Sogrange and Peter, Baron de Grost, standing upon the threshold of their
hotel, gazed out upon New York and liked the look of it. They had landed
from the steamer a few hours before, had already enjoyed the luxury of a
bath, a visit to an American barber’s, and a genuine cocktail.
“I see no reason,” Sogrange declared, “why we should not take a week’s
holiday.”
Peter, glancing up into the blue sky and down into the faces of the
well-dressed and beautiful women who were streaming up Fifth Avenue, was
wholly of the same mind.
“If we return by this afternoon’s steamer,” he remarked, “we shall have
Bernadine for a fellow passenger. Bernadine is annoyed with us just now.
I must confess that I should feel more at my ease with a few thousand
miles of the Atlantic between us.”
“Let it be so,” Sogrange assented. “We will explore this marvelous city.
Never,” he added, taking his companion’s arm, “did I expect to see
such women save in my own, the mistress of all cities. So chic, my dear
Baron, and such a carriage! We will lunch at one of the fashionable
restaurants and drive in the Park afterwards. First of all, however, we
must take a stroll along this wonderful Fifth Avenue.”
The two men spent a morning after their own hearts. They lunched
astonishingly well at Sherry’s and drove afterwards in Central Park.
When they returned to the hotel, Sogrange was in excellent spirits.
“I feel, my friend,” he announced, “that we are going to have a very
pleasant and, in some respects, a unique week. To meet friends and
acquaintances, everywhere, as one must do in every capital in Europe,
is, of course, pleasant, but there is a monotony about it from which
one is glad sometimes to escape. We lunch here and we promenade in the
places frequented by those of a similar station to our own, and behold!
we know no one. We are lookers on. Perhaps for a long time it might
gall. For a brief period there is a restfulness about it which pleases
me.”
“I should have liked,” Peter murmured, “an introduction to the lady in
the blue hat.”
“You are a gregarious animal,” Sogrange declared. “You do not understand
the pleasures of a little comparative isolation with an intellectual
companion such as myself... What the devil is the meaning of this!”
They had reached their sitting-room and upon a small round table stood
a great collection of cards and notes. Sogrange took them up helplessly,
one after the other, reading the names aloud and letting them fall
through his fingers. Some were known to him, some were not. He began to
open the notes. In effect they were all the same--what evening would the
Marquis de Sogrange and his distinguished friend care to dine, lunch,
yacht, golf, shoot, go to the opera, join a theatre party? Of what clubs
would they care to become members? What kind of hospitality would be
most acceptable?
Sogrange sank into a chair.
“My friend,” he exclaimed, “they all have to be answered--that
collection there! The visits have to be returned. It is magnificent,
this hospitality, but what can one do?”
Peter looked at the pile of correspondence upon which Sogrange’s inroad,
indeed, seemed to have had but little effect.
“One could engage a secretary, of course,” he suggested, doubtfully.
“But the visits! Our week’s holiday is gone.”
“Not at all,” Sogrange replied. “I have an idea.”
The telephone bell rang. Peter took up the receiver and listened for a
moment. He turned to Sogrange, still holding it in his hand.
“You will be pleased, also, to hear,” he announced, “that there are half
a dozen reporters downstairs waiting to interview [Transcriber’s note:
word missing].”
Sogrange received the information with interest.
“Have them sent up at once,” he directed, “every one of them.”
“What, all at the same time?” Peter asked.
“All at the same time it must be,” Sogrange answered. “Give them to
understand that it is an affair of five minutes only.”
They came trooping in. Sogrange welcomed them cordially.
“My friend, the Baron de Grost,” he explained, indicating Peter. “I am
the Marquis de Sogrange. Let us know what we can do to serve you.”
One of the men stepped forward.
“Very glad to meet you, Marquis, and you, Baron,” he said. “I won’t
bother you with any introductions, but I and the company here represent
the Press of New York. We should like some information for our papers as
to the object of your visit here and the probable length of your stay.”
Sogrange extended his hands.
“My dear friend,” he exclaimed, “the object of our visit was, I thought,
already well known. We are on our way to Mexico. We leave to-night. My
friend the Baron is, as you know, a financier. I, too, have a little
money to invest. We are going out to meet some business acquaintances
with a view to inspecting some mining properties. That is absolutely all
I can tell you. You can understand, of course, that fuller information
would be impossible.”
