When all three finally met at the Hargreave home Florence suddenly took
Jones by the shoulders and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Jones
started back, pale and disturbed.
Norton laughed. He did not feel the slightest twinge of jealousy, but
he was eaten up with envy, as the old wives say.
"You are wondering if I suspect the Countess Perigoff?" said Jones.
"I am." This man Jones was developing into a very remarkable
character. The reporter found himself side glancing at the thin, keen
face of this resourceful butler. The lobe of the man's left ear came
within range. Norton reached for a cigarette, but his hands shook as
he lit it. There was a peculiar little scar in the center of the lobe.
"Well," said Jones, "I can find no evidence that she has been concerned
in any of these affairs."
"You are suspicious?"
"Of everybody," looking boldly into the reporter's eyes.
"Of me?" smiling.
"Even of myself sometimes."
Conversation dropped entirely after this declaration.
"You're a taciturn sort of chap."
"Am I?"
"You are. But an agreement is an agreement, and while I'd like to
print this story, I'll not. We newspaper men seldom break our word."
Jones held out his hand.
"Sometimes I wish I'd started life right," said the reporter gloomily.
"A newspaper man is generally improvident. He never looks ahead for
to-morrow. What with my special articles to the magazines, I earn
between four and five thousand the year; and I've never been able to
save a cent."
"Perhaps you've never really tried," replied Jones, with a glance at
his companion. It was a good face, strong in outline; a little
careworn, perhaps, but free from any indications of dissipation. "If I
had begun life as you did, I'd have made real and solid use of the
great men I met. I'd have made financiers help me to invest my
earnings, or savings, little as they might be. And to-day I'd be
living on the income."
"You never can tell. Perhaps a woman might have made you think of
those things; but if you had remained unattached up to thirty-one, as I
have, the thought of saving might never have entered your head. A man
in my present condition, financially, has no right to think of
matrimony."
"It might be the saving of you if you met and married the right woman."
"But the right woman might be heiress to millions. And a poor devil
like me could not marry a girl with money and hang on to his
self-respect."
"True. But there are always exceptions to all rules in life, except
those regarding health. A healthy man is a normal man, and a normal
man has no right to remain single. You proved yourself a man this
afternoon, considering that you did not know I occupied the wheel seat.
Come to think it over, you really saved the day. You gave me the
opportunity of steering straight for the police station. Well,
good-by."
"Queer duck!" mused the reporter as, after telephoning, he headed for
his office. Queer duck, indeed! What a game it was going to be! And
this man Jones was playing it like a master. It did not matter that
some one else laid down the rules; it was the way in which they were
interpreted.
Braine heard of the failure. The Black Hundred was finding its stock
far below par value. Four valuable men locked up in the Tombs awaiting
trial, to say nothing of the seven gunmen gathered in at the old
warehouse. Braine began to suspect that his failures were less due to
chance than to calculation, that at last he had encountered a mind
which anticipated his every move. He would have recognized this fact
earlier had it not been that revenge had temporarily blinded him. The
spirit of revenge never makes for mental clarity.
There was a meeting that night of the Black Hundred. Four men were
told off, and they drew their chairs up to Vroon's table for
instructions. Braine sat at Vroon's elbow. These four men composed
the most dangerous quartet in New York City. They were as daring as
they were desperate. They were the men who held up bank messengers and
got away with thousands. They had learned to swoop down upon their
victims as the hawk swoops down upon the heron. The newspapers
referred to them as the "auto bandits," and the men took a deal of
pride in the furore they had created.
[Illustration: FOUR MEN WERE TOLD OFF]
Vroon went over the Hargreave case minutely; he left no detail
unexplained. Bluntly and frankly, the daughter of Stanley Hargreave
must be caught and turned over to the care of the Black Hundred. It
must be quick action. Four valuable members were in the Tombs. They
might or might not weaken under pressure. For the first time in its
American career the organization stood facing actual peril; and its one
possible chance of salvation lay in the fact that no one's face was
known to his neighbor. He, Vroon, and the boss alone knew who and what
each man was. But the plans, the ramifications of the organization
might become public property; and that would mean an end to an
exceedingly profitable business.
The daughter of Hargreave rode horseback early every morning. She
sought the country road. She was invariably attended by the riding
master of a school near by.
"You four will make your own plans."
"If she should be injured?"
