FORGING THE FETTERS
DICK sat back in his chair and glowered at Hardy.
“Do you know that your informant is at present a fugitive from
justice?” he asked.
“What!” cried the detective, springing to his feet in his surprise.
“It’s a fact,” declared Dick. “The Secret Service men are after him. I
expect to hear of his arrest at any moment.”
Hardy sank back in his chair and mopped his red face. He had very much
the appearance of a pricked gas balloon.
“Would you mind putting me wise?” he asked, finally. “I’ve been so busy
shadowing Miss Trevor, I am all in the dark about Clark. The Secret
Service Bureau haven’t notified us yet. I suppose they want him for
some Government business.”
In a few terse sentences Dick told him of his interview with Chief
Connor, and of the evidence he had collected against Clark. At the end
Hardy swore with fluency and ease.
“What a blank--blank--fool I’ve been to be taken in by that scoundrel,”
he gasped. “Then this handkerchief business is only a plan to throw
dust in my eyes.”
“I think so,” agreed Dick. “Clark evidently wanted to turn suspicion
against Miss Trevor, so manufactured this evidence. It was probably an
easy matter for him to pick up one of Miss Trevor’s handkerchiefs; as a
rule women shed them wherever they go. Then he pricked his arm, or made
his nose bleed so as to get blood stains on it. Depend upon it, Hardy,
he is your man.”
“You are right, sir,” exclaimed Hardy, banging his fist on the table.
“Now that you have shown me the way, I’ll bring the murder home to
him, or bust. Here, Johnston,” to a plain clothes officer who had just
entered the office, “get your hat and come on.”
Dick left the two detectives at the main entrance of the District
Building and rushed down to the _Star_. After a satisfactory
interview with Colonel Byrd, he hastened to his desk where he found
an accumulation of work waiting for him. But, as it happened, that
particular work was never finished by him, for at that moment a
District messenger boy handed him a note, the contents of which
surprised him very much. It read:
_Dear Dick_:
Get over here as quick as you can. Must see you. Most important.
Yours in haste,
TOM BLAKE.
Blake the phlegmatic--Blake the most easy-going and laziest of clubmen!
Dick wondered what was to pay as he closed his desk and got his
overcoat and hat. After a few words of explanation to Colonel Byrd, he
left the office and hastened up to Stoneleigh Court.
Blake’s apartment on the sixth floor faced on Connecticut Avenue, but
from the side windows there was a magnificent view of the White House
grounds and the Washington Monument, whose wonderful white shaft
seemed to float aloft, detached from the solid earth, a part of the
fleecy clouds themselves; while still farther to the south a glimpse of
the Potomac River could be caught now and then as it twisted and turned
along the Virginia and Maryland shores.
Dick had plenty of time to admire the view before Tom made his
appearance, dressed immaculately.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, old man, but I had to shift after traveling
all night, first getting some sleep; never closed my eyes all night in
a beastly upper berth. Lunch ready, Lambert?” as his man came to the
door. “All right, come along, Dick.”
Dick sighed with satisfaction, as he helped himself to a juicy piece
of beefsteak and some French fried potatoes. He was almost famished,
and Tom was in like condition. For a short time conversation languished
while they both attended to the wants of the inner man.
“Where have you been, Tom?” Dick finally asked, helping himself to a
hot muffin.
“Philadelphia,” answered Tom, his speech somewhat impeded by a large
mouthful which he, with difficulty, swallowed in a hurry. “I had to
go over there to see about the strike in the Warren textile mills.
I’m a big stockholder in the concern, so had to take an interest in
the blooming business. Can’t say I was much help; couldn’t seem to
understand the rights of the row. Far as I could make out, the workers
wanted more wages.”
“Most people do,” interrupted Dick, laughing.
“I know, but the business doesn’t warrant a raise, hasn’t paid a
dividend for months. The strikers claim they can’t even buy the
necessities of life at the present scale of wages. The whole trouble
is, no one knows nowadays what are necessities and what luxuries, and
no one attempts to live without them both.”
“Oh, I could exist without the necessities if someone supplied me with
all the luxuries,” laughed Dick. “But seriously, Tom, why did you send
me this urgent note?”
Tom beckoned to Lambert. “Put the cigars and coffee on the table,
and don’t wait.” He remained silent until his order had been swiftly
obeyed, then continued, “While I was in Philadelphia, Dick, I saw your
brother John.”
“How’s the dear old chap?” inquired Dick, much pleased to get
first-hand information, as he and his brother were poor correspondents.
“Looking finely, but, of course, as busy as ever. Never saw such
a man for work,” grumbled Tom. “He told me he was on the point of
coming to Washington, when he read in the papers that I was at the
Bellevue-Stratford. Therefore, he decided to consult me instead of you.”
