IV

Although the Whittiers, father and son, spent Sunday out of town, Paul

made an excuse to the friends whom they were visiting, and returned to

the city by a midnight train. Thus he was enabled to present himself at

the office of the Ramapo Works very early on Monday morning.

It was so early, indeed, that no one of the employees had arrived when

the son of the senior partner, bag in hand, pushed open the street door

and entered the long store, at the far end of which the porter was

still tidying up for the day's work.

"An' is that you, Mister Paul?" Mike asked in surprise, as he came out

of the private office to see who the early visitor might be. "An' what

brought ye out o' your bed before breakfast like this?"

"I always get out of bed before breakfast," Paul replied. "Don't you?"

"Would I get up if I hadn't got to get up to get my livin'?" the porter

replied.

Paul entered the office, followed by Mike, still wondering why the

young man was there at that hour.

After a swift glance round the office Paul put down his bag on the

table and turned suddenly to the porter with a question.

"When does Bob get down here?"

Mike looked at the clock in the corner before answering.

"It'll be ten minutes," he said, "or maybe twenty, before the boy does

be here to-day, seein' it's Monday mornin', an' he'll be tired with not

workin' of Sunday."

"Ten minutes," repeated Paul, slowly. After a moment's thought he

continued, "Then I'll have to ask you to go out for me, Mike."

"I can go anywhere ye want, Mister Paul," the porter responded.

"I want you to go----" began Paul, "I want you to go----" and he

hesitated, as though he was not quite sure what it was he wished the

porter to do, "I want you to go to the office of the _Gotham Gazette_

and get me two copies of yesterday's paper. Do you understand?"

"Maybe they won't be open so early in the mornin'," said the Irishman.

"That's no matter," said Paul, hastily correcting himself; "I mean that

I want you to go there now and get the papers if you can. Of course, if

the office isn't open I shall have to send again later."

"I'll be goin' now, Mister Paul," and Mike took his hat from a chair

and started off at once.

Paul walked through the store with the porter. When Mike had gone the

young man locked the front door and returned at once to the private

office in the rear. He shut himself in, and lowered all the shades so

that whatever he might do inside could not be seen by any one on the

outside.

Whatever it was he wished to do he was able to do it swiftly, for in

less than a minute after he had closed the door of the office he opened

it again and came out into the main store with his bag in his hand. He

walked leisurely to the front of the store, arriving just in time to

unlock the door as the office-boy came around the corner smoking a

cigarette.

When Bob, still puffing steadily, was about to open the door and enter

the store he looked up and discovered that Paul was gazing at him. The

boy pinched the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped it outside, and

then came in, his eyes expressing his surprise at the presence of the

senior partner's son down-town at that early hour in the morning.

Paul greeted the boy pleasantly, but Bob got away from him as soon as

possible. Ever since the young man had told what had gone on in the

office when Bob was its only occupant, the office-boy was a little

afraid of the young man, as though somewhat mysterious, not to say

uncanny.

Paul thought it best to wait for the porter's return, and he stood

outside under the archway for five minutes, smoking a cigar, with his

bag at his feet.

When Mike came back with the two copies of the Sunday newspaper he had

been sent to get, Paul gave him the money for them and an extra quarter

for himself. Then the young man picked up his bag again.

"When my father comes down, Mike," he said, "tell him I may be a little

late in getting back this morning."

"An' are ye goin' away now, Mister Paul?" the porter asked. "What good

was it that ye got out o' bed before breakfast and come down here so

early in the mornin'?"

Paul laughed a little. "I had a reason for coming here this morning,"

he answered, briefly; and with that he walked away, his bag in one hand

and the two bulky, gaudy papers in the other.

Mike watched him turn the corner, and then went into the store again,

where Bob greeted him promptly with the query why the old man's son had

been getting up by the bright light.

"If I was the boss, or the boss's son either," said Bob, "I wouldn't

get up till I was good and ready. I'd have my breakfast in bed if I had

a mind to, an' my dinner too, an' my supper. An' I wouldn't do no work,

an' I'd go to the theayter every night, and twice on Saturdays."

"I dunno why Mister Paul was down," Mike explained. "All he wanted was

two o' thim Sunday papers with pictures in thim. What did he want two

o' thim for I dunno. There's reading enough in one o' thim to last me a

month of Sundays."

