capture would
make a readable story, so, well satisfied with his night’s work, he
waited patiently to catch the last car to Washington, which left at
eight minutes past one o’clock. It lacked fifteen minutes of that time,
so, pulling his coat collar up about his ears, he made himself as
comfortable as circumstances permitted.
While waiting, his eyes, grown accustomed to the darkness, discerned a
solitary figure coming toward him from Anacostia. When opposite Dick
the newcomer paused and, screening himself from the storm behind one
of the porch pillars, struck a match. Holding it in the hollow of his
two hands, he lighted his pipe. As the tiny flame flared up his face
was visible. Dick, too amazed to speak, drew back deeper in the shadow
of the friendly porch. With growing curiosity, he watched the slender
figure glide rapidly up Nichols Avenue. What was Alfred Clark doing in
that neighborhood after midnight?
Dick hesitated. It was obviously his duty to return to the _Star_ with
his story, but a certain furtiveness in Clark’s movements caused all
doubt to vanish. Throwing his duty to the winds, he pulled his soft
hat low on his head, scrambled down the steps, and turned up Nichols
Avenue.
Dick picked his way carefully along the frozen and slippery sidewalk,
keeping Clark in view, but not getting close enough to let him suspect
that he was being shadowed. On and on they went, past the entrance
and the extensive grounds of St. Elizabeth’s, past the few straggling
houses marking the outskirts of the little village, and into the more
desolate country beyond.
After about twenty minutes’ walking, Clark turned into a lane on his
right, and going some distance in the direction of the Potomac River,
he suddenly leaped a fence and struck off across country. It was not
very easy to follow him in the more open fields, and Dick, fearful of
being discovered, dropped far behind. On reaching the top of a slight
rise in ground he was dismayed to find that Clark had disappeared. He
glanced about him in every direction, but save for himself the field
was deserted.
Cursing himself for going on so wild a goose chase, he started forward
in the direction he judged Clark might have gone. But his hopes fell
when, after trudging along for ten minutes, he found no trace of his
quarry. Thoroughly discouraged, he rested for a moment against a rail
fence before retracing his way to Anacostia. As his eyes traveled over
the low, rolling country, he noticed three trees forming a triangle
standing in a field a quarter of a mile away. His heart gave a bound;
at last he knew where he was. He could not be mistaken. He hurried
over to the trees; yes, he was right, they were the tall poplars which
he himself had named “The Three Sisters.” He was on land belonging
to Allan Dorsey. While he had accompanied Allan there in the summer,
he had never been there in winter or at night. Allan Dorsey, whose
paintings were known the world over, had purchased the deserted farm
because of the magnificent views which stirred his artist soul. He
would work for days at a time in solitude, and only Dick was privileged
to come and see him on rare occasions.
“Lord! I wish Allan were there instead of in Paris,” thought Dick.
“He’d give me a high ball for the inner man, and a dry suit for the
outer one.” He shivered in his damp clothes. “May the foul fiend seize
that Clark! I wonder where in thunder he went to.”
As if in answer to his unspoken question, an idea flashed into his
head. The studio! By Jove! that was it; and yet, what in the name of
Heaven was Clark doing in so deserted and forsaken a place?
There was but one way to find out and suiting the action to his
thought, Dick walked in the direction of the old barn which had been
converted into a roomy and up-to-date studio. It stood some distance
from the “Three Sisters,” hidden from view by a grove of trees.
Dick cautiously approached the building. There was no sign of life or
human habitation. The heavy, old-fashioned wooden shutters were tightly
closed, but as Dick bent and placed his ear against the wide door, he
distinctly heard the sound of several voices. Certain now that he was
on the right track, and his curiosity at fever heat, he paused to
think over the situation.
The rain and sleet had stopped some time before, and the wind was dying
down. Suddenly he thought of the skylight Allan had built into the
roof of the barn to obtain a better light. If he could climb up there
he could see all that was going on inside the studio. To think was
to act with Dick; his blood was up and he was determined to see the
adventure through, whatever the consequences. Taking off his coat and
shoes and hiding them behind a large bowlder, he proceeded to climb a
tree whose limbs stretched out close to the roof of the barn. He hated
to trust his weight to the slender limb, but there was no other way to
accomplish his object. So, putting his trust in Providence, he crept
along until just parallel with the chimney, then dropped lightly as a
cat to the shingled roof.
Very gingerly and softly he crawled forward on hands and knees to the
skylight. Gently he ran his hand over the portion of the glass frame
nearest him. Joy of joys; one of the panes of glass was out, and his
hand passed through the opening and touched the large Holland shade
which was drawn over the inside of the skylight. Light was visible
around the edges of the shade; that was all he could discover. He
pulled out his penknife and gently cut an opening in the green shade,
and applied his eye to the hole.
Seated directly beneath him around a table were four masked men. Their
voices carried distinctly in the closed room to where he crouched above
them. To his great surprise they spoke in Italian, a language with
which he was fairly familiar, having studied it with a view to going
into the Consular Service.
The smallest man of the four placed a square box in the center of the
table.
“Draw,” he said briefly. “The one who gets the marked card is accepted
by the Brotherhood as its Avenger.”
One by one four hands were slipped inside of the small opening in the
end of the box and silently withdrawn, holding a card at which each
glanced indifferently. Dick could not tell from their quiet movements
which had drawn the fatal card. The leader rapped softly on the table
before speaking.
“Our plans are now perfected,” he said. “There can be no failure. In
this country of the free we, children of the Camorra, can wreak its
vengeance upon those who have thwarted our society. The Grand Duke
Sergius has seen fit to hound certain of our members who have come
within his power. The Brotherhood has decreed his death. The Grand
Duke, the President, the great men of this country, and the Diplomatic
Corps will be assembled five days from now to attend the dedication of
the Lincoln Memorial. No better opportunity could be found. The means,
I leave to the fortunate holder of the marked card. Remember--the Place
and the Hour.”
Dick could hardly believe his ears. The Camorra! Surely he was in some
mad dream. So bewildered was he that he missed a few sentences, but his
wandering attention was attracted by the excited gestures of the masked
man who sat facing the leader.
“You ask for an explanation,” said the latter. “For that you must apply
to Giovanni Savelli. The Trevor affair is in his hands. But are you not
his direct agent?”
The man’s answer was spoken in so low a tone that Dick, not catching
what he said, bent far over the skylight, forgetful of the frailness of
the structure. Glass and frame gave way beneath his weight, and, with a
resounding crash, Dick fell forward into space.