Perhaps the most amusing phase of the secret agent's discomfiture was
the fact that neither Jones nor Florence had the least idea what had
happened. Florence regretted a hundred times during the evening that
she had not gone out to the summer house. It might really have been
her father. Her regret grew so deep in her that just before going to
bed she confessed to Jones.
"You received a letter of that sort and did not show it to me?" said
Jones, astonished.
"You warned me never to pay any attention to them."
"No; I warned you never to act upon them without first consulting me.
And we might have made a capture! My child, always show me these
things. I will advise you whether to tear them up or not."
"Jones, I believe you are going a little too far," said Florence
haughtily. "It might have been my father."
"Never in this world, Miss Florence. Still, I beg your pardon for
raising my voice. What I do and have done is only for your own sake.
There are two things I wish to impress upon your mind before I go.
This can be made a comedy or a terrible tragedy. You have already had
a taste of the latter; and each time you escaped because God was good
to us. But He is rarely kind to thoughtless people. They have to look
out for themselves. I am acting under orders; always remember that."
"Forgive me; I acted wrongly. But I'm so weary and tired of this
eternal suspicion of everybody and everything. Can't I go somewhere,
some place where I can have rest?"
"If I thought for a single moment it was possible to take you thousands
of miles from this spot, it would be done this very night. But this is
our fortress. So far it has been impregnable. The police are watching
it; and that prevents a general assault by the scoundrels. If we tried
to leave we would be followed; and they play the game exceedingly well.
Now, good night. We'll have you out of all this doubt and suspicion
one of these days. There will not be any past; that will be lopped off
as you'd lop a limb from a tree."
"Please let it be quick. I want to see my father."
Jones' eyes sparkled. "And you have my word that he wants to see you.
But I dare not tell you."
"Do you think he would object to Mr. Norton?" she asked, studying the
rug.
"In what capacity?" he countered, forcing her hand.
"As--as a husband?" bravely.
Jones in turn studied the patterns in the rug. "It is only natural for
a father to look high for his daughter's husband. But, after all, an
honest man is worth as much as anything I know of. And Norton is
honest and loyal and brave."
"Thank you, Jones. I intend to marry him when the time comes; so you
may as well prepare father for this eventuality."
"There is an old adage--"
But she interrupted him. "If you have a new adage, Jones, I shouldn't
mind hearing it. But I'm only just out of school, where old adages are
served from soup to pudding. Good night."
And Jones went to the rear of the house, chuckling.
In the passing it might well be observed that the Hargreave house had a
remarkable menage. There was a gardener, a cook, and a maid; and the
three of them reported to Jones each night before going to bed. They
were all three detectives from one of the greatest organizations in
America.
Finding themselves unable to lure Florence away from the environs of
the Hargreave home, the Black Hundred set some new machinery in motion.
They proposed to rid the house of every one in it by a perfectly
logical device. But the first step in this new move was going to be
extremely delicate and risky. It was no small adventure to enter the
Hargreave home; and yet this must be done. So finally "Spider" Beggs
was selected for the work. The man could practically walk over
crockery without causing a sound; he could climb a house by the window
ledges; and he could hold his breath like those professional tank
swimmers.
Three or four nights after the Paroff fiasco, Jones started the rounds,
putting out the lights. He left the one in the hall till the last, for
it was his habit, after having turned off that light, to stand by the
door for several minutes, watching. One never could tell.
On the other hand, "Spider" Beggs never approached a house till an hour
after the lights went out. Persons were likely to move about for some
minutes later; they might want something to eat, a drink of water. So
he remained hidden behind the summer house till long after midnight.
When at last he felt assured that all in the Hargreave house were
asleep, he moved out cautiously. Both his future and his pocketbook
depended upon the success of this venture. It took him ten minutes to
crawl from the summer house to the veranda, and to have detected this
approach Jones, had he been watching, would have needed a searchlight.
Beggs hugged the lattice-work for another ten minutes and then drew
himself up and wriggled to one of the windows. Here was an operation
that needed all his care and skill; to lift this window without sound.
But he was an old hand and windows with ordinary locks were playthings
under his deft touch. He raised the window, stepped over the sill into
the library, and crouched down. He did not close the window; house
thieves never do. They leave windows and doors open, because sooner or
later they have to make their escape that way.
