THE CONFIDENCE OF EMILY
All during that day and the night which followed it, the search for
Ramon Hamilton continued, but without result. With the announcement of
his disappearance, in the press, the police had started a spectacular
investigation, but had been as unsuccessful as Henry Blaine's own
operatives, who had been working unostentatiously but tirelessly since
the news of the young lawyer's evanescence had come.
No one could be found who had seen him. When he left the offices of
the great detective on the previous morning he seemed to have vanished
into thin air. It was to Blaine the most baffling incident of all that
had occurred since this most complex case had come into his hands.
He kept his word and called to see Anita in the late afternoon. He
found that she had slept for some hours and was calmer and more
hopeful, which was fortunate, for he had scant comfort to offer her
beyond his vague but forceful reassurances that all would be well.
Early on the following morning Suraci returned from Long Bay and
presented himself at the office of his chief to report.
"Here are the tracings from the register of 'The Breakers' which you
desired, sir," he began, spreading some large thin sheets of paper
upon the desk. "The Lawtons spent three weeks there at the time you
designated, and Mr. Hamilton went out each week-end, from Friday to
Monday, as you can see here, and here. They had no other visitors and
kept much to themselves."
Blaine scanned the papers rapidly, pausing here and there to
scrutinize more closely a signature which appeared to interest him. At
length he pushed them aside with a dissatisfied frown, as if he had
been looking for something which he had failed to find.
"Anything suspicious about the guests who arrived during the Lawtons'
stay?" he asked. "Was there any incident in connection with them
worthy of note which the proprietor could recall?"
"No, sir, but I found some of the employees and talked to them. The
hotel is closed now for the winter, of course, but two or three of the
waiters and bell-boys live in the neighborhood. A summer resort is a
hot-bed of gossip, as you know, sir, and since Mr. Lawton's sudden
death the servants have been comparing notes of his visit there two
years ago. I found the waiter who served them, and two bell-boys, and
they each had a curious incident to tell me in connection with the
Lawtons. The stories would have held no significance if it weren't for
the fact that they all happened to concern one person--a man who
arrived on the eighth of August. This man here."
Suraci ran his finger down the register page until he came to one
name, where he stopped abruptly.
"Albert Addison, Baltimore, Maryland," read Blaine. Then, with a
sudden exclamation he bent closer over the paper. A prolonged scrutiny
ensued while Suraci watched him curiously. Reaching into a drawer, the
Master Detective drew out a powerful magnifying glass and examined
each stroke of the pen with minute care. At length he swung about in
his chair and pressed the electric button on the corner of the desk.
When his secretary appeared in response to the summons, Blaine said:
"Ask the filing clerk to look in the drawer marked 'P. 1904,'
and bring me the check drawn on the First National Bank signed
_Paddington_."
While the secretary was fulfilling his task the two waited in silence,
but with the check before him Henry Blaine gave it one keen, comparing
glance, then turned to the operative.
"Well, Suraci, what did you learn from the hotel employees?"
"One of the bell-boys told me that this man, Addison, arrived with
only a bag, announcing that his luggage would be along later and that
he anticipated remaining a week or more. This boy noticed him
particularly because he scanned the hotel register before writing his
own name, and insisted upon having one of two special suites; number
seventy-two or seventy-six. Seventy-four the suite between, was
occupied by Mr. Lawton. They were both engaged, so he was forced to be
content with number seventy-three, just across the hall. The boy
noticed that although the new arrival did not approach Mr. Lawton or
his daughter, he hung about in their immediate vicinity all day and
appeared to be watching them furtively.
"Late in the afternoon, Mr. Lawton went into the writing-room to
attend to some correspondence. The boy, passing through the room on
an errand, saw him stop in the middle of a page, frown, and tearing
the paper across, throw it in the waste-basket. Glancing about
inadvertently, the bell-boy saw Addison seated near by, staring at Mr.
Lawton from behind a newspaper which he held in front of his face as
if pretending to read. The boy's curiosity was aroused by the eager,
hungry, expectant look on the stranger's face, and he made up his
mind to hang around, too, and see what was doing.
