Braine crawled from his uncomfortable hiding place. His clothes were
soiled and damp, his hat was gone. By a hair's breadth he had escaped
the clever trap laid for him. Hargreave was alive, he had escaped;
Braine was as certain of this fact as he was of his own breathing. He
now knew how to account for the flickering light in the upper story of
the warehouse. His ancient enemy had been watching him all the time.
More than this, Hargreave and the meddling reporter were in collusion.
In the flare of lights at the end of the gun-play he had caught the
profile of the reporter. Here was a dangerous man, who must be watched
with the utmost care.
He, Braine, had been lured to commit an overt act, and by the rarest
good luck had escaped with nothing more serious than a cold chill and a
galling disappointment.
He crawled along the top of the pier, listening, sending his
dark-accustomed glance hither and thither. The sky in the east was
growing paler and paler. In and out among the bales of wool, bags of
coffee and lemon crates he slowly and cautiously wormed his way. A
watchman patrolled the office side of the warehouse, and Braine found
it possible to creep around the other way, thence into the street.
After that he straightened up, sought a second-hand shop and purchased
a soft hat, which he pulled down over his eyes.
He had half a dozen rooms which he always kept in readiness for such
adventures as this. He rented them furnished in small hotels which
never asked questions of their patrons. To one of these he went as
fast as his weary legs could carry him. He always carried the key.
Once in his room he donned fresh wearing apparel, linen, shoes, and
shaved. Then he proceeded down-stairs, the second-hand hat shading his
eyes and the upper part of his face.
At half past twelve Norton entered the Knickerbocker cafe-restaurant,
and the first person he noticed was Braine, reading the morning's
paper, propped up against the water carafe. Evidently he had just
ordered, for there was nothing on his plate. Norton walked over and
laid his hand upon Braine's shoulder. The man looked up with mild
curiosity.
"Why, Norton, sit down, sit down! Have you had lunch? No? Join me."
"Thanks. Came in for my breakfast," said Norton, drawing out the
chair. Braine was sitting with his back to the wall on the lounge-seat.
"I wonder if you newspaper men ever eat a real, true enough breakfast.
I should think the hours you lead would kill you off. Anything new on
the Hargreave story?"
"I'm not handling that," the reporter lied cheerfully. "Didn't want
to. I knew him rather intimately. I've a horror of dead people, and
don't want to be called upon to identify the body when they find it."
"Then you think they will find it?"
"I don't know. It's a strange mixup. I'm not on the story, mind you;
but I was in the locality of Duffy's warehouse late last night and fell
into a gunman rumpus."
"Yes, I read about that. What were they after?"
"You've got me there. No one seems to know. Some cock and bull story
about there being something valuable. There was."
"What was it? The report in this paper does not say."
"Ten thousand bags of coffee."
Braine lay back in his chair and laughed.
"If you want my opinion," said Norton, "I believe the gunmen were out
to shoot up another gang, and the police got wind of it."
"Don't you think it about time the police called a halt in this gunman
matter?"
"Oh, so long as they pot each other the police look the other way. It
saves a long trial and passage up the river. Besides, when they are
nabbed some big politician manages to open the door for them. Great is
the American voter."
"Take Mr. Norton's order, Luigi," said Braine.
"A German pancake, buttered toast and coffee," ordered the reporter.
"Man, eat something!"
"It's enough for me."
"And you'll go all the rest of the day on tobacco. I know something of
you chaps. I don't see how you manage to do it."
"Food is the least of our troubles. By the way, may I ask you a few
questions? Nothing for print, unless you've got a new book coming."
"Fire away."
"What do you know about the Countess Perigoff?"
"Let me see. H'm. Met her first about a year ago at a reception given
to Nasimova. A very attractive woman. I see quite a lot of her. Why?"
"Well, she claims to be a sort of aunt to Hargreave's daughter."
"She said something to me about that the other night. You never know
where you're at in this world, do you?"
The German pancake, the toast, the coffee disappeared, and the reporter
passed his cigars.
"The president visits town to-day and I'm off to watch the show. I
suppose I'll have to interview him about the tariff and all that rot.
When you start on a new book let me know and I'll be your press agent."
"That's a bargain."
"Thanks for the breakfast."
Braine picked up his newspaper, smoked and read. He smoked, yes, but
he only pretended to read. The young fool was clever, but no man is
infallible. He had not the least suspicion; he saw only the newspaper
story. Still, in some manner he might stumble upon the truth, and it
would be just as well to tie the reporter's hands effectually.
