Vroon faced Hargreave's butler somberly. The one reason why Braine
made this man his lieutenant was because Vroon always followed the
letter of his instructions to the final period; he never sidestepped or
added any frills or innovations of his own, and because of this very
automatism he rarely blundered into a trap. If he failed it was for
the simple fact that the master mind had overlooked some essential
detail. The organization of the Black Hundred was almost totally
unknown to either the public or the police. It is only when you fail
that you are found out.
"The patrolman has been trussed up like you," began Vroon. "If they
find him they will probably find you. But before that you will grow
thirsty and hungry. Where did your master put that money?"
"He carried it with him."
"Why didn't you call for help?"
"The houses on either side are too far away. I might yell till
doomsday without being heard. They will have heard the pistol shots;
but Mr. Hargreave was always practising in the back yard."
"The people in those two houses have been called out of town. The
servants are off for the night."
"Very interesting," replied Jones, staring at the rug.
"Your master is dead."
Jones' chin sank upon his breast. His heart was heavy, heavier than it
had ever been before.
"Your master left a will?"
"Indeed, I could not say."
"We can say. He has still three or four millions in stocks and bonds.
What he took to the bottom of the sea with him was his available cash."
"I know nothing about his finances. I was his butler and valet."
Vroon nodded. "Come, men; it is time we took ourselves off. Put
things in order; close the safe. You poor jackals, I always have to
watch you for outbreaks of vandalism. Off with you!"
He was the last to leave. He stared long and searchingly at Jones, who
felt the burning gaze but refused to meet it lest the plotter see the
fire in his. The door closed. For fully an hour Jones listened but
did not stir. They were really gone. He pressed his feet to the floor
and began to hitch the chair toward the table. Half-way across the
intervening space he crumpled in the chair, almost completely
exhausted. He let a quarter of an hour pass, then made the final
attack upon the remaining distance. He succeeded in reaching the desk,
but he could not have stirred an inch farther. The hair on his head
was damp with sweat and his hands were clammy.
When he felt strength returning he lifted the telephone off the hook
with his teeth.
"Central, central! Call the police to come to this number at once;
Hargreave's house, Riverdale. Tell them to break in."
After what seemed an age of waiting to the exhausted prisoner, with
crashing and smashing of doors, the police appeared in the room.
"Where's your gag?" demanded the first officer to reach Jones' side.
"There wasn't any."
"Then why didn't you yell for help?"
"The thieves lured our neighbors away from town. The patrolman who
walks this beat is bound and gagged and is probably reposing back of
the billboard in the next block."
"Murphy, you watch this man while I make a call on the neighbors," said
the officer who seemed to be in authority. When he returned he was
frowning seriously. "We'd better telephone to the precinct to search
for Dennison. There's nobody at home in either house and there's
nobody back of the billboards. Untie the man." When this was done,
the officer said: "Now, tell us what's happened; and don't forget any
of the details."
Jones told a simple and convincing story; it was so simple and
convincing that the police believed it without question.
"Well, if that ain't the limit! Did you hear any autos outside?"
"I don't recollect," said Jones, stretching his legs gratefully. "Why?"
"The auto bandits held up a bank messenger to-day and got away with
twenty thousand. Whenever a man draws down a big sum they seem to know
about it. And say, Murphy, call up and have the river police look out
for a new-fangled airship. Your master may have been rescued," turning
to Jones.
"If I were only sure of that, sir!"
When the police took themselves off Jones proceeded to act upon those
plans laid down by Hargreave early that night. When this was done he
sought his bed and fell asleep, the sleep of the exhausted. When
Hargreave picked up Jones to share his fortunes, he had put his trust
in no ordinary man.
A dozen reporters trooped out to the Hargreave home, only to find it
deserted. And while they were ringing bells and tapping windows, the
man they sought was tramping up and down the platform of the railway
station.
Through all this time Norton, the reporter, Hargreave's only friend,
slept the sleep of the just and unjust. He rarely opened his eyes
before noon.