“What did he consult you about?”
“The Trevor murder.”
Dick straightened up in his chair. “What on earth induces him to take a
particular interest in that?”
“In the first place he knows you are investigating the murder, having
read your signed despatches to the _Inquirer_. Secondly, he feels that
he is holding back some information which may help to elucidate the
mystery. He confided certain facts to me, first making me promise to
tell no one but you.”
“What did he tell you?” eagerly demanded Dick.
“That Beatrice Trevor and Donald Gordon were married on the first of
January.”
His startling news had more effect on his friend than Tom expected. For
a moment Dick felt physically ill, and the dishes on the table whirled
up and down.
“Here,” exclaimed Tom, startled by his white face. “Take some whisky,
quick!” He poured out a liberal portion. “There, that will soon set you
up.”
“Are you sure there is no mistake?” asked Dick, imploringly.
“Absolutely positive,” answered Tom, gravely. “Your brother and I both
realize the scandal that must follow if the secret leaks out before
Gordon is cleared of this monstrous charge. John gave me all the
details known to him. The marriage was perfectly legal. He performed
the ceremony, and Mrs. John Dundas and Arthur Vandergrift were the
witnesses. The affair was kept absolutely quiet for personal reasons
given by Mrs. Dundas. John wouldn’t, of course, tell me what they were,
except to say that everything was open and above board.”
“Did he tell you anything else?”
“Only that the marriage took place at three o’clock in the afternoon.
He gave me this copy of the marriage certificate for you.” He took the
paper out of his notebook and handed it to Dick. The printed lines
danced before the latter’s eyes as he studied them.
“Whichever way I look at it, Gordon’s guilt seems certain,” he said,
finally.
But Tom shook his head in doubt. “I still don’t see where the motive
comes in,” he argued. “Just because he married Beatrice in secret he
didn’t have to kill her stepmother.”
“It happens that Gordon was an old lover of Mrs. Trevor’s,” answered
Dick, shortly. “General Long says he was madly infatuated with her, and
there’s a rumor they were married in London before she met Trevor.”
“Good Lord!” ejaculated Tom, in open-eyed amazement. “Do you mean that
Gordon intentionally or unintentionally committed bigamy?”
“I don’t know,” moodily. “Apparently the marriage was kept from the
Trevors. But why? From a worldly point of view it was a most suitable
match. Both are well-born, wealthy, and good looking. Why, then, elope?”
“Blessed if I know.” Tom scratched his head hopelessly. “Mrs. Trevor,
as proved by her letter, made an appointment with Gordon at a most
unconventional hour. Perhaps she refused to keep silent about the
past in that last interview, and in a boiling fury he snatched up the
hat-pin.”
“But then how did Beatrice get so entangled in the affair?” asked Dick.
“Is she?” inquired Tom, puzzled by the new development.
“Yes,” despondently. “I know positively that she had the top of the
broken hat-pin in her possession after the murder. It was undoubtedly
the weapon used to kill Mrs. Trevor. Also, Beatrice’s blood-stained
handkerchief is said to have been found inside the safe by the body
of her stepmother. Gordon is the last man to throw suspicion on an
innocent woman by using her handkerchief and her hat-pin. Even if
guilty, he would never hide behind a woman’s petticoat.”
Tom’s eyes grew bigger and bigger as he listened to Dick.
“It strikes me you are on the wrong tack,” he said when the latter
paused. “All your arguments appear to me to point to the fact that
Gordon is trying to shield Beatrice. Innocent himself, he might have
purposely let them arrest him for her crime.”
“Good God!” Dick looked at Tom in sudden horror.
“Beatrice might have been concealed behind a curtain and overheard the
scene between her husband and her stepmother. Mrs. Trevor was very
beautiful, also very fascinating; perhaps Gordon lost his head and made
love to her. Beatrice’s jealousy roused--”
“No, no,” exclaimed Dick. “Beatrice was at the ball then. I was with
her myself at the very time Mrs. Trevor and Gordon were together.”
“Why not later on then?” pursued Tom. “She was the last person to
enter the house--everyone else was in bed--perhaps the two women met
and continued their quarrel. You remember Wilkins overheard Beatrice
threaten her stepmother earlier in the evening. Stronger than most of
her sex, blind hatred may have nerved Beatrice’s arm and eye to strike
the fatal blow.”
“I won’t believe it!” declared Dick, fiercely. “I won’t! I stick to it
that Alfred Clark is the criminal.”
“The secretary?” asked Tom, much astonished.
“Yes. He was Mrs. Trevor’s old lover, too....”
“Another! Apparently the woods were full of them,” interpolated Tom.