"Avoid it if possible."
"We have a free hand?"
"Absolutely."
"We risk a bad fall from her horse if it's a spirited one."
"Pretend a breakdown in the road," interpolated Braine. "As they
approach, draw and order them to dismount. That method will prevent
any accident."
"We'll plan it somehow. It looks easy."
"Nothing is easy where that girl is concerned. A thousand eyes seem to
be watching her slightest move."
"We shan't leave anything to chance. How many days will you give us?"
"Seven. A failure, mind you, will prove unhealthy to all concerned,"
with a menace which made the four stir uneasily.
The telephone rang. Braine reached for the receiver.
"A man just entered the Hargreave house at the rear. Come at once,"
was the message.
"Is your car outside?" Braine asked.
"We are never without it."
"Then let us be off. No one will stop us for speeding on a side
street."
Fourteen minutes by the clock brought the car to a stand at the curb a
few houses below the Hargreave home. The men got out. The watcher ran
up.
"He is still inside," he whispered.
"Good! Spread out. If any one leaves that house, catch him. If he
runs too fast, shoot. We can beat the police."
The man obeyed, and the watcher ran back to his post. He was
desperately hoping the affair would terminate to-night. He was growing
weary of this eternal vigilance; and it was only his fear of the man
known as the boss that kept him at his post. He wanted a night to
carouse in, to be with the boys.
The man for whom they were lying in wait was seen presently to creep
cautiously round the side of the house. He hugged a corner and paused.
They could see the dim outline of his body. The light in the street
back of the grounds almost made a silhouette of him. By and by, as if
assured that the coast was clear, he stole down to the street.
"Halt!"
Instantly the prowler took to his heels. Two shots rang out. The man
was seen to stop, stagger, and then go on desperately.
"He's hit!"
By the time the men reached the corner they heard the rumble of a
motor. One dashed back to the car they had left standing at the curb.
He made quick work of the job, but he was not quick enough. Still,
they gave chase. They saw the car turn toward the city. But,
unfortunately for the success of the chase, several automobiles passed,
going into town and leaving it. Checkmate.
Braine was keen enough to-night.
"He is hit; whether badly or not remains to be seen. We can find that
out. Drive to the nearest drug store and get a list of hospitals.
It's a ten to one shot that we land him somewhere among the hospitals."
But they searched the hospitals in vain. None of them had that night
received a shooting case, nor had they heard one reported. The man had
been unmistakably hit. He would not have dared risk the loss of time
for a bit of play-acting. Evidently he had kept his head and sought
his lodgings. To call up doctors would be utter folly; for it would
take a week for a thorough combing. This was the second time the man
had got away.
"Perhaps I'm to blame," admitted Braine. "I should have advised Miles
to stalk him and pot him if he got the chance. There's a master mind
working somewhere back of all this, and it's time I woke up to the
fact. But you," turning to the auto bandits, "you men have your
instructions. More than that, you have been given a free rein. See
that you make good, or by the Lord Harry! I'll break the four of you
like pipestems."
"We haven't had a failure yet," spoke up one of the men, more
courageous than his companions.
"You are not holding up a bank messenger this trip. Remember that.
Drive me as far as Columbus Circle. Leave me on the side street,
between the lights, so I can take off this mask."
Later Braine sauntered into Pabst's and ordered a light supper. This
night's work, more than anything else, brought home to him the fact
that his luck was changing. For years he had proceeded with his shady
occupations without encountering any memorable failure. He moved in
the high world, quite unsuspected. He had written books, given
lectures, been made a lion of, all the while laughing in his sleeve at
the gullibility of human nature. But within the last two weeks he had
received serious checks. From now on he must move with the utmost
caution. Some one was playing his own game, waging warfare unseen. A
battle of wits? So be it; but Braine intended to play with rough wits,
and he wasn't going to care which way the sword cut.
He hated Stanley Hargreave with all the hatred of his soul; the hatred
of a man balked in love. And the man was alive, defying him; alive
somewhere in this city this very night, with a bullet under his skin.
"Is everything satisfactory, sir?" he heard the head waiter say.
"Satisfactory?" Braine repeated blankly.
"Yes, sir. You struck the table as though displeased."
"Oh!" Then Braine laughed relievedly. "If I struck the table, it was
done unconsciously. I was thinking."
"Beg pardon, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"No. Bring me the check."