Group after group of passengers Jones eyed eagerly. Often, just as he
was in the act of approaching a couple of young women, some man would
hurry up, and there would be kisses or handshakes. At length the crowd
thinned, and then it was that he discovered a young girl perhaps
eighteen, accompanied by a young woman in the early thirties. They had
the appearance of eagerly awaiting some one. Jones stepped forward
with a good deal of diffidence.
"You are waiting for some one?"
"Yes," said the elder woman, coldly.
"A broken bracelet?"
The distrust on both faces vanished instantly. The young girl's face
brightened, her eyes sparkled with suppressed excitement.
"You are ... my father?"
"No, miss," very gravely. "I am the butler."
"Let me see your part of the bracelet," said the young girl's guardian,
a teacher who had been assigned to this delicate task by Miss Farlow,
who could not bring herself to say good-by to Florence anywhere except
at the school gates.
The halves were produced and examined.
"I believe we may trust him, Florence."
"Let us hurry to the taxicab. We must not stand here."
"My mother?"
"She is dead. I believe she died shortly after your birth. I have
been with your father but fourteen years. I know but little of his
life prior to that."
"Why did he leave me all these years without ever coming to see me?
Why?"
"It is not for me, Miss Florence, to inquire into your father's act.
But I do know that whatever he did was meant for the best. Your
welfare was everything to him."
"It is all very strange," said the girl, bewilderedly. "Why didn't he
come to meet me instead of you?"
Jones stared at his hands, miserably.
"Why?" she demanded. "I have thought of him, thought of him. He has
hurt me with all this neglect. I expected to see him at the station,
to throw my arms, around his neck and ... forgive him!" Tears swam in
her eyes as she spoke.
"Everything will be explained to you when we reach the house. But
always remember this, Miss Florence: You were everything in this wide
world to your father. You will never know the misery and loneliness he
suffered that you might not have one hour of unrest. What are your
plans?" he asked abruptly of the teacher from Miss Farlow's.
"That depends," she answered, laying her hand protectingly over the
girl's.
"You could leave Miss Farlow's on the moment?"
"Yes."
"Then you will stay and be Miss Florence's companion?"
"Gladly."
"What is my father's name?"
"Hargreave, Stanley Hargreave."
The girl's eyes widened in terror. Suddenly she burst into a wild
frenzy of sobbing, her head against the shoulder of her erstwhile
teacher.
Jones appeared visibly shocked. "What is it?"
"We read the story in the newspaper," said the elder woman, her own
eyes filling with tears. "The poor child! To have all her
castles-in-air tumble down like this! But what authority have you to
engage me?" sensibly.
Jones produced a document, duly signed by Hargreave, and witnessed and
sealed by a notary, in which it was set forth that Henry Jones, butler
and valet to Stanley Hargreave, had full powers of attorney in the
event of his (Hargreave's) disappearance; in the event of his death,
till Florence became of legal age.
Said Jones as he put the document back in his pocket: "What is your
name?"
"Susan Wane."
"Do you love this child?"
"With all my heart, the poor unhappy babe!"
"Thank you!"
Inside the home he conducted them through the various rooms, at the
same time telling them what had taken place during the preceding night.
"They have not found his body?" asked Florence. "My poor, poor father!"
"No."
"Then he may be alive!"
"Please God that he may!" said the butler, with genuine piety, for he
had loved the man who had gone forth into the night so bravely and so
strangely. "This is your room. Your father spent many happy hours
here preparing it for you."
Tears came into the girl's eyes again, and discreetly Jones left the
two alone.
"What shall I do, Susan? Whatever shall I do?"
"Be brave as you always are. I will never leave you till you find your
father."
Florence kissed her fervently. "What is your opinion of the butler?"
"I think we may both trust him absolutely."
Then Florence began exploring the house. Susan followed her closely.
Florence peered behind the mirrors, the pictures, in the drawers of the
desk, in the bookcases.
"What are you hunting for, child?"
"A photograph of father." But she found none. More, there were no
photographs of any kind to be found in Stanley Hargreave's home.