“Why, that’s quite natural, Marquis,” the spokesman of the reporters
replied. “We don’t like the idea of your hustling out of New York like
this, though?”
Sogrange glanced at the clock.
“It is unavoidable,” he declared. “We are relying upon you, gentlemen,
to publish the fact, because you will see,” he added, pointing to the
table, “that we have been the recipients of a great many civilities,
which it is impossible for us to acknowledge properly. If it will give
you any pleasure to see us upon our return, you will be very welcome. In
the meantime, you will understand our haste.”
There were a few more civilities and the representatives of the Press
took their departure. Peter looked at his companion doubtfully, as
Sogrange returned from showing them out.
“I suppose this means that we have to catch to-day’s steamer, after
all?” he remarked.
“Not necessarily,” Sogrange answered. “I have a plan. We will leave for
the Southern depot, wherever it may be. Afterwards, you shall use that
wonderful skill of yours, of which I have heard so much, to effect some
slight change in our appearance. We will then go to another hotel, in
another quarter of New York, and take our week’s holiday incognito. What
do you think of that for an idea?”
“Not much,” Peter replied. “It isn’t so easy to dodge the newspapers and
the Press in this country. Besides, although I could manage myself very
well, you would be an exceedingly awkward subject. Your tall and elegant
figure, your aquiline nose, the shapeliness of your hands and feet, give
you a distinction which I should find it hard to conceal.”
Sogrange smiled.
“You are a remarkably observant fellow, Baron. I quite appreciate your
difficulty. Still, with a club foot, eh, and spectacles instead of my
eyeglass--”
“Oh, no doubt, something could be managed,” Peter interrupted. “You’re
really in earnest about this, are you?”
“Absolutely,” Sogrange declared. “Come here!”
He drew Peter to the window. They were on the twelfth story, and to
a European there was something magnificent in that tangled mass of
buildings threaded by the elevated railway, with its screaming trains,
the clearness of the atmosphere, and in the white streets below, like
polished belts through which the swarms of people streamed like insects.
“Imagine it all lit up!” Sogrange exclaimed. “The sky-signs all ablaze,
the flashing of fire from those cable wires, the lights glittering from
those tall buildings! This is a wonderful place, Baron. We must see it.
Ring for the bill. Order one of those magnificent omnibuses. Press the
button, too, for the personage whom they call the valet. Perhaps, with a
little gentle persuasion, he could be induced to pack our clothes.”
With his finger upon the hell, Peter hesitated. He, too, loved
adventures, but the gloom of a presentiment had momentarily depressed
him.
“We are marked men, remember, Sogrange,” he said. “An escapade of this
sort means a certain amount of risk, even in New York.”
Sogrange laughed.
“Bernadine caught the midday steamer! We have no enemies here that I
know of.”
Peter pressed the button. An hour or so later, the Marquis de Sogrange
and Peter, Baron de Grost, took their leave of New York.
They chose a hotel on Broadway, within a stone’s throw of Rector’s.
Peter, with whitened hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, a slouch hat and
a fur coat, passed easily enough for an English maker of electrical
instruments; while Sogrange, shabbier, and in ready-made American
clothes, was transformed into a Canadian having some connection with the
theatrical business. They plunged into the heart of New York life, and
found the whole thing like a tonic. The intense vitality of the people,
the pandemonium of Broadway at midnight, with its flaming illuminations,
its eager crowd, its inimitable restlessness, fascinated them both.
Sogrange, indeed, remembering the decadent languor of the crowds of
pleasure seekers thronging his own boulevards, was never weary of
watching these men and women. They passed from the streets to the
restaurants, from the restaurants to the theatre, out into the streets
again, back to the restaurants, and once more into the streets. Sogrange
was like a glutton. The mention of bed was hateful to him. For three
days they existed without a moment’s boredom.
On the fourth evening, Peter found Sogrange deep in conversation with
the head porter. In a few minutes he led Peter away to one of the bars
where they usually took their cocktail.
“My friend,” he announced, “to-night I have a treat for you. So far we
have looked on at the external night life of New York. Wonderful and
thrilling it has been, too. But there is the underneath, also. Why not?
There is a vast polyglot population here, full of energy said life. A
criminal class exists as a matter of course. To-night we make our bow to
it.”
“And by what means?” Peter inquired.