"He attended to his errand and returned just in time to see Mr. Lawton
seal the flap of his last envelope, rise, and stroll from the room.
Instantly Addison slipped into the seat just vacated, wrote a page,
crumpled it, and threw it in the same waste-basket the other man had
used. Then he started another page, hesitated and finally stopped and
began rummaging in the basket, as if searching for the paper he
himself had just dropped there. The boy made up his mind--he's a sharp
one, sir, he'd be good for this business--that the stranger wasn't
after his own letter, at all, but the one Mr. Lawton had torn across,
and in a spirit of mischief, he walked up to the man and offered to
help.
"'This is your letter, sir. I saw you crumple it up just now. That
torn sheet of paper belongs to one of the other guests.'
"According to his story, he forced Addison's own letter on him, and
walked off with the waste-basket to empty it, and if looks could kill,
he'd have been a dead boy after one glance from the stranger. That was
all he had to tell, and he wouldn't have remembered such a trifling
incident for a matter of two years and more, if it hadn't been for
something which happened late that night. He didn't see it, being off
duty, but another boy did, and the next day they compared notes. They
were undecided as to whether they should go to the manager of the
hotel and make a report, or not, but being only kids, they were afraid
of getting into trouble themselves, so they waited. Addison departed
suddenly that morning, however, and as Mr. Lawton never gave any sign
of being aware of what had taken place, they kept silent. I located
the second boy, and got his story at first hand. His name is Johnnie
Bradley and he's as stupid as the other one is sharp.
"Johnnie was on all night, and about one o'clock he was sent out to
the casino on the pier just in front of the hotel, with a message.
When he was returning, he noticed a tiny, bright light darting quickly
about in Mr. Lawton's rooms, as if some one were carrying a candle
through the suite and moving rapidly. He remembered that Mr. Lawton
and his daughter had motored off somewhere just after dinner to be
gone overnight, so he went upstairs to investigate, without mentioning
the matter to the clerk who was dozing behind the desk in the office.
There was a chambermaid on night duty at the end of the hall, but she
was asleep, and as he reached the head of the stairs, Johnnie observed
that some one had, contrary to the rules, extinguished the lights near
Mr. Lawton's rooms. He went softly down the hall, until he came to the
door of number seventy-four. A man was stooping before it, fumbling
with a key, but whether he was locking or unlocking the door, it did
not occur to Johnnie to question in his own mind until later. As he
approached, the man turned, saw him, and reeled against the door as if
he had been drinking.
"'Sa-ay, boy!' he drawled. 'Wha's matter with lock? Can't open m'
door.'
"He put the key in his pocket as he spoke, but that, too, Johnnie did
not think of until afterward.
"'That isn't your door, sir. Those are Mr. Pennington Lawton's rooms,'
Johnnie told him. 'What is the number on your key?'
"The man produced a key from his pocket and gave it to Johnnie in a
stupid, dazed sort of way. The key was numbered seventy-three.
"'That's your suite, just across the hall, sir,' Johnnie said. He
unlocked the door for the newcomer, who muttered thickly about the
hall being d----d confusing to a stranger, and gave him a dollar.
Johnnie waited until the man had lurched into his rooms, then asked if
he wanted ice-water. Receiving no reply but a mumbled curse, he
withdrew, but not before he had seen the light switched on, and the
man cross to the door and shut it. The stranger no longer lurched
about, but walked erectly and his face had lost the sagged, vapid,
drunken look and was surprisingly sober and keen and alert.
"The two boys decided the next day that Addison had come to 'The
Breakers' with the idea of robbing Mr. Lawton, but, as I said, nothing
came of the incident, so they kept it to themselves and in all
probability it had quite passed from their minds until the news of Mr.
Lawton's death recalled it to them."
Suraci paused, and after a moment Blaine suggested tentatively:
"You spoke of a waiter, also, Suraci. Had he anything to add to what
the bell-boys had told you, of this man Addison's peculiar behavior?"