It may be surmised that Mike would have been still more in the dark as

to Paul Whittier's reasons for coming down-town so early that Monday

morning if he could have seen the young man throw the copies of the

_Gotham Gazette_ into the first ash-cart he passed after he was out of

range of the porter's vision.

Paul was not the only member of Whittier, Wheatcroft & Co. to arrive at

the office early that morning. Mr. Wheatcroft was usually punctual,

taking his seat at his desk just as the clock struck half-past nine. On

this Monday morning he entered the store a little before nine.

As he walked back to the office he looked over at the desks of the

clerks as though he was seeking some one.

At the door of the office he met Bob.

"Hasn't the Major come down yet?" he asked, shortly.

"No, sir," the boy answered. "He don't never get here till nine."

"H'm," grunted the junior partner. "When he does come, tell him I want

to see him at once--at once, do you understand?"

"I ain't deaf and dumb and blind," Bob responded. "I'll steer him into

you as soon as ever he shows up."

But, for a wonder, the old book-keeper was late that morning.

Ordinarily he was a model of exactitude. Yet the clock struck nine, and

half-past, and ten before he appeared in the store.

Before he changed his coat Bob was at his side.

"Mr. Wheatcroft he wants to see you now in a hurry," said the boy.

Major Van Zandt paled swiftly, and steadied himself by a grasp of the

railing.

"Does Mr. Wheatcroft wish to see me?" he asked, faintly.

"You bet he does," the boy answered, "an' in a hurry, too. He came

bright an' early this morning a-purpose to see you, an' he's been

a-waiting for two hours. An' I guess he's got his mad up now."

When the old book-keeper with his blanched face and his faltering step

entered the private office Mr. Wheatcroft wheeled around in his chair.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he cried. "At last!"

"I regret that I was late this morning, Mr. Wheatcroft," Van Zandt

began.

"That's no matter," said the employer;--"at least, I want to talk about

something else."

"About something else?" echoed the old man, feebly.

"Yes," responded Mr. Wheatcroft. "Shut the door behind you, please, so

that that red-headed cub out there can't hear what I am going to say,

and take a chair. Yes; there is something else I've got to say to you,

and I want you to be frank with me."

Whatever it was that Mr. Wheatcroft had to say to Major Van Zandt it

had to be said under the eyes of the clerks on the other side of the

glass partition. And it took a long time saying, for it was evident to

any observer of the two men as they sat in the private office that Mr.

Wheatcroft was trying to force an explanation of some kind from the old

book-keeper, and that the Major was resisting his employer's entreaties

as best he could. Apparently the matter under discussion was of an

importance so grave as to make Mr. Wheatcroft resolutely retain his

self-control; and not once did he let his voice break out explosively,

as was his custom.

Major Van Zandt was still closeted with Wheatcroft when Mr. Whittier

arrived. The senior partner stopped near the street door to speak to a

clerk, and he was joined almost immediately by his son.

"Well, Paul," said the father, "have I got down here before you after

all, and in spite of your running away last night?"

"No," the son responded, "I was the first to arrive this

morning--luckily."

"Luckily?" echoed his father. "I suppose that means that you have been

able to accomplish your purpose--whatever it was. You didn't tell me,

you know."

"I'm ready to tell you now, father," said Paul, "since I have

succeeded."

Walking down the store together, they came to the private office.

As the old book-keeper saw them he started up, and made as if to leave

the office.

"Keep your seat, Major," cried Mr. Wheatcroft, sternly, but not

unkindly. "Keep your seat, please."

Then he turned to Mr. Whittier. "I have something to tell you both,"

he said, "and I want the Major here while I tell you. Paul, may I

trouble you to see that the door is closed so that we are out of

hearing?"

"Certainly," Paul responded, as he closed the door.

"Well, Wheatcroft," Mr. Whittier said, "what is all this mystery of

yours now?"

The junior partner swung around in his chair and faced Mr. Whittier.

"My mystery?" he cried. "It's the mystery that puzzled us all, and I've

solved it."

"What do you mean?" asked the senior partner.

"What I mean is, that somebody has been opening that safe there in the

corner, and reading our private letter-book, and finding out what we

were bidding on important contracts. What I mean is, that this man has

taken this information, filched from us, and sold it to our

competitors, who were not too scrupulous to buy stolen goods!"

"We all suspected this, as you know," the elder Whittier said; "have

you anything new to add to it now?"

"Haven't I?" returned Mr. Wheatcroft. "I've found the man! That's all!"