“Our friend the hall-porter,” Sogrange continued, “has given me the card
of an ex-detective who will be our escort. He calls for us to-night,
or rather to-morrow morning, at one o’clock. Then behold! the wand is
waved, the land of adventures opens before us.”
Peter grunted.
“I don’t want to damp your enthusiasm, my Canadian friend,” he said,
“but the sort of adventures you may meet with to-night are scarcely
likely to fire your romantic nature. I know a little about what they
call this underneath world in New York. It will probably resolve itself
into a visit to Chinatown, where we shall find the usual dummies taking
opium and quite prepared to talk about it for the usual tip. After that
we shall visit a few low dancing halls, be shown the scene of several
murders, and the thing is done.”
“You are a cynic,” Sogrange declared. “You would throw cold water upon
any enterprise. Anyway, our detective is coming. We must make use of
him, for I have engaged to pay him twenty-five dollars.”
“We’ll go where you like,” Peter assented, “so long as we dine on a
roof garden. This beastly fur coat keeps me in a state of chronic
perspiration.”
“Never mind,” Sogrange said, consolingly, “it’s most effective. A roof
garden, by all means.”
“And recollect,” Peter insisted, “I bar Chinatown. We’ve both of us seen
the real thing, and there’s nothing real about what they show you here.”
“Chinatown is erased from our program,” Sogrange agreed. “We go now to
dine. Remind me, Baron, that I inquire for those strange dishes of
which one hears Terrapin, Canvas-backed Duck, Green Corn, Strawberry
Shortcake.”
Peter smiled grimly.
“How like a Frenchman,” he exclaimed, “to take no account of seasons!
Never mind, Marquis, you shall give your order and I will sketch the
waiter’s face. By the bye, if you’re in earnest about this expedition
to-night, put your revolver into your pocket.”
“But we ‘re going with an ex-detective,” Sogrange replied.
“One never knows,” Peter said, carelessly.
They dined close to the stone palisading of one of New York’s most
famous roof gardens. Sogrange ordered an immense dinner but spent most
of his time gazing downwards. They were higher up than at the hotel
and they could see across the tangled maze of lights even to the river,
across which the great ferry-boats were speeding all the while--huge
creatures of streaming fire and whistling sirens. The air where they
sat was pure and crisp. There was no fog, no smoke, to cloud the almost
crystalline clearness of the night.
“Baron,” Sogrange declared, “if I had lived in this city I should have
been a different man. No wonder the people are all conquering.”
“Too much electricity in the air for me,” Peter answered. “I like a
little repose. I can’t think where these people find it.”
“One hopes,” Sogrange murmured, “that before they progress any further
in utilitarianism, they will find some artist, one of themselves, to
express all this.”
“In the meantime,” Peter interrupted, “the waiter would like to know
what we are going to drink. I’ve eaten such a confounded jumble of
things of your ordering that I should like some champagne.”
“Who shall say that I am not generous!” Sogrange replied, taking up the
wine carte. “Champagne it shall be. We need something to nerve us for
our adventures.”
Peter leaned across the table.
“Sogrange,” he whispered, “for the last twenty-four hours I have had
some doubts as to the success of our little enterprise. It has occurred
to me more than once that we are being shadowed.”
Sogrange frowned.
“I sometimes wonder,” he remarked, “how a man of your suspicious nature
ever acquired the reputation you undoubtedly enjoy.”
“Perhaps it is because of my suspicious nature,” Peter said. “There is a
man staying in our hotel whom we are beginning to see quite a great
deal of. He was talking to the head porter a few minutes before you this
afternoon. He supped at the same restaurant last night. He is dining
now three places behind you to the right, with a young lady who has been
making flagrant attempts at flirtation with me, notwithstanding my gray
hairs.”
“Your reputation, my dear Peter,” Sogrange murmured--
“As a decoy,” Peter interrupted, “the young lady’s methods are too
vigorous. She pretends to be terribly afraid of her companion, but it is
entirely obvious that she is acting on his instructions. Of course, this
may be a ruse of the reporters. On the other hand, I think it would be
wise to abandon our little expedition to-night.”
Sogrange shook his head.
“So far as I am concerned,” he said, “I am committed to it.”
“In which case,” Peter replied, “I am certainly committed to being your
companion. The only question is whether one shall fall to the decoy
and suffer oneself to be led in the direction her companion desires, or
whether we shall go blundering into trouble on our own account with your
friend the ex-detective.”