When Norton awoke, he naturally went to the door for the morning papers
which were always placed in a neat pile before the sill. He yawned,
gathered up the bundle, was about to climb back into bed, when a
headline caught his dull eyes. Twenty-one minutes later, to be
precise, he ran up the steps of the Hargreave home and rang the bell.
He was admitted by the taciturn Jones, to whom the reporter had never
paid any particular attention. Somehow Jones always managed to stand
in shadows.
"I can add nothing to what has already appeared in the newspapers,"
replied Jones, as Norton opened his batteries of inquiries.
"Mr. Jones, I have known your master several years, as you will
recollect. There never was a woman in this house, not even among the
servants. There are two in the other room. Who are they? And what
are they doing here?"
Jones shook his head.
"Well, I can easily find out."
Jones barred his path, and for the first time Norton gazed into the
eyes of the man servant. They were as hard as gun metal.
"My dear Mr. Jones, you ought to know that sooner or later we reporters
find out what we seek."
Jones appeared to reflect. "Mr. Norton, you claim to be a friend of
Mr. Hargreave?"
"I do not claim. I am. More than that I do not believe he is dead.
He was deep. He had some relentless enemies--I don't know where from
or what kind--and he is pretending he's dead till this blows over and
is forgotten."
"You are not going to say that in your newspaper?" Jones was visibly
agitated.
"Not if I can prove it."
"If I tell you who those young ladies are, will you give me your word
of honor not to write about them till I give my permission?"
Norton, having in mind the big story at the end of the mystery tangle,
agreed.
"The elder is a teacher from a private school; the other is Stanley
Hargreave's daughter."
"Good lord!" gasped the astonished reporter. "He never mentioned the
fact to me, and we've been together in some tight places."
"He never mentioned it to any one but me." Jones again seemed to
reflect. At last he raised his glance to the reporter. "Are you
willing to wait for a great story, the real story?"
"If there is one," answered Norton with his usual caution.
"On my word of honor, you shall have such a story as you never dreamed
of, if you will promise not to divulge it till the appointed time."
"I agree."
"The peace and happiness of that child depends upon how you keep your
word."
That was sufficient for Norton. "Your master knew me. He also knew
that I am not a man who promises lightly. Now introduce me to the
daughter."
With plain reluctance Jones went about the affair. Norton put a dozen
perfunctory questions to the girl. What he was in search of was not
news but the sound of her voice. In that quarter of an hour he felt
his heart disturbed as it had never before been disturbed.
"Now, Mr. Norton," said Jones gloomily, "will you be so kind as to
follow me?"
Norton was led to Jones' bedroom. The butler-valet closed the door and
drew the window shade. Always seeking shadows. This did not impress
the reporter at the time; he had no other thought but the story. Jones
then sat down beside the reporter and talked in an undertone. When he
had done he took Norton by the elbow and gently but forcibly led him
down to the front door and ushered him forth. Norton jumped into his
taxicab and returned to his rooms, which were at the top of the huge
apartment hotel. He immediately called up his managing editor.
"Hello! This is Norton. Put Griffin on the Hargreave yarn. I'm off
on another deal."
"But Hargreave was a friend of yours," protested the managing editor.
"I know it. But you know me well enough, Mr. Blair. I should not ask
the transfer if it was not vitally important."
"Oh, very well."
"We shan't be scooped."
"If you can promise that, I don't care who works on the job. Will you
be in the office to-night?"
"If nothing prevents me."
"Well, good-by."
Norton filled his pipe, drew his chair to the window, and stared at the
great liner going down to sea.
"Lord, lord!" he murmured. Then he smiled and chuckled. Some bright
morning he would have all New York by the ears, the police running
round in circles, and the chiefs of the rival sheets tearing their
hair. What a story! Four columns on the first page, and two whole
pages Sunday.... And all of a sudden he ceased to smile and chuckle.
In the living room of the Countess Olga Perigoff's apartment the
mistress lay reading on the divan. There was no cigarette between her
well shaped lips, for she was not the accepted type of adventuress. In
fact, she was not an adventuress; she was really the Countess Perigoff.