“Mrs. Trevor was probably jealous of his attentions to Beatrice, and
threatened to disclose some disgraceful secret of his past. Clark, to
silence her, killed her, the cold-blooded fish. He would not scruple to
throw suspicion on Beatrice, particularly as, being married to Gordon,
she must have rejected his suit.”
“For all that, Dick,” said Tom, obstinately, “if Beatrice Trevor ever
comes to trial for this crime, you will have great difficulty in
convincing twelve good men and true that she is innocent.”
“I’ll do it!” Dick’s eyes snapped with determination.
“How?”
“By proving that that black-hearted scoundrel Clark is guilty.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” Lambert’s discreet voice from the doorway
interrupted them. “James has just sent up word, sir, that the car is
here, sir.”
“All right, Lambert; get Mr. Tillinghast’s coat and hat, and mine.
I’ll take you wherever you wish to go, Dick, but first come with me to
Galt’s. I have to buy a wedding present for May Seymour. Please come
and help me select it.”
Dick consulted his watch. “If you won’t be very long, I’ll come. I have
an appointment with General Long at four o’clock.”
Lambert helped them into their overcoats, and a few minutes later they
were whirled away in the big Pierce Arrow car which was Tom’s latest
addition to his overstocked garage.
“I had a great mind to turn detective and use the knowledge of
Beatrice’s secret marriage to find the murderer of her stepmother,”
said Tom, as the big car slowed up at a street crossing. “You remember,
Dick, that Peggy Macallister challenged us all. But don’t worry, old
man,” seeing the telltale color rise in Dick’s face. “I know when I am
out of the running. But what struck me as being extremely ludicrous
was her including Count de Morny in the wager. I was the only one to
appreciate the humor of it.”
“I fail to see any particular humor in the situation,” retorted Dick,
warmly. “De Morny has as great a right to win Peggy as any man; far
more than I, in fact.” And he sighed as he bitterly thought of his
small bank account.
“Tut! I wasn’t thinking of your rivalry, but of de Morny’s putting
himself out to revenge Mrs. Trevor’s death. Why, man alive, they hated
each other like poison.”
Dick looked curiously at Tom. “What makes you think so?”
“I don’t think--I _know_. De Morny told me so himself. He said she
affected him as a cat does some people; simply couldn’t stand being in
the same room with her, and yet they were constantly thrown together
at bridge parties. I thought it simply one of his over-charged Latin
speeches; but one day at the Macallisters I inadvertently overheard
them talking. They were in a bay window concealed by the curtain, and I
stood with my back to them waiting for the crowd to thin so I could go
and speak to Mrs. Macallister.”
“And what did you overhear?” asked Dick, with growing interest.
“At first I paid no attention to the few words I caught; but finally I
heard a woman’s voice say: ‘Indeed, Count, I will not agree....’
“‘You must. If you do not, disaster will overtake you. Be warned in
time.’
“His voice was so threatening that I involuntarily turned to interrupt
them just as Mrs. Trevor parted the curtains and walked out. Until
then I had not known for certain who they were. They spoke in French.
From that moment Mrs. Trevor won my admiration. There was no trace of
excitement or embarrassment in her manner. Jove! she carried off the
situation with a high hand, and de Morny followed her lead.”
“Probably they didn’t know they had been overheard,” suggested Dick.
“That must have been it,” answered Tom. “Come to think of it, the last
time I saw Mrs. Trevor was on Wednesday about noon. She was sitting in
her limousine in front of de Morny’s small house on K Street.”
“Considering their dislike was mutual, it’s strange she should drive up
to his door. Was the Attorney General with her?”
“No, she was alone; probably she stopped to leave a note. They played
auction a great deal. De Morny told me the other day, though, that he
would have to give up playing as his losses had been very heavy this
winter. Here’s Galt’s, come on in.”
It did not take Tom long to select a present. He picked out an
after-dinner coffee service, and gave directions as to its marking and
delivery. Dick glanced impatiently at the clock. He had barely time to
keep his appointment if he left at once. As he turned to speak to Tom
he heard a man standing next him say:
“My mastaire wishes it repaired and returned at once, Monsieur.”
Dick’s eyes traveled over the speaker, obviously by the cut of his
clothes a foreigner, then on to the piece of jewelry which the man laid
on the counter as he spoke. It was a long, heavily linked, red-gold
watch chain. Dick waited for the valet to go before addressing the
clerk, who had often waited on him.
“May I look at this chain?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Tillinghast.”
Dick took it up in his left hand. The outer sides of the links were
covered with intricate scroll work. One link was missing. With
trembling fingers, he took the coin out of his pocket and placed the
link in the broken chain. It fitted exactly!
Dick’s heart was beating nearly to suffocation as he asked, in little
more than a whisper:
“Can you tell me to whom this chain belongs?”
“Certainly, sir. Count de Morny.”