Sogrange glanced over his shoulder, leaned back in his chair for a
moment, as though to look at the stars, and finally lit a cigarette.
“There is a lack of subtlety about that young person, Baron,” he
declared, “which stifles one’s suspicions. I suspect her to be merely
one more victim to your undoubted charms. In the interests of Madame
your wife, I shall take you away. The decoy shall weave her spells in
vain.”
They paid their bill and departed a few minutes later. The man and the
girl were also in the act of leaving. The former seemed to be having
some dispute about the bill. The girl, standing with her back to him,
scribbled a line upon a piece of paper, and, as Peter went by, pushed it
into his hand with a little warning gesture. In the lift he opened it.
The few penciled words contained nothing but an address: Number 15,
100th Street, East.
“Lucky man!” Sogrange sighed.
Peter made no remark, but he was thoughtful for the next hour or so.
The ex-detective proved to be an individual of fairly obvious
appearance, whose complexion and thirst indicated a very possible reason
for his life of leisure. He heard with surprise that his patrons were
not inclined to visit Chinatown, but he showed a laudable desire to fall
in with their schemes, provided always that they included a reasonable
number of visits to places where refreshment could be obtained. From
first to last, the expedition was a disappointment. They visited various
smoke-hung dancing halls, decorated for the most part with oleographs
and cracked mirrors, in which sickly-Looking young men of unwholesome
aspect were dancing with their feminine counterparts. The attitude of
their guide was alone amusing.
“Say, you want to be careful in here!” he would declare, in an awed
tone, on entering one of these tawdry palaces. “Guess this is one of
the toughest spots in New York City. You stick close to me and I’ll make
things all right.”
His method of making things all right was the same in every case. He
would form a circle of disreputable-looking youths, for whose drinks
Sogrange was called upon to pay. The attitude of these young men was
more dejected than positively vicious. They showed not the slightest
signs of any desire to make themselves unpleasant. Only once, when
Sogrange incautiously displayed a gold watch, did the eyes of one or
two of their number glisten. The ex-detective changed his place and
whispered hoarsely in his patron’s ear.
“Say, don’t you flash anything of that sort about here! That young cove
right opposite to you is one of the best known sneak-thieves in the
city. You’re asking for trouble that way.”
“If he or any other of them want my watch,” Sogrange answered calmly,
“let them come and fetch it. However,” he added, buttoning up his coat,
“no doubt you are right. Is there anywhere else to take us?”
The man hesitated.
“There ain’t much that you haven’t seen,” he remarked.
Sogrange laughed softly as he rose to his feet.
“A sell, my dear friend,” he said to Peter. “This terrible city keeps
its real criminal class somewhere else rather than in the show places.”
A man who had been standing in the doorway, looking in for several
moments, strolled up to them. Peter recognized him at once and touched
Sogrange on the arm. The newcomer accosted them pleasantly.
“Say, you’ll excuse my butting in,” he began, “but I can see you’re kind
of disappointed. These suckers”--indicating the ex-detective--“talk a
lot about what they’re going to show you, and when they get you round it
all amounts to nothing. This is the sort of thing they bring you to, as
representing the wickedness of New York! That’s so, Rastall, isn’t it?”
The ex-detective looked a little sheepish.
“Yes, there ain’t much more to be seen,” he admitted. “Perhaps you’ll
take the job on if you think there is.”
“Well, I’d show the gentlemen something of a sight more interesting that
this,” the newcomer continued. “They don’t want to sit down and drink
with the scum of the earth.”
“Perhaps,” Sogrange suggested, “this gentleman has something in his mind
which he thinks would appeal to us. We have a motor car outside and we
are out for adventures.”
“What sort of adventures?” the newcomer asked, bluntly.
Sogrange shrugged his shoulders lightly.
“We are lookers-on merely,” he explained. “My friend and I have traveled
a good deal. We have seen something of criminal life in Paris and
London, Vienna and Budapest. I shall not break any confidence if I tell
you that my friend is a writer, and material such as this is useful.”
The newcomer smiled.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “in a way, it’s fortunate for you that I happened
along! You come right with me and I’ll show you something that very few
other people in this city know of. Guess you’d better pay this fellow
off,” he added, indicating the ex-detective. “He’s no more use to you.”
Sogrange and Peter exchanged questioning glances.