"Yes, sir. It isn't very important, but it sort of confirms what the
first boy said, about the stranger trying to watch the Lawtons,
without being noticed himself, by them. The waiter, Tim Donohue, says
that on the day of his arrival, Addison was seated by the head waiter
at the next table to that occupied by Mr. Lawton, and directly facing
him. Addison entered the dining-room first, ordered a big luncheon,
and was half-way through it when the Lawtons entered. No sooner were
they seated, than he got up precipitately and left the room. That
night, at dinner, he refused the table he had occupied at the first
meal, and insisted upon being seated at one somewhere back of Mr.
Lawton.
"This Donohue is a genial, kind-hearted soul, and he was a favorite
with the bell-hops because he used to save sweets and tid-bits for
them from his trays. Johnnie and the other boy told him of their
dilemma concerning number seventy-three, as they designated Addison,
and he in turn related the incident of the dining-room. The boys told
me about him and where he could be found. He's not a waiter any
longer, but married to one of the hotel chamber-maids, and lives in
Long Bay, running a bus service to the depot for a string of the
cheaper boarding houses. He corroborated the bell-hops' story in every
detail, and even gave me a hazy sort of description of Addison. He was
small and thin and dark; clean shaven, with a face like an actor,
narrow shoulders and a sort of caved-in chest. He walked with a slight
limp, and was a little over-dressed for the exclusive, conservative,
high-society crowd that flock to 'The Breakers.'"
"That's our man, Suraci--that's Paddington, to the life!" Blaine
exclaimed. "I knew it as soon as I compared his signature on this
check with the one in the register, although he has tried to disguise
his hand, as you can see. I'm glad to have it verified, though, by
witnesses on whom we can lay our hands at any time, should it become
necessary. He left the day after his arrival, you say? The morning
after this boy, Johnnie, caught him in front of Mr. Lawton's door?"
"Yes, sir. The bell-hops don't think he came back, either. They don't
remember seeing him again."
"Very well. You've done splendidly, Suraci. I couldn't have conducted
the investigation better myself. Do you need any rest, now?"
"Oh, no, sir! I'm quite ready for another job!" The young operative's
eyes sparkled eagerly as he spoke, and his long, slim, nervous fingers
clasped and unclasped the arms of his chair spasmodically. "What is
it? Something new come up?"
"Only that disappearance, two days ago, of the young lawyer to whom
Miss Lawton is engaged, Ramon Hamilton. I want you to go out on that
at once, and see what you can do. I've got half a dozen of the best
men on it already, but they haven't accomplished anything. I can't
give you a single clue to go upon, except that when he walked out of
this office at eleven o'clock in the morning, he wore a black suit,
black shoes, black tie, a black derby and a gray overcoat with a
mourning band on the sleeve--for Mr. Lawton, of course. Outside the
door there, he vanished as if a trap had opened and dropped him
through into space. No one has seen him; no one knows where he went.
That's all the help I can offer you. He's not in jail or the morgue or
any of the hospitals, as yet. That isn't much, but it's something.
Here's a personal description of him which the police issued
yesterday. It's as good as any I could give you, and here are two
photographs of him which I got from his mother yesterday afternoon.
Take a good look at him, Suraci, fix his face in your mind, and then
if you should manage, or happen, to locate him, you can't go wrong. I
know your memory for faces."
The "shadow" departed eagerly upon his quest, and Blaine settled down
to an hour's deep reflection. He held the threads of the major
conspiracy in his hands, but as yet he could not connect them, at
least in any tangible way to present at a court of so-called justice,
where everyone, from the judge to the policeman at the door could, and
inevitably would, be bought over, in advance, to the side of the
criminals. It was a one-man fight, backed only with the slender means
provided by a young girl's insignificant financial ventures, against
the press, the public, a corrupt political machine of great power, the
desperate ingenuity of three clever, unscrupulous minds brought to
bay, and the overwhelming influence of colossal wealth. Henry Blaine
felt that the supreme struggle of his whole career was confronting
him.
The unheard-of intrepidity of conception, the very daring of the
conspiracy, combined with the prominence of the men involved,
would brand any accusation, even from a man of Henry Blaine's
celebrated international reputation, as totally preposterous, unless
substantiated. And what actual proof had he of their criminal
connection with the alleged bankruptcy of Pennington Lawton?