The rancor of early morning had been subdued; anger and quick temper
never paid in the long run, and no one appreciated this fact better
than Braine. To put Norton out of the way temporarily was only a wise
precaution; it was not a matter of spite or reprisal.
He paid the reckoning, left the restaurant, and dropped into one of his
clubs for a game of billiards. He drew quite a gallery about the
table. He won easily, racked his cue and sought the apartments of the
countess.
What a piece of luck it was that Olga had really married that old
dotard, Perigoff! He had left her a titled widow six months after her
marriage. But she had had hardly a kopeck to call her own.
"Olga, Hargreave is alive. He was there last night. But somehow he
anticipated the raid and had the police in waiting. The question is,
has he fooled us? Did he take that million or did he hide it? There
is one thing left--to get that girl. No matter where Hargreave is
hidden, the knowledge that she is in my hands will bring him out into
the open."
"No more blind alleys."
"What's on your mind?"
"She has never seen her father. She confessed to me that she has not
even seen a photograph of him."
There was a long pause.
"Do you understand me?" she asked.
"By the Lord Harry, I do! You've a head on you worth two of mine. The
very simplicity of the idea will win out for us. Some one to pose as
her father; a message handed to her in secret; dire misfortune if she
whispers a word to any one; that her father's life hangs upon the
secrecy; she must confide in no one, least of all Jones, the butler.
It all depends upon how the letter gets to her. Bred in the country,
she probably sleeps with her window open. A pebble attached to a note,
tossed into the window. I'll trust this to no one; I'll do it myself.
With the girl in our control the rest will be easy. If she really does
not know where the money is Hargreave will tell us. Great head, little
woman, great head. She does not know her father's handwriting?"
"She has never seen a scrap of it. Miss Farlow never showed her the
registered letters. The original note left on the doorstep with
Florence has been lost. Trust me to make all these inquiries."
"To-morrow night, then, immediately after dinner, a taxicab will await
her just around the corner. Grange is the best man I can think of.
He's an artist when it comes to playing the old-man parts."
"Not too old, remember. Hargreave isn't over forty-five."
"Another good point. I'm going to stretch out here on the divan and
snooze for a while. Had a devil of a time last night."
"When shall I wake you?"
"At six. We'll have an early dinner sent in. I want to keep out of
everybody's way. By-by!"
In less than three minutes he was sound asleep. The woman gazed down
at him in wonder and envy. If only she could drop to sleep like that.
Very softly she pressed her lips to his hair.
At eleven o'clock the following night the hall light in the Hargreave
house was turned off and the whole interior became dark. A shadow
crept through the lilac bushes without any more sound than a cat would
have made. Florence's window was open as the arch-conspirator had
expected it would be. With a small string and stone as a sling he sent
the letter whirling skilfully through the air. It sailed into the
girl's room. The man below heard no sound of the stone hitting
anything and concluded that it had struck the bed.
He waited patiently. Presently a wavering light could be distinguished
over the sill of the window. The girl was awake and had lit the
candle. This knowledge was sufficient for his need. The tragic letter
would do the rest, that is, if the girl came from the same pattern as
her father and mother--strong-willed and adventurous.
He tiptoed back to the lilacs, when a noise sent him close to the
ground. Half a dozen feet away he saw a shadow creeping along toward
the front door. Presently the shadow stood up as if listening. He
stooped again and ran lightly to the steps, up these to the door, which
he hugged.
Who was this? wondered Braine. Patiently he waited, arranging his
posture so that he could keep a lookout at the door. By and by the
door opened cautiously. A man holding a candle appeared. Braine
vaguely recognized Olga's description of the butler. The man on the
veranda suddenly blew out the light.
Braine could hear the low murmur of voices, but nothing more. The
conversation lasted scarcely a minute. The door closed and the man,
ran down the steps, across the lawn, with Braine close at his heels.
"Just a moment, Mr. Hargreave," he called ironically; "just a moment!"
The man he addressed as Hargreave turned with lightning rapidity and
struck. The blow caught Braine above the ear, knocking him flat. When
he regained his feet the rumble of a motor told him the rest of the
story.
By the dim light of her bedroom candle Florence read the note which had
found entrance so strangely and mysteriously into her room. Her
father! He lived, he needed her! Alive, but in dread peril, and only
she could save him! She longed to fly to him at once, then and there.