"You, too?" ejaculated Paul.

"Who is he?" asked the senior partner.

"Wait a minute," Mr. Wheatcroft begged. "Don't be in a hurry and I'll

tell you. Yesterday afternoon, I don't know what possessed me, but I

felt drawn down-town for some reason. I wanted to see if anything was

going on down here. I knew we had made that bid Saturday, and I

wondered if anybody would try to get it on Sunday. So I came down about

four o'clock, and I saw a man sneak out of the front door of this

office. I followed him as swiftly as I could and as quietly, for I

didn't want to give the alarm until I knew more. The man did not see me

as he turned to go up the steps of the elevated railroad station. At

the corner I saw his face."

"Did you recognize him?" asked Mr. Whittier.

"Yes," was the answer. "And he did not see me. There were tears rolling

down his cheeks, perhaps that's the reason. This morning I called him

in here, and he has finally confessed the whole thing."

"Who--who is it?" asked Mr. Whittier, dreading to look at the old

book-keeper, who had been in the employ of the firm for thirty years

and more.

"It is Major Van Zandt!" Mr. Wheatcroft declared.

There was a moment of silence; then the voice of Paul Whittier was

heard, saying, "I think there is some mistake!"

"A mistake!" cried Mr. Wheatcroft. "What kind of a mistake?"

"A mistake as to the guilty man," responded Paul.

"Do you mean that the Major isn't guilty?" asked Mr. Wheatcroft.

"That's what I mean," Paul returned.

"But he has confessed," Mr. Wheatcroft retorted.

"I can't help that," was the response. "He isn't the man who opened

that safe yesterday afternoon at half-past three and took out the

letter-book."

The old book-keeper looked at the young man in frightened amazement.

"I have confessed it," he said, piteously--"I have confessed it."

"I know you have, Major," Paul declared, not unkindly. "And I don't

know why you have, for you were not the man."

"And if the man who confesses is not the man who did it, who is?" asked

Wheatcroft, sarcastically.

"I don't know who is, although I have my suspicions," said Paul; "but I

have his photograph--taken in the act!"

V

When Paul Whittier said he had a photograph of the mysterious enemy of

the Ramapo Steel and Iron Works in the very act of opening the safe,

Mr. Whittier and Mr. Wheatcroft looked at each other in amazement.

Major Van Zandt stared at the young man with fear and shame struggling

together in his face.

Without waiting to enjoy his triumph, Paul put his hand in his pocket

and took out two squares of bluish paper.

"There," he said, as he handed one to his father, "there is a blue

print of the man taken in this office at ten minutes past three

yesterday afternoon, just as he was about to open the safe in the

corner. You see he is kneeling with his hand on the lock, but

apparently just then something alarmed him and he cast a hasty glance

over his shoulder. At that second the photograph was taken, and so we

have a full-face portrait of the man."

Mr. Whittier had looked at the photograph, and he now passed it to the

impatient hand of the junior partner.

"You see, Mr. Wheatcroft," Paul continued, "that although the face in

the photograph bears a certain family likeness to Major Van Zandt's,

all the same that is not a portrait of the Major. The man who was here

yesterday was a young man, a man young enough to be the Major's son!"

The old book-keeper looked at the speaker.

"Mr. Paul," he began, "you won't be hard on the----" then he paused

abruptly.

"I confess I don't understand this at all!" declared Mr. Wheatcroft,

irascibly.

"I am afraid that I do understand it," Mr. Whittier said, with a glance

of compassion at the Major.

"There," Paul continued, handing his father a second azure square,

"there is a photograph taken here ten minutes after the first, at 3.20

yesterday afternoon. That shows the safe open and the young man

standing before it with the private letter-book in his hand. As his

head is bent over the pages of the book, the view of the face is not so

good. But there can be no doubt that it is the same man. You see that,

don't you, Mr. Wheatcroft?"

"I see that, of course," returned Mr. Wheatcroft, forcibly. "What I

don't see is why the Major here should confess if he isn't guilty!"

"I think I know the reason for that," said Mr. Whittier, gently.

"There haven't been two men at our books, have there?" asked Mr.

Wheatcroft--"the Major, and also the fellow who has been photographed?"

Mr. Whittier looked at the book-keeper for a moment.