Her maiden name had been Olga Pushkin; but more of that later.
When Braine came in he found her dreaming with half-closed eyes. He
flourished an evening newspaper.
"Olga, even the best of us make mistakes. Here, just glance over this."
The Russian accepted the newspaper and read the heading indicated:
"Aeronaut picked up far out at sea. Slips ashore from tramp steamer.
Had five thousand in cash in his pockets."
"Hargreave escaped!"
"Not necessarily," she replied. "If it was Hargreave he would have had
more than five thousand in his pockets. My friend, I believe it an
attempt to fool you; or it is another man entirely." She clicked her
teeth with the tops of her polished nails.
"There are two young women in the house. What the deuce can that mean?"
"Two young women? Oh! then everything's as simple as daylight.
Katrina Pushkin, my cousin, had a child."
"Child? Hargreave had a child? What do you mean by keeping this fact
from me?" he stormed.
"It was useless till this moment. He probably sent for her yesterday;
but in his effort to escape had to turn her over to his butler. We
shall soon learn whether Hargreave is dead or alive. We can use the
child to bring him back."
The anger went out of his eyes. "You're a wonder, Olga."
"But you should have gone with Vroon last night. He does everything
just as you tell him. When they reported that Hargreave had visited
Orts' hangar you ought to have prepared against such a coup as flight
through the air."
"I admit it. But a daughter! Well, I can bring him back," with a
sinister laugh. "By the Lord Harry, I have him in my hands this time,
that is, if this girl turns out to be his daughter. A million? Two,
three, all he has in the world. I want you to pay a visit right away.
Watch the butler, Jones. He'll lie, of course; but note how he treats
the girl; and if you get the chance look around the walls for a secret
panel. He might not have carried away the cash at all, only enough for
his immediate needs, which would account for that five thousand on the
man picked up at sea. If I could only get inside that house for an
hour!"
"I believe I'll call at once. Leo, was Hargreave the man's real name?"
Braine laughed. "That is of no vital consequence. He will be
Hargreave till the end of the chapter, dead or alive. You can tell me
the news at dinner to-night."
So, later, when the butler accepted her card at the door, loath as he
might be, there was nothing for him to do but admit her.
"Whom do you wish to see, madam?" stepping back into the shadow.
"Miss Hargreave. I'm an old friend of her mother's."
"There is no such person here."
"To whom, then, does this hat belong?" she asked quietly. She waved
her hand indolently toward the hall rack.
Jones' lips tightened. "That belongs to Miss Gray, a kind of protegee
of Mr. Hargreave's."
"Indeed! You have no objections to my seeing her? My maiden name was
Olga Pushkin, cousin to Katrina, wife of Stanley Hargreave. I am, if
you will weigh the matter carefully, a kind of aunt."
To Jones it was as if ice had suddenly come into contact with his
heart's blood. But as he still stood in the shadow, she did not
observe the pallor of his face.
"If you will state exactly why you wish to see her, madam."
"You seem to possess authority?"
"Yes, madam, absolute authority."
Jones produced his document and presented it to her.
"There is no flaw in that," she agreed readily. "I wish to see the
child. I have told you why."
"Very well, madam." Why had they not telegraphed the child, even on
the train, to return to Farlow's. He knew nothing of this woman,
whether she was an enemy or a friend. He conducted his unwelcome guest
into the library.
"How did you know that she was here?" suddenly.
But she was ready. "I did not. But the death of Mr. Hargreave brought
me. And that youthful hat in the hall was a story all its own. Later
I shall show you some papers of my own. You will have no cause to
doubt them. They have not the legal power of yours, but they would
find standing in any court."
Jones turned and went in search of Florence.
The countess lost no time in beginning her investigations, but she
wasted her time. There was no secret panel in evidence.
"Who is she?" asked Florence as she looked at the card. "Did my father
know countesses?"
"Yes," said Jones briefly. "Be very careful what you say to her.