How could she wait till to-morrow night at eight? Immediately she
began to plan how to circumvent the watchful Jones and the careful
Susan. Her father! She slept no more that night.
"My Darling Daughter: I must see you. Come at eight o'clock to-morrow
night to 78 Grove Street, third floor. Confide in no one, or you seal
my death warrant.
"Your unhappy
"FATHER."
What child would refuse to obey a summons like this?
A light tap on the door startled her.
"Is anything the matter?" asked the mild voice of Jones.
"No. I got up to get a drink of water."
She heard his footsteps die away down the corridor. She thrust the
letter into the pocket of her dress, which lay neatly folded on the
chair at the foot of the bed, then climbed back into the bed itself.
She must not tell even Mr. Norton.
Was the child spinning a romance over the first young man she had ever
met? In her heart of hearts the girl did not know.
Her father!
It was all so terribly and tragically simple, to match a woman's mind
against that of a child. Both Norton and the sober Jones had
explicitly warned her never to go anywhere, receive telephone calls or
letters, without first consulting one or the other of them. And now
she had planned to deceive them, with all the cunning of her sex.
The next morning at breakfast there was nothing unusual either in her
appearance or manners. Under the shrewd scrutiny of Jones she was just
her every-day self, a fine bit of acting for one who had yet to see the
stage. But it is born in woman to act, as it is born in man to fight,
and Florence was no exception to the rule.
She was going to save her father.
She read with Susan, played the piano, sewed a little, laughed, hummed
and did a thousand and one things young girls do when they have the
deception of their elders in view.
[Illustration: SHE READ WITH SUSAN...]
All day long Jones went about like an old hound with his nose to the
wind. There was something in the air, but he could not tell what it
was. Somehow or other, no matter which room Florence went into, there
was Jones within earshot. And she dared not show the least impatience
or restiveness. It was a large order for so young a girl, but she
filled it.
She rather expected that the reporter would appear some time during the
afternoon; and sure enough he did. He could no more resist the desire
to see and talk to her than he could resist breathing. There was no
use denying it; the world had suddenly turned at a new angle,
presenting a new face, a roseate vision. It rather subdued his easy
banter.
"What news?" she asked.
"None," rather despondingly. "I'm sorry. I had hoped by this time to
get somewhere. But it happens that I can't get any farther than this
house."
She did not ask him what he meant by that.
"Shall I play something for you?" she said.
"Please."
He drew a chair beside the piano and watched her fingers, white as the
ivory keys, flutter up and down the board. She played Chopin for him,
Mendelssohn, Grieg and Chaminade; and she played them in a surprisingly
scholarly fashion. He had expected the usual schoolgirl choice and
execution; _Titania_, the _Moonlight Sonata_ (which not half a dozen
great pianists have ever played correctly), _Monastery Bells_, and the
like. He had prepared to make a martyr of himself; instead, he was
distinctly and delightfully entertained.
"You don't," he said whimsically, when she finally stopped, "you don't,
by any chance, know _The Maiden's Prayer_?"
She laughed. This piece was a standing joke at school.
"I have never played it. It may, however, be in the cabinet. Would
you like to hear it?" mischievously.
"Heaven forfend!" he murmured, raising his hands.
All the while the letter burned against her heart, and the smile on her
face and the gaiety on her tongue were forced. "Confide in no one,"
she repeated mentally, "or you seal my death warrant."
"Why do you shake your head like that?" he asked.
"Did I shake my head?" Her heart fluttered wildly. "I was not
conscious of it."
"Are you going to keep your promise?"
"What promise?"
"Never to leave this house without Jones or myself being with you."
"I couldn't if I wanted to. I'll wager Jones is out there in the hall
this minute. I know; it is all for my sake. But it bothers me."
Jones was indeed in the hall, and when he sensed the petulance in her
voice his shoulders sank despondently and he sighed deeply if silently.
At a quarter to eight Florence, being alone for a minute, set fire to a
veil and stuffed it down the register.
"Jones," she called excitedly, "I smell something burning!"
Jones dashed into the room, sniffed, and dashed out again, heading for
the cellar door. His first thought was naturally that the devils
incarnate had set fire to the house. When he returned, having, of
course, discovered no fire, he found Florence gone. He rushed into the
hall. Her hat was missing. He made for the hall door with a speed
which seemed incredible to the bewildered Susan's eyes. Out into the
street, up and down which he looked. Far away he discovered a
dwindling taxicab. The child was gone.