[Illustration: HERE WAS AN OPERATION THAT NEEDED ALL HIS CARE AND SKILL]
Presently he stood up, flashed his torch, found the library shelves,
and tiptoed toward them. He then selected three or four volumes,
opened them at random and laid neat packages of money between the
leaves. It was not real money, but only a bank clerk could have told
that. This done, he moved toward the window again.
"Stop!" said Jones quietly.
"Spider" Beggs gasped, it was so unexpected; but at the same time
almost instinctively he plunged headlong through the window, and the
bullet which followed snipped a lock of his hair. He threw himself off
the veranda and scurried across the lawn, zigzag fashion. But no more
bullets followed.
Jones turned on the lights and investigated the room, but he could not
find anything disturbed, and naturally came to the conclusion that the
intruder had been interrupted before he had begun his work. He turned
off the lights and sat up the major part of the night. Nothing more
happened. Florence came down, but he sent her back to bed, explaining
that some one had attempted to enter the house and he had taken a shot
at him.
"Spider" Beggs had a letter to write. He was in high feather. He had
tackled a difficult job and had come away without a scratch. But he
had the misfortune to write his letter to the secret service officials
in a hotel often frequented by Norton. And so Jim, on finishing his
own letter, blotted it and casually glanced at the blotter. A single
word caught his eye. Being an alert newspaper man, always on the hunt
for stories, he examined the blotter with care. It was an easy matter
for him to read writing backward, having fooled away many an hour in
the composing rooms. The word which had awakened the reportorial sense
in him was "counterfeit." He held the blotter toward the mirror and
read enough to satisfy himself that the Black Hundred had become active
once more. And this was one of the best ideas they had yet conceived.
[Illustration: HE EXAMINED THE BLOTTER WITH CARE]
Hargreave had always been something of a mystery to his neighbors.
Where he had lived in other days was unknown; neither had any one the
remotest idea from what source his riches had been obtained. And
nothing was known of Jones or the daughter. It was a very shrewd
method of clearing every one out of the house and leaving it to be
examined at leisure. And he had fallen upon this thing; he, Norton,
all because his tailor had written him a sharp note about his bill and
he had been provoked to reply in kind! Counterfeit money. There was
quite a flurry these days over certain issues of spurious paper. It
was so good that only experts could detect it. There were two plates,
one for a ten and another for a twenty. For a while he was pulled
between duty and love. Well, it would only add another interesting
chapter to the general story when he published it. He started out to
Riverdale to acquaint Jones with the discovery.
"Humph!" said Jones; "not a bad idea this. So that's what the sneak
was doing here last night. I've been wondering and wondering. Let's
have a look."
He went through the books and at length came across the three volumes.
These held a thousand in excellent counterfeit.
"Mighty good work that. What are you going to do?" asked the reporter.
Jones rubbed his chin reflectively. "How long may a counterfeiter be
sent up?"
"Anywhere from ten to twenty years."
"That will serve. My boy, this time we'll go and take Mr. Black
Hundred right in his cubby-hole."
"You know where it is?"
"Every nook and corner of it. Now you go at once to the chief of the
local branch of the secret service and put the matter to him frankly.
I, Florence, Susan, and the rest of us must be arrested. The wretches
must believe that the house is empty. They'll rove about fruitlessly
and will return to their den to report the success of the coup. All
the while you and some detectives will be in hiding up-stairs,
dictagraph and all that. When the time comes you will follow. This
will not reach the heads, perhaps, but it will demoralize the
organization in such a way as to make it helpless for several months to
come. There is a tunnel from the stables to this house."
"What, a tunnel?"
"Yes, Mr. Hargreave had it built several years ago. I don't know what
his idea was; possibly he anticipated an event like this. You and your
men will find entrance by this method. It can be done without exciting
the suspicions of the watchers."
"Looks as if my yarn wasn't going to be delayed so long after all.
Jones, you ought to have been in the secret service yourself,"
admiringly.
Jones smiled and shrugged. "I am perfectly satisfied with my lot--or
would be if the Black Hundred could be wiped out of existence."
"I'll see the secret service people at once. I stand in well with them
all."
"And good luck to you. We'll need good luck."
Norton was welcomed cordially by the chief. The secret service men
trusted him and told him lots of tales that never saw light on the
printed page. The reporter went directly to the point of his story,
without elaboration, and the chief smiled and handed him the original
letter.
"Norton, I've been after this