He had established, to his own satisfaction, at least, that the
mortgage on the family home on Belleair Avenue had been forged, and by
Jimmy Brunell. The signature on the note held by Moore, the banker,
and the entire letter asking Mallowe to negotiate the loan had been
also fraudulent, and manufactured by the same hand. Paddington, the
private detective with perhaps the most unsavory record of any
operating in the city, was in close and constant communication with
the three men Blaine held under suspicion, and probably also with
Jimmy Brunell. Lastly, Brunell himself was known to be still in
possession of his paraphernalia for the pursuit of his old nefarious
calling. Paddington, on Margaret Hefferman's testimony, had assuredly
succeeded in mulcting the promoter, Rockamore, of a large sum in a
clear case of blackmail, but on the face of it there was no proof that
it was connected with the matter of Pennington Lawton's insolvency.
The mysterious nocturnal visitor, on the night the magnate met his
death, was still to be accounted for, as was the disappearance of
Ramon Hamilton; and in spite of his utmost efforts, Henry Blaine was
forced to admit to himself that he was scarcely nearer a solution, or
rather, a confirmation of his steadfast convictions, than when he
started upon his investigation.
Unquestionably, the man Paddington held the key to the situation. But
how could Paddington be approached? How could he be made to speak?
Bribery had sealed his lips, and only greed would open them. He was
shrewd enough to realize that the man who had purchased his services
would pay him far more to remain silent than any client of Blaine's
could, to betray them. Moreover, he was in the same boat, and must of
necessity sink or swim with his confederates.
Fear might induce him to squeal, where cupidity would fail, but the
one sure means of loosening his tongue was through passion.
"If only that French girl, Fifine Dechaussee, would lead him on, if
she had less of the saint and more of the coquette in her make-up, we
might land him," the detective murmured to himself. "It's dirty work,
but we've got to use the weapons in our hands. I must have another
talk with her, before she considers herself affronted by his
attentions, and throws him down hard--that is, if he's making any
attempt to follow up his flirtation with her."
Blaine's soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of Guy Morrow,
whose face bore the disgusted look of one sent to fish with a bent pin
for a salmon.
"I found Paddington, all right, sir," he announced. "I tailed him
until a half-hour ago, but I might as well have been asleep for all I
learned, except one fact."
"Which is--" the detective asked quickly.
"That he went to Rockamore's office yesterday morning, remained an
hour and came away with a check for ten thousand dollars. He proceeded
to the bank, had it certified, and deposited it at once to his own
account in the Merchants' and Traders'. He evidently split it up,
then, for he went to three other banks and opened accounts under three
different names. Here's the list. I tailed him all the way."
He handed the Master Detective a slip of paper, which the latter put
carefully aside after a casual glance.
"Then what did he do?"
"Wasted his own time and mine," the operative responded in immeasurable
contempt. "Ate and drank and gambled and loafed and philandered."
"Philandered?" Blaine repeated, sharply.
"In the park," returned the other. "Spooning with a girl! Rotten
cold it was, too, and me tailing on like a blamed chaperon! After he
made his last deposit at the third bank, he went to lunch at Duyon's.
Ate his head off, and paid from a thick wad of yellowbacks. Then
he dropped in at Wiley's, and played roulette for a couple of
hours--played in luck, too. He drank quite a little, but it only
seemed to heighten his good spirits, without fuddling him to any
extent. When he left Wiley's, about five o'clock, he sauntered
along Court Street, until he came to Fraser's, the jeweler's. He
stopped, looked at the display window for a few minutes, and then, as
if on a sudden impulse, turned and entered the shop. I tailed him
inside, and went to the men's counter, where I bought a tie-clasp,
keeping my eye on him all the time. What do you think he got? A gold
locket and chain--a heart-shaped locket, with a chip diamond in the
center!"
"The eternal feminine!" Blaine commented; and then he added half under
his breath: "Fifine Dechaussee's on the job!"
"What, sir?" asked the operative curiously.
"Nothing, Guy. Merely an idle observation. Go on with your story."