"Your master gives riding lessons?"
The groom who had led the horse back from Hargreave's eyed his
questioner rather superciliously.
"Yes." The groom fondled the animal's legs.
"How much is it?"
"Twenty dollars for a ticket of five rides. The master is the fashion
up here. He doesn't cater to any but the best families."
"Pretty steep. Who was that young lady riding this morning with your
master?"
"That's the girl all the newspapers have been talking about," answered
the groom importantly.
"Actress?"
"Actress! I should say not. That young woman is the daughter of
Stanley Hargreave, the millionaire who was lost at sea. And it won't
be long before she puts her finger in a pie of four or five millions.
If you want any rides, you'll have to talk it over with the boss. He
may or may not take any more rides. You'd probably have to ride in the
afternoon, anyhow, as every nag is out in the morning."
"Where's the most popular road?"
"Toward the park; but Miss Hargreave always goes along the riverside
road. She doesn't like strangers about."
"Oh, I see. Well, I'll drop in this afternoon and see your master.
They say that riding is good for a torpid liver. Have a cigar?"
"Thanks."
The groom proceeded into the stables and the affable stranger took
himself off.
A free rein; they could work it to suit themselves. There wasn't the
least obstacle in the way. On the face of it, it appeared to be the
simplest job they had yet undertaken. To get rid of the riding master
in some natural way after he and the girl had started. It was like
falling off a log.
"Susan," said Florence, as she came into breakfast after her
exhilarating ride, "did you hear pistol shots last night?"
"I heard some noise, but I was so sleepy I didn't try to figure out
what it was."
"Did you, Jones?"
"Yes, Miss Florence. The shots came from the street. A policeman came
running up later and said he saw two automobiles on the run. But
evidently there wasn't anybody hurt. One has to be careful at night
nowadays. There are pretty bad men abroad. Did you enjoy the ride?"
"Very much. But there were some spots of blood on the walk near the
corner."
"Blood?" Jones caught the back of a chair to steady himself.
"Yes. So some one was hurt. Oh, let's leave this place!" impulsively.
"Let us go back to Miss Farlow's. You could find a place in the
village, Jones. But if I stay here much longer in this state of unrest
I shall lose faith in everything and everybody. Whoever my father's
enemies are, they do not lack persistence. They have made two attempts
against my liberty, and sooner or later they will succeed. I keep
looking over my shoulder all the time. If I hear a noise I jump."
"Miss Florence, if I thought it wise, you should be packed off to Miss
Farlow's this minute. But not an hour of the day or night passes
without this house being watched. I seldom see anybody about. I can
only sense the presence of a watcher. At Miss Farlow's you would be
far more like a prisoner than here. I could not accompany you. I am
forbidden to desert this house."
"My father's orders?"
Jones signified neither one way nor the other. He merely gazed
stolidly at the rug.
"That blood!" She sprang from her chair, horrified. "It was his! He
was here last night and they shot him! Oh!"
"There, there, Miss Florence! The man was only slightly wounded. He's
where they never will look for him." Then Jones continued, as with an
effort: "Trust me, Miss Florence. It would not pay to run away. The
whole affair would be repeated elsewhere. We might go to the other end
of the world, but it would not serve us in the least. It is not a
question of escape, but of who shall vanquish the other. There is
nothing to do but remain here and fight, fight, fight. We have put
four of them in the Tombs, to say nothing of the gunmen. That is what
we must do--put them in a safe place, one by one, till we reach the
master. Then only may we breathe in safety. But if they watch, so do
we. There is never a moment when help is not within reach, no matter
where you go. So long as you do not deceive me, no real harm shall
befall you. Don't cry. Be your father's daughter, as I am his
servant."
"I am very unhappy!" And Florence threw her arms around Susan and laid
her head upon her friend's shoulder.
"Poor child!" Susan, however, recognized the wisdom of Jones'
statements. They were safest here.
The morning rides continued. To the girl, who loved the open, it was
glorious fun. Those mad gallops along the roads, the smell of earth
and sea, the tingle in the blood, were the second best moments of the
day. The first? She invariably blushed when she considered what these
first best moments were. He was a brave young man, good to look at,
witty, and always cheerful. Why shouldn't she like him? Even Jones
liked him--Jones, who didn't seem to like anybody. It did not matter
whether he was wise or not; a worldly point of view was farthest from
her youthful thoughts. It was her own affair; her own heart.