“It is very kind of you, sir,” Peter decided, “but for my part I have
had enough for one evening.”
“Just as you like, of course,” the other remarked, with studied
unconcern.
“What sort of place would it be?” Sogrange asked.
The newcomer drew them on one side, although, as a matter of fact, every
one else had already melted away.
“Have you ever heard of the Secret Societies of New York?” he inquired.
“Well, I guess you haven’t, any way--not to know anything about them.
Well, then, listen. There’s a Society meets within a few steps of here,
which has more to do with regulating the criminal classes of the city
than any police establishment. There’ll be a man there within an hour or
so, who, to my knowledge, has committed seven murders. The police can’t
get him. They never will. He’s under our protection.”
“May we visit such a place as you describe without danger?” Peter asked,
calmly.
“No!” the man answered. “There’s danger in going anywhere, it seems to
me, if it’s worth while. So long as you keep a still tongue in your head
and don’t look about you too much, there’s nothing will happen to you.
If you get gassing a lot, you might tumble in for almost anything. Don’t
come unless you like. It’s a chance for your friend, as he’s a writer,
but you’d best keep out of it if you’re in any way nervous.”
“You said it was quite close?” Sogrange inquired.
“Within a yard or two,” the man replied. “It’s right this way.”
They left the hall with their new escort. When they looked for their
motor car, they found it had gone.
“It don’t do to keep them things waiting about round here,” their new
friend remarked, carelessly. “I guess I’ll send you back to your hotel
all right. Step this way.”
“By the bye, what street is this we are in?” Peter asked.
“100th Street,” the man answered.
Peter shook his head.
“I’m a little superstitious about that number,” he declared. “Is that an
elevated railway there? I think we’ve had enough, Sogrange.”
Sogrange hesitated. They were standing now in front of a tall gloomy
house, unkempt, with broken gate--a large but miserable-looking abode.
The passers-by in the street were few. The whole character of the
surroundings was squalid. The man pushed open the broken gate.
“You cross the street right there to the elevated,” he directed. “If you
ain’t coming, I’ll bid you good-night.”
Once more they hesitated. Peter, perhaps, saw more than his companion.
He saw the dark shapes lurking under the railway arch. He knew
instinctively that they were in some sort of danger. And yet the love of
adventure was on fire in his blood. His belief in himself was immense.
He whispered to Sogrange.
“I do not trust our guide,” he said. “If you care to risk it, I am with
you.”
“Mind the broken pavement,” the man called out. “This ain’t exactly an
abode of luxury.”
They climbed some broken steps. Their guide opened a door with a
Yale key. The door swung to, after them, and they found themselves in
darkness. There had been no light in the windows; there was no light,
apparently, in the house. Their companion produced an electric torch
from his pocket.
“You had best follow me,” he advised. “Our quarters face out the other
way. We keep this end looking a little deserted.”
They passed through a swing door and everything was at once changed. A
multitude of lamps hung from the ceiling, the floor was carpeted, the
walls clean.
“We don’t go in for electric light,” their guide explained, “as we try
not to give the place away. We manage to keep it fairly comfortable,
though.”
He pushed open the door and entered a somewhat gorgeously furnished
salon. There were signs here of feminine occupation, an open piano, and
the smell of cigarettes. Once more Peter hesitated.
“Your friends seem to be in hiding,” he remarked. “Personally, I am
losing my curiosity.”
“Guess you won’t have to wait very long,” the man replied, with meaning.
The room was suddenly invaded on all sides. Four doors, which were quite
hidden by the pattern of the wall, had opened almost simultaneously, and
at least a dozen men had entered. This time both Sogrange and Peter knew
that they were face to face with the real thing. These were men who came
silently in, no cigarette-stunted youths. Two of them were in evening
dress; three or four had the appearance of prize fighters. In their
countenances was one expression common to all--an air of quiet and
conscious strength.
A fair-headed man, in dinner jacket and black tie, became at once their
spokesman. He was possessed of a very slight American accent, and he
beamed at them through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am glad to meet you both.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” Sogrange answered. “Our friend here,” he
added, indicating their guide, “found us trying to gain a little insight
into the more interesting part of New York life. He was kind enough to
express a wish to introduce us to you.”