"Paddington went straight from the jeweler's to the Democratic Club
for an hour, then dined alone at Rossi's. I was on the look-out for
the woman, but none appeared, and he didn't act as if he expected
anybody. After dinner he strolled down Belleair Avenue, past the
Lawton residence, and out to Fairlawn Park. Once inside the gates, he
stopped for a minute near a lamp-post and looked at his watch, then
hurried straight on to Hydrangea Path, as if he had an appointment to
keep. I dropped back in the shadow, but tailed along. She must have
been late, that girl, for he cooled his heels on a bench for twenty
minutes, growing more impatient all the time. Finally she came--a
slender wisp of a girl, but some queen! Plainly dressed, dark hair and
eyes, small hands and feet and a face like a stained-glass window!
"They walked slowly up and down, talking very confidentially, and once
he started to put his arm about her, but she moved away. I walked up
quickly, and passed them, close enough to hear what she was saying:
'Of course it is lonely for a girl in a strange country, where she has
no friends.' That was all I got, but I noticed that she spoke with a
decidedly foreign accent, French or Spanish, I should say.
"Around a bend in the path I hid behind a clump of bushes and waited
until they had passed, then tailed them again. I saw him produce the
locket and chain at last, and offer them to her. She protested and
took a lot of persuading; but he prevailed upon her and she let him
clasp it about her neck and kiss her. After that--Good Lord! They
spooned for about two hours and never even noticed the snow which had
begun to fall, while I shivered along behind. About half-past ten they
made a break-away and he left her at the park gates and went on down
to his rooms. I put up for the night at the Hotel Gaythorne, just
across the way, and kept a look-out, but there were no further
developments until early this morning. At a little after seven he left
his apartment house and started up State Street as if he meant
business. Of course I was after him on the jump.
"He evidently didn't think he was watched, for he never looked around
once, but made straight for a little shop near the corner of Tarleton
Place. It was a stationery and tobacco store, and I was right at his
heels when he entered. He leaned over the counter, and asked in a low,
meaning tone for a box of Cairo cigarettes. The man gave him a long,
searching glance, then turned, and reaching back of a pile of boxes on
the first shelf, drew out a flat one--the size which holds twenty
cigarettes. He passed it quickly over to Paddington, but not before I
observed that it had been opened and rather clumsily resealed.
"Paddington handed over a quarter and left the shop without another
word. He went directly to a cheap restaurant across the street, and,
ordering a cup of coffee, he tore open the cigarette box. It contained
only a sheet of paper, folded twice. I was at the next table, too far
away to read what was written upon it, but whatever it was, it seemed
to give him immense satisfaction. He finished his coffee, returned to
his rooms, changed his clothes, and went directly to the office of
Snedecker, the man whose divorce case he is trying to trump up.
Evidently he's good for a day's work on that, so I thought I could
safely leave him at it, and report to you."
"Humph! I'd like to have a glimpse of that communication in the
cigarette box, but it isn't of sufficient importance, on the face of
it, to show our hand by having him waylaid, or searching his rooms,"
Blaine cogitated aloud. "I'll put another man on to-morrow morning.
Leave the address of the tobacconist with my secretary on your way
out, and if there is another message to-morrow, he'll get it first.
You needn't do anything more on this Paddington matter; I think the
other end needs your services more; and since you've already broken
ground up there, you'll be able to do better than anyone else. I want
you to return to the Bronx, get back your old room, if you can, and
stick close to the Brunells."
Back in his old rooms at Mrs. Quinlan's, Guy sat in the window-seat at
dusk, impatiently awaiting the appearance of a slender, well-known
figure. The rain, which had set in early in the afternoon, had turned
to sleet, and as the darkness deepened, the rays from a solitary
street lamp gleamed sharply upon the pavement as upon an unbroken
sheet of ice.
Presently the spare, long-limbed form of James Brunell emerged from
the gloom and disappeared within the door of this little house
opposite. Morrow observed that the man's step lacked its accustomed
jauntiness and spring, and he plodded along wearily, as if utterly
preoccupied with some depressing meditation. A light sprang up in the
front room on the ground floor, but after a few moments it was
suddenly extinguished, and Brunell appeared again on the porch. He
closed the door softly behind him, and strode quickly down the street.