Admit nothing. She claims to be a cousin of your mother. Perhaps."
"My mother?" Without waiting for any further advice from Jones, whom
Florence in her young years thought presuming upon his authority, she
ran downstairs to the library. Her mother, to learn some facts about
the mother of whom she knew nothing!
"You knew my mother?" she cried without ceremony,
Jones heard the countess say: "I did, my child; and heaven is witness
that you are the exact picture of her at your age. And I knew your
father."
Jones straightened, his hands shut tightly.
"Tell me about my father!"
The countess smiled. It was Katrina. Pushkin come to life, the same
impulsiveness. "I knew him but slightly. I was a mere child myself
when he used to pinch my cheeks. I met him again the other night, but
he did not recognize me; and I could not find it in my heart to awaken
his memory in a public restaurant."
Presently Jones came in to announce that two detectives requested to
see Florence. The two men entered, informing her that they had been
instructed to investigate the disappearance of Stanley Hargreave.
"Who are you, miss?"
"I am his daughter."
"Ah!"
One of the detectives questioned Florence minutely, while the other
wandered about the rooms, feeling the walls, using the magnifying
glass, turning back the rugs. Even the girl's pretty room did not
escape his scrutiny. By and by he returned to the library and beckoned
to his companion. The two conferred for a moment. One chanced to look
into the mirror. He saw the bright eyes of the countess gazing
intelligently into his.
[Illustration: THE PEACEFUL BUTLER ENTERED INTO THE FIELD OF ACTION]
"I'm afraid we'll have to ask you to accompany us to the station, miss."
"Why?"
"Some technicalities. We must have some proof of your right to be in
this house. So far as we have learned, Hargreave was unmarried. It
will take but a few minutes."
"And I will accompany you," said the countess. "We'll be back within
half an hour. I'll tell them what I know."
Jones, in the hall, caught sight of the reporter coming up the steps.
Here was some one he could depend upon.
"Why, Mr. Norton!"
The reporter eyed the countess in amazement.
"You look surprised. Naturally. I am a cousin of Miss Florence's
mother. You might say that I am her aunt. It's a small world, isn't
it?" But if wishing could poison, the reporter would have died that
moment.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?" one of the detectives
demanded.
"I am going to ask that very question of you," said Norton urbanely.
"We are from headquarters," replied one, showing his badge.
"What headquarters? What are they asking you to do?" he said to
Florence.
"They say I must go to the police station with them."
"Not the least in the world," laughed the reporter. "You two clear out
of here as fast as your rascally legs can carry you. I don't know what
your game is, but I do know every reputable detective in New York, and
you don't belong."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed the countess; "do you mean to say that these
men are not real detectives?"
"This girl goes to the police station, young man. So much the worse
for you if you meddle. Take yourself off!"
"All in good time."
"Here, Jenner, you take charge of the girl. I'll handle this guy. He
shall go to the station, too."
What followed would always be vividly remembered by Florence, fresh
from the peace and happiness of her school life. Norton knocked his
opponent down. He rose and for a moment the room seemed full of legs
and arms and panting men. A foot tripped up Norton and he went down
under the bogus detective. He never suspected that the tripping foot
was not accidental. He was too busy.
The other man dragged Florence toward the hall, but there the peaceful
butler entered into the field of action with a very unattractive
automatic. The detective threw up his hands.
The struggle went on in the library. A trick of jiu-jutsu brought
about the downfall of Norton's man, and Norton ran out into the hall to
aid Jones. He searched the detective's pockets and secured the
revolver. The result of all this was that the two bogus detectives
soon found themselves in charge of two policemen, and they were marched
off to the station.
"Your advent was most providential, Mr. Norton," said Jones in his
usual colorless tones.
"I rather believe so. Why don't you pack up and clear out for a while?"
"I am stronger in this house than elsewhere," answered the butler
enigmatically.
"Well, you know best," said the reporter.
The countess was breathing rapidly. No, on second thought she had no
wish to throw her arms about the reporter's neck and kiss him.