The man smiled. He looked very much like some studious clerk, except
that his voice seemed to ring with some latent power.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that your friend’s interest in you was not
entirely unselfish. For three days he has carried in his pocket an order
instructing him to produce you here.”
“I knew it!” Peter whispered, under his breath.
“You interest me,” Sogrange replied. “May I know whom I have the honor
of addressing?”
“You can call me Burr,” the man announced, “Philip Burr. Your names it
is not our wish to know.”
“I am afraid I do not quite understand,” Sogrange said.
“It was scarcely to be expected that you should,” Mr. Philip Burr
admitted. “All I can tell you is that, in cases like yours, I really
prefer not to know with whom I have to deal.”
“You speak as though you had business with us,” Peter remarked.
“Without doubt, I have,” the other replied, grimly. “It is my business
to see that you do not leave these premises alive.”
Sogrange drew up a chair against which he had been leaning, and sat
down.
“Really,” he said, “that would be most inconvenient.” Peter, too, shook
his head, sitting upon the end of a sofa and folding his arms. Something
told him that the moment for fighting was not yet.
“Inconvenient or not,” Mr. Philip Burr continued, “I have orders to
carry out which I can assure you have never yet been disobeyed since the
formation of our Society. From what I can see of you, you appear to
be very amiable gentlemen, and if it would interest you to choose the
method--say, of your release--why, I can assure you we’ll do all we can
to meet your views.”
“I am beginning,” Sogrange remarked, “to feel quite at home.”
“You see, we’ve been through this sort of thing before,” Peter added,
blandly.
Mr. Philip Burr took a cigar from his case and lit it. At a motion of
his hand, one of the company passed the box to his two guests.
“You’re not counting upon a visit from the police, or anything of that
sort, I hope?” Mr. Philip Burr asked.
Sogrange shook his head.
“Certainly not,” he replied. “I may say that much of the earlier portion
of my life was spent in frustrating the well-meant but impossible
schemes of that body of men.”
“If only we had a little more time,” Mr. Burr declared, “it seems to me
I should like to make the acquaintance of you two gentlemen.”
“The matter is entirely in your own hands,” Peter reminded him. “We are
in no hurry.”
Mr. Burr smiled genially.
“You make me think better of humanity,” he confessed. “A month ago we
had a man here--got him along somehow or another--and I had to tell him
that he was up against it like you two are. My! the fuss he made! Kind
of saddened me to think a man should be such a coward.”
“Some people like that,” Sogrange remarked. “By the bye, Mr. Burr,
you’ll pardon my curiosity. Whom have we to thank for our introduction
here to-night?”
“I don’t know as there’s any particular harm in telling you,” Mr. Burr
replied--
“Nor any particular good,” a man who was standing by his side
interrupted. “Say, Phil, you drag these things out too much. Are there
any questions you’ve got to ask ‘em, or any property to collect?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Mr. Burr admitted.
“Then let the gang get to work,” the other declared.
The two men were suddenly conscious that they were being surrounded.
Peter’s hand stole on to the butt of his revolver. Sogrange rose slowly
to his feet. His hands were thrust out in front of him with the thumbs
turned down. The four fingers of each hand flashed for a minute through
the air. Mr. Philip Burr lost all his self-control.
“Say, where the devil did you learn that trick?” he cried.
Sogrange laughed scornfully.
“Trick!” he exclaimed. “Philip Burr, you are unworthy of your position.
I am the Marquis de Sogrange, and my friend here is the Baron de Grost.”
Mr. Philip Burr had no words. His cigar had dropped on to the carpet. He
was simply staring.
“If you need proof,” Sogrange continued, “further than any I have given
you, I have in my pocket, at the present moment, a letter, signed by
you yourself, pleading for formal reinstatement. This is how you would
qualify for it! You make use of your power to run a common decoy house,
to do away with men for money. What fool gave you our names, pray?”
Mr. Philip Burr was only the wreck of a man. He could not even control
his voice.
“It was some German or Belgian nobleman,” he faltered. “He brought us
excellent letters, and he made a large contribution. It was the Count
von Hern.”
The anger of Sogrange seemed suddenly to fade away. He threw himself
into a chair by the side of his companion.
“My dear Baron,” he exclaimed, “Bernadine has scored, indeed! Your
friend has a sense of humor which overwhelms me. Imagine it. He has
delivered the two heads of our great Society into the hands of one of
its cast-off branches! Bernadine is a genius, indeed!”