There was a marked change in his bearing, a furtiveness and eager
haste which ill accorded with his manner of a short time before.
Scarcely had Brunell vanished into the encroaching gloom, when his
daughter appeared. She, too, approached wearily, and on reaching the
little sagging gate she paused in surprised dismay at the air of
detached emptiness the house seemed to exude. Then a little furry
object scurried around the porch corner and precipitated itself upon
her. She stooped swiftly, gathered up the kitten in her arms and went
slowly into the house.
Morrow ate his supper in absent-minded haste, and as soon as he
decently could, he made his way across the street.
Emily opened the door in response to his ring and greeted him with
such undisguised pleasure and surprise that his honest heart quickened
a beat or two, and it was with difficulty that he voiced the plausible
falsehood concerning his loss of position, and return to his former
abode.
Under the light in the little drawing-room, he noticed that she looked
pale and careworn, and her limpid, childlike eyes were veiled
pathetically with deep, blue shadows. As he looked at her, however, a
warm tint dyed her cheeks and her head drooped, while the little smile
still lingered about her lips.
"You are tired?" he found himself asking solicitously, after she had
expressed her sympathy for his supposed ill fortune. "You found your
work difficult to-day at the club?"
"Oh, no,"--she shook her head slowly. "My position is a mere sinecure,
thanks to Miss Lawton's wonderful consideration. I have been a little
depressed--a little worried, that is all."
"Worried?" Morrow paused, then added in a lower tone, the words coming
swiftly, "Can't you tell me, Emily? Isn't there some way in which I
can help you? What is it that is troubling you?"
"I--I don't know." A deeper, painful flush spread for a moment over
her face, then ebbed, leaving her paler even than before. "You are
very kind, Mr. Morrow, but I do not think that I should speak of it to
anyone. And indeed, my fears are so intangible, so vague, that when I
try to formulate my thoughts into words, even to myself, they are
unconvincing, almost meaningless. Yet I feel instinctively that
something is wrong."
"Won't you trust me?" Morrow's hand closed gently but firmly over
the girl's slender one, in a clasp of compelling sympathy, and
unconsciously she responded to it. "I know that I am comparatively
a new friend. You and your father have been kind enough to extend your
hospitality to me, to accept me as a friend. You know very little
about me, yet I want you to believe that I am worthy of trust--that
I want to help you. I do, Emily, more than you realize, more than I
can express to you now!"
Morrow had forgotten the reason for his presence there, forgotten his
profession, his avowed purpose, everything but the girl beside him.
But her next words brought him swiftly back to a realization of the
present--so swiftly that for a moment he felt as if stunned by an
unexpected blow.
"Oh, I do believe that you are a friend! I do trust you!" Emily's
voice thrilled with deep sincerity, and in an impetuous outburst of
confidence she added: "It is about my father that I am troubled.
Something has happened which I do not understand; there is something
he is keeping from me, which has changed him. He seems like a
different man, a stranger!"
"You are sure of it?" Morrow asked, slowly. "You are sure that it
isn't just a nervous fancy? Your father really has changed toward you
lately?"
"Not only toward me, but to all the world beside!" she responded. "Now
that I look back, I can see that his present state of mind has been
coming on gradually for several months, but it was only a short time
ago that something occurred which seemed to bring the matter, whatever
it is, to a turning-point. I remember that it was just a few days
before you came--I mean, before I happened to see you over at Mrs.
Quinlan's."
She stopped abruptly, as if an arresting finger had been laid across
her lips, and after waiting a moment for her to continue, Morrow asked
quietly:
"What was it that occurred?"
"Father received a letter. It came one afternoon when I had returned
from the club earlier than usual. I took it from the postman myself,
and as father had not come home yet from the shop, I placed it beside
his plate at the supper table. I noticed the postmark--'Brooklyn'--but
it didn't make any particular impression upon me; it was only later,
when I saw how it affected my father, that I remembered, and wondered.