"Major," he said, with compassion in his voice, "you won't tell me that

it was you who sold our secrets to our rivals? And you might confess it

again and again, I should never believe it. I know you better. I have

known you too long to believe any charge against your honesty, even if

you bring it yourself. The real culprit, the man who is photographed

here, is your son, isn't he? There is no use in your trying to conceal

the truth now, and there is no need to attempt it, because we shall be

lenient with him for your sake, Major."

There was a moment's silence, broken by Wheatcroft suddenly saying:

"The Major's son? Why, he's dead, isn't he? He was shot in a brawl

after a spree somewhere out West two or three years ago--at least,

that's what I understood at the time."

"It is what I wanted everybody to understand at the time," said the

book-keeper, breaking silence at last. "But it wasn't so. The boy was

shot, but he wasn't killed. I hoped that it would be a warning to him,

and he would make a fresh start. Friends of mine got him a place in

Mexico, but luck was against him--so he wrote me--and he lost that.

Then an old comrade of mine gave him another chance out in Denver, and

for a while he kept straight and did his work well. Then he broke down

once more and he was discharged. For six months I did not know what had

become of him. I've found out since that he was a tramp for weeks, and

that he walked most of the way from Colorado to New York. This fall he

turned up in the city, ragged, worn out, sick. I wanted to order him

away, but I couldn't. I took him back and got him decent clothes and

took him to look for a place, for I knew that hard work was the only

thing that would keep him out of mischief. He did not find a place,

perhaps he did not look for one. But all at once I discovered that he

had money. He would not tell me how he got it. I knew he could not have

come by it honestly, and so I watched him. I spied after him, and at

last I found that he was selling you to the Tuxedo Company."

"But how could he open the safe?" cried Mr. Wheatcroft. "You didn't

know the new combination."

"I did not tell him the combination I did know," said the old

book-keeper, with pathetic dignity. "And I didn't have to tell him. He

can open almost any safe without knowing the combination. How he does

it, I don't know; it is his gift. He listens to the wheels as they

turn, and he sets first one and then the other; and in ten minutes the

safe is open."

"How could he get into the store?" Mr. Whittier inquired.

"He knew I had a key," responded the old book-keeper, "and he stole it

from me. He used to watch on Sunday afternoons till Mike went for a

walk, and then he unlocked the store, and slipped in and opened the

safe. Two weeks ago Mike came back unexpectedly, and he had just time

to get out of one of the rear windows of this office."

"Yes," Paul remarked, as the Major paused, "Mike told me that he found

a window unfastened."

"I heard you asking about it," Major Van Zandt explained, "and I knew

that if you were suspicious he was sure to be caught sooner or later.

So I begged him not to try to injure you again. I offered him money to

go away. But he refused my money; he said he could get it for himself

now, and I might keep mine until he needed it. He gave me the slip

yesterday afternoon. When I found he was gone I came here straight. The

front door was unlocked; I walked in and found him just closing the

safe here. I talked to him, and he refused to listen to me. I tried to

get him to give up his idea, and he struck me. Then I left him, and I

went out, seeing no one as I hurried home. That's when Mr. Wheatcroft

followed me, I suppose. The boy never came back all night. I haven't

seen him since; I don't know where he is, but he is my son, after

all--my only son! And when Mr. Wheatcroft accused me, I confessed at

last, thinking you might be easier on me than you would be on the boy."

"My poor friend," said Mr. Whittier, sympathetically, holding out his

hand, which the Major clasped gratefully for a moment.

"Now that we know who was selling us to the Tuxedo people, we can

protect ourselves hereafter," declared Mr. Wheatcroft. "And in spite of

your trying to humbug me into believing you guilty, Major, I'm willing

to let your son off easy."

"I think I can get him a place where he will be out of temptation,

because he will be kept hard at work always," said Paul.

The old book-keeper looked up as though about to thank the young man,

but there seemed to be a lump in his throat which prevented him from

speaking.

Suddenly Mr. Wheatcroft began, explosively, "That's all very well! but

what I still don't understand is how Paul got those photographs!"

Mr. Whittier looked at his son and smiled. "That is a little

mysterious, Paul," he said, "and I confess I'd like to know how you did

it."

"Were you concealed here yourself?" asked Mr. Wheatcroft.

"No," Paul answered. "If you will look round this room you will see

that there isn't a dark corner in which anybody could tuck himself."

"Then where was the photographer hidden?" Mr. Wheatcroft inquired, with

increasing curiosity.

"In the clock," responded Paul.