Mr. Philip Burr began slowly to recover himself. He waved his hand. Nine
out of the twelve men left the room.
“Marquis,” he said, “for ten years there has been no one whom I have
desired to meet so much as you. I came to Europe but you declined to
receive me. I know very well we can’t keep our end up like you over
there, because we haven’t politics and that sort of things to play
with, but we’ve done our best. We’ve encouraged only criminology of the
highest order. We’ve tried all we can to keep the profession select. The
jail-bird, pure and simple, we have cast out. The men who have suffered
at our hands have been men who have met with their deserts.”
“What about us?” Peter demanded. “It seems to me that you had most
unpleasant plans for our future.”
Philip Burr held up his hands.
“As I live,” he declared, “this is the first time that any money
consideration has induced me to break away from our principles. That
Count von Hern, he had powerful friends who were our friends, and he
gave me the word, straight, that you two had an appointment down below
which was considerably overdue. I don’t know, even now, why I consented.
I guess it isn’t much use apologizing.”
Sogrange rose to his feet.
“Well,” he said, “I am not inclined to bear malice, but you must
understand this from me, Philip Burr. As a Society, I dissolve you.
I deprive you of your title and of your signs. Call yourself what you
will, but never again mention the name of the ‘Double-Four.’ With us in
Europe, another era has dawned. We are on the side of law and order. We
protect only criminals of a certain class, in whose operations we have
faith. There is no future for such a society in this country. Therefore,
as I say, I dissolve it. Now, if you are ready, perhaps you will be so
good as to provide us with the means of reaching our hotel.”
Philip Burr led them into a back street, where his own handsome
automobile was placed at their service.
“This kind of breaks me all up,” he declared, as he gave the
instructions to the chauffeur. “If there were two men on the face of
this earth whom I’d have been proud to meet in a friendly sort of way,
it’s you two.”
“We bear no malice, Mr. Burr,” Sogrange assured him. “You can, if
you will do us the honor, lunch with us to-morrow at one o’clock at
Rector’s. My friend here is quite interested in the Count von Hern, and
he would probably like to hear exactly how this affair was arranged.”
“I’ll be there, sure,” Philip Burr promised, with a farewell wave of the
hand.
Sogrange and Peter drove back towards their hotel in silence. It was
only when they emerged into the civilized part of the city that Sogrange
began to laugh softly.
“My friend,” he murmured, “you bluffed fairly well, but you were afraid.
Oh, how I smiled to see your fingers close round the butt of that
revolver!”
“What about you?” Peter asked, gruffly. “You don’t suppose you took me
in, do you?”
Sogrange smiled.
“I had two reasons for coming to New York,” he said. “One we
accomplished upon the steamer. The other was--”
“Well?”
“To reply personally to this letter of Mr. Philip Burr,” Sogrange
replied, “which letter, by the bye, was dated from 15, 100th Street, New
York. An ordinary visit there would have been useless to me. Something
of this sort was necessary.”
“Then you knew!” Peter gasped. “Notwithstanding all your bravado, you
knew!”
“I had a very fair idea,” Sogrange admitted. “Don’t be annoyed with me,
my friend. You have had a little experience. It is all useful. It isn’t
the first time you’ve looked death in the face. Adventures come to some
men unasked. You, I think, were born with the habit of them.”
Peter smiled. They had reached the hotel courtyard and he raised himself
stiffly.
“There’s a little fable about the pitcher that went once too often
to the well,” he remarked. “I have had my share of luck--more than my
share. The end must come sometime, you know.”
“Is this superstition?” Sogrange asked.
“Superstition, pure and simple,” Peter confessed, taking his key from
the office. “It doesn’t alter anything. I am fatalist enough to shrug
my shoulders and move on. But I tell you, Sogrange,” he added, after a
moment’s pause, “I wouldn’t admit it to any one else in the world, but
I am afraid of Bernadine. I have had the best of it so often. It
can’t last. In all we’ve had twelve encounters. The next will be the
thirteenth.”
Sogrange shrugged his shoulders slightly as he rang for the lift.
“I’d propose you for the Thirteen Club, only there’s some uncomfortable
clause about yearly suicides which might not suit you,” he remarked.
“Good-night, and don’t dream of Bernadine and your thirteenth
encounter.”
“I only hope,” Peter murmured, “that I may be in a position to dream
after it.”