He had scarcely opened the envelope, when he rose, trembling so that
he could hardly stand, and coming into this room, he shut the door
after him. I waited as long as I could, but he did not return, and the
supper was getting cold, so I came to the door here. It was locked!
For the first time in his life, my father had locked himself in, from
me! He would not answer me at first, as I called to him, and I was
nearly frightened to death before he spoke. When he did, his voice
sounded so harsh and strained that I scarcely recognized it. He told
me that he didn't want anything to eat; he had some private business
to attend to, and I was not to wait up for him, but to go to bed when
I wished.
"I crept away, and went to my room at last, but I could not sleep. It
was nearly morning when Father went to bed, and his step was heavy and
dragging as he passed my door. His room is next to mine, and I heard
him tossing restlessly about--and once or twice I fancied that he
groaned as if in pain. He was up in the morning at his usual time, but
he looked ill and worn, as if he had aged years in that one night.
Neither of us mentioned the letter, then or at any subsequent time,
but he has never been the same man since."
"And the letter--you never saw it?" Morrow asked eagerly, his
detective instinct now thoroughly aroused. "You don't know what that
envelope postmarked 'Brooklyn' contained?"
"Oh, but I do!" Emily exclaimed. "Father had thrust it in the stove,
but the fire had gone out, without his noticing it. I found it the
next morning, when I raked down the ashes."
"You--read it?" Morrow carefully steadied his voice.
"No," she shook her head, with a faint smile. "That's the queer part
of it all. No one could have read it--no one who did not hold the key
to it, I mean. It was written in some secret code or cipher, with
oddly shaped figures instead of letters; dots and cubes and
triangles. I never saw anything like it before. I couldn't understand
why anyone should send such a funny message to my father, instead of
writing it out properly."
"What did you do with the letter--did you destroy it?" This time the
detective made no effort to control the eagerness in his tones, but
the girl was so absorbed in her problem that she was oblivious to all
else.
"I suppose I should have, but I didn't. I knew that it was what my
father had intended, yet somehow I felt that it might prove useful in
the future--that I might even be helping Father by keeping it, against
his own judgment. The envelope was partially scorched by the hot
ashes, but the inside sheet remained untouched. I hid the letter
behind the mirror on my dresser, and sometimes, when I have been quite
alone, I took it out and tried to solve it, but I couldn't. I never
was good at puzzles when I was little, and I suppose I lack that
deductive quality now. I was ashamed, too: it seemed so like prying
into things which didn't concern me, which my father didn't wish me to
know; still, I was only doing it to try to help him."
Morrow winced, and drew a long breath. Then resolutely he plunged into
the task before him.
"Emily, don't think that I want to pry, either, but if I am to help
you I must see that letter. If you trust me and believe in my
friendship, let me see it. Perhaps I may be able to discover the key
in the first word or two, and then you can decipher it for yourself.
You understand, I don't wish you to show it to me unless you really
have confidence in me, unless you are sure that there is nothing in it
which one who has your welfare and peace of mind at heart should not
see."
He waited for her reply with a suffocating feeling as if a hand were
clutching at his throat. A hot wave of shame, of fierce repugnance and
self-contempt at the role he was forced to play, surged up within him,
but he could not go back now. The die was cast.
She looked at him--a long, searching look, her childlike eyes dark
with troubled indecision. At length they cleared slowly and she
smiled, a faint, pathetic smile, which wrung his heart. Then she rose
without a word, and left the room.
It seemed to him that an interminable period of time passed before he
heard her light, returning footsteps descending the stairs. A wild
desire to flee assailed him--to efface himself before her innocent
confidence was betrayed.
Emily Brunell came straight to him, and placed the letter in his
hands.
"There can be nothing in this letter which could harm my father, if
all the world read it," she said simply. "He is good and true; he
has not an enemy on earth. It can be only a private business
communication, at the most. My father's life is an open book; no
discredit could come to him. Yet if there was anything in the cryptic
message written here which others, not knowing him as I do, might
misjudge, I am not afraid that you will. You see, I do believe in
your friendship, Mr. Morrow; I am proving my faith in you."