In the house Susan was answering the telephone, talking incoherently.
"Who is it?" Jones whispered, his lips white and dry.
[Illustration: "WHO IS IT?" WHISPERED JONES, HIS LIPS WHITE AND DRY]
"The countess...." began Susan.
He took the receiver from her roughly.
"Hello, who is it?"
"This is Olga Perigoff. Is Florence there?"
"No, madam. She has just stepped out for a moment. Shall I tell her
to call you when she returns?"
"Yes, please. I want her and Susan and Mr. Norton to come to tea
to-morrow. Good-by."
Jones hung up the receiver, sank into a chair near by and buried his
face in his hands.
"What is it?" cried Susan, terrified by the haggardness of his face.
"She's gone! My God, those wretches have got her! They've got her!"
Florence was whirled away at top speed. Her father! She was actually
on the way to her father, whom she had always loved in dreams, yet
never seen.
Number 78 Grove Street was not an attractive place, but when she
arrived she was too highly keyed to take note of its sordidness. She
was rather out of breath when she reached the door of the third flat.
She knocked timidly. The door was instantly opened by a man who wore a
black mask. She would have turned then and there and flown but for the
swift picture she had of a well-dressed man at a table. He lay with
his head upon his arms.
"Father!" she whispered.
The man raised his careworn face, so very well done that only the
closest scrutiny would have betrayed the paste of the theater. He
arose and staggered toward her with outstretched arms. But the moment
they closed about her Florence experienced a peculiar shiver.
"My child!" murmured the broken man. "They caught me when I was about
to come to you. I have given up the fight."
A sob choked him.
What was it? wondered the child, her heart burning with the misery of
the thought that she was sad instead of glad. Over his shoulder she
sent a glance about the room. There was a sofa, a table, some chairs
and an enormous clock, the face of which was dented and the hands
hopelessly tangled. Why, at such a moment, she should note such
details disturbed her. Then she chanced to look into the cracked
mirror. In it she saw several faces, all masked. These men were
peering at her through the half-closed door behind her.
"You must return home and bring me the money," went on the wretch who
dared to perpetrate such a mockery. "It is all that stands between me
and death."
Then she knew! The insistent daily warnings came home to her. She
understood now. She had deliberately walked into the spider's net.
But instead of terror an extraordinary calm fell upon her.
"Very well, father, I will go and get it." Gently she released herself
from those horrible arms.
"Wait, my child, till I see if they will let you go. They may wish to
hold you as hostage."
When he was gone she tried the doors. They were locked. Then she
crossed over to the window and looked out. A leap from there would
kill her. She turned her gaze toward the lamp, wondering.
The false father returned, dejectedly.
"It is as I said. They insist upon sending some one. Write down the
directions I gave to you. I am very weak!"
"Write down the directions yourself, father; you know them better than
I." Since she saw no escape, she was determined to keep up the tragic
farce no longer.
"I am not your father."
"So I see," she replied, still with the amazing calm.
Braine, in the other room, shook his head savagely. Father and
daughter; the same steel in the nerves. Could they bend her? Would
they break her? He did not wish to injure her bodily, but a million
was always a million, and there was revenge which was worth more to him
than the money itself. He listened, motioning to the others to be
silent.
"Write the directions," commanded the scoundrel, who discarded the
broken-man style.
"I know of no hidden money."
"Then your father dies this night." Grange put a whistle to his lips.
"Sign, write!"
"I refuse!"
"Once more. The moment I blow this whistle the men in the other room
will understand that your father is to die. Be wise. Money is
nothing--life is everything."
"I refuse!" Even as she had known this vile creature to be an impostor
so she knew that he lied, that her father was still free.
Grange blew the whistle. Instantly the room became filled with masked
men. But Florence was ready. She seized the lamp and hurled it to the
floor, quite indifferent whether it exploded or went out. Happily for
her, it was extinguished. At the same moment she cast the lamp she
caught hold of a chair, remembering the direction of the window. She
was superhumanly strong in this moment. The chair went true. A crash
followed.
"She has thrown herself out of the window!" yelled a voice.
Some one groped for the lamp, lit it and turned in time to see Florence
pass out of the room into that from which they had come. The door
slammed. The surprised men heard the key click.
She was free. But she was no longer a child.