"In the clock?" echoed Mr. Wheatcroft, greatly amazed. "Why, there

isn't room in the case of that clock for a thin midget, let alone a

man!"

Paul enjoyed puzzling his father's partner. "I didn't say I had a man

there or a midget either," he explained. "I said that the photographer

was in the clock--and I might have said that the clock itself was the

photographer."

Mr. Wheatcroft threw up his hands in disgust. "Well," he cried, "if you

want to go on mystifying us in this absurd way, go on as long as you

like! But your father and I are entitled to some consideration, I

think."

"I'm not mystifying you at all; the clock took the pictures

automatically. I'll show you how," Paul returned, getting up from his

chair and going to the corner of the office.

Taking a key from his pocket he opened the case of the clock and

revealed a small photographic apparatus inside, with the tube of the

objective opposite the round glass panel in the door of the case. At

the bottom of the case was a small electrical battery, and on a small

shelf over this was an electro-magnet.

"I begin to see how you did it," Mr. Whittier remarked. "I am not an

expert in photography, Paul, and I'd like a full explanation. And make

it as simple as you can."

"It's a very simple thing indeed," said the son. "One day while I was

wondering how we could best catch the man who was getting at the books,

that clock happened to strike, and somehow it reminded me that in our

photographic society at college we had once suggested that it would be

amusing to attach a detective camera to a timepiece and take snapshots

every few minutes all through the day. I saw that this clock of ours

faced the safe, and that it couldn't be better placed for the purpose.

So when I had thought out my plan, I came over here and pretended that

the clock was wrong, and in setting it right I broke off the

minute-hand. Then I had a man I know send for it for repairs; he is

both an electrician and an expert photographer. Together we worked out

this device. Here is a small snap-shot camera loaded with a hundred and

fifty films; and here is the electrical attachment which connects with

the clock so as to take a photograph every ten minutes from eight in

the morning to six at night. We arranged that the magnet should turn

the spool of film after every snap-shot."

"Well!" cried Mr. Wheatcroft. "I don't know much about these things,

but I read the papers, and I suppose you mean that the clock 'pressed

the button,' and the electricity pulled the string."

"That's it precisely," the young man responded. "Of course I wasn't

quite sure how it would work, so I thought I would try it first on a

week-day when we were all here. It did work all right, and I made

several interesting discoveries. I found that Mike smoked a pipe in

this office--and that Bob played leap-frog in the store and stood on

his head in the corner there up against the safe!"

"The confounded young rascal!" interrupted Mr. Wheatcroft.

Paul smiled as he continued. "I found also that Mr. Wheatcroft was

captivated by a pretty book-agent and bought two bulky volumes he

didn't want."

Mr. Wheatcroft looked sheepish for a moment.

"Oh, that's how you knew, is it?" he growled, running his hands

impatiently through his shock of hair.

"That's how I knew," Paul replied. "I told you I had an eye on you. It

was the lone eye of the camera. And on Sunday it kept watch for us

here, winking every ten minutes. From eight o'clock in the morning to

three in the afternoon it winked forty-two times, and all it saw was

the same scene, the empty corner of the room here, with the safe in the

shadow at first and at last in the full light that poured down from the

glass roof over us. But a little after three a man came into the office

and made ready to open the safe. At ten minutes past three the clock

and the camera took his photograph--in the twinkling of an eye. At

twenty minutes past three a second record was made. Before half-past

three the man was gone, and the camera winked every ten minutes until

six o'clock quite in vain. I came down early this morning and got the

roll of negatives. One after another I developed them, disappointed

that I had almost counted fifty of them without reward. But the

forty-third and the forty-fourth paid for all my trouble."

Mr. Whittier gave his son a look of pride. "That was very ingeniously

worked out, Paul; very ingeniously indeed," he said. "If it had not

been for your clock here I might have found it difficult to prove that

the Major was innocent--especially since he declared himself guilty."

Mr. Wheatcroft rose to his feet, to close the conversation.

"I'm glad we know the truth, anyhow," he asserted, emphatically. And

then, as though to relieve the strain on the old book-keeper, he added,

with a loud laugh at his own joke, "That clock had its hands before its

face all the time--but it kept its eyes open for all that!"

"Don't forget that it had only one eye," said Whittier, joining in the

laugh; "it had an eye single to its duty."

"You know the French saying, father," added Paul, "'In the realm of the

blind the one-eyed man is king.'"

(1895.)