Five days later, as she and the riding master were cantering along the
road, enjoying every bit of it, they heard the beat of hoofs behind.
They drew up and turned. A rider was approaching them at a run. It
was the head groom. The man stopped his horse in a cloud of dust.
"Sir, the stables are on fire."
"Fire?"
All the riding master's savings were invested in the stables. The fact
that he had solemnly promised never to leave Florence alone, and that
he had accepted a generous bonus slipped from his mind at the thought
of fire, a terrible word to any horseman. He wheeled and started off
at breakneck speed, his head groom clattering behind him.
Florence naturally wondered which of two courses to pursue: follow
them, when she would be perfectly helpless to aid them, or continue the
ride and save at least one horse from the terror of seeing flames. She
chose the latter. But she did not ride with the earlier zest. She
felt depressed. She loved horses, and the thought of them dying in
those wooden stables was horrifying.
The fire, however, proved to be incipient. But it was plainly
incendiary. Some one had set fire to the stables with a purpose in
view. Norton recognized this fact almost as soon as the firemen. He
had come this morning with the idea of surprising Florence. He was
going out on horseback to join her.
His spine grew suddenly cold. A trap! She had been left alone on the
road! He ran over to the garage, secured a car, and went humming out
toward the river road. A trap, and only by the sheerest luck had he
turned up in time.
Meantime Florence was walking her mount slowly. For once the scenery
passed unobserved. She was deeply engrossed with thoughts, some of
which were happy and some of which were sad. If only her father could
be with her she would be the happiest girl alive.
She was brought out of her revery by the sight of a man staggering
along the road ahead of her. Finally he plunged upon his face in the
road. Like the tender-hearted girl she was, she stopped, dismounted,
and ran to the fallen man to give him aid. She suddenly found her
wrists clasped in two hands like iron. The man rose to his feet,
smiling evilly. She struggled wildly but futilely.
"Better be sensible," he said. "I am stronger than you are. And I
don't wish to hurt you. Walk on ahead of me. It will be utterly
useless to scream or cry out. You can see for yourself that we are in
a deserted part of the road. If you will promise to act sensibly I
shan't lay a hand on you. Do you see that hut yonder, near the fork in
the road? We'll stop there. Now, march!"
[Illustration: "BETTER BE SENSIBLE," HE SAID]
She dropped her handkerchief, later her bracelet, and finally her crop,
in hope that these slight clues might bring her help. She knew that
Jones would hear of the fire, and, finding that she had not returned
with the riding master, would immediately start out in pursuit. She
was beginning to grow very fond of Jones, who never spoke unless spoken
to, who was always at hand, faithful and loyal.
From afar came the low rumble of a motor. She wondered if her captor
heard it. He did, but his ears tricked him into believing that it came
from another direction. Eventually they arrived at the hut, and
Florence was forced to enter. The man locked the door and waited
outside for the automobile which he was expecting. He was rather
dumfounded when he saw that it was coming from the city, not going
toward it.
It was Norton. The riderless horse told him enough; the handkerchief
and bracelet and crop led him straight for the hut.
The man before the hut realized by this time that he had made a
mistake. He attempted to re-enter the hut and prepare to defend it
till his companions hove in sight. But Florence, recognizing Norton,
held the door with all her strength. The man snarled and turned toward
Norton, only to receive a smashing blow on the jaw.
Norton flung open the door. "Into the car, Florence! There's another
car coming up the road. Hurry!"
It was not a long chase. The car of the auto bandits, looking like an
ordinary taxicab, was a high-powered machine, and it gained swiftly on
Norton's four-cylinder. The reporter waited grimly.
"Keep your head down!" he warned Florence. "I'm going to take a pot at
their tires when they get within range. If I miss I'm afraid we'll
have trouble. Under no circumstances attempt to leave this car. Here
they come!"
He suddenly leaned back and fired. It was only chance. The manner in
which the cars were lurching made a poor target for a marksman even of
the first order. Chance directed Norton's first bullet into the right
forward tire, which exploded. Going at sixty-odd miles an hour, they
could not stop the car in time to avoid fatality. The car careened
wildly and plunged down the embankment into the river.
Florence covered her eyes with her hands, and, quite unconscious of
what he was doing, Norton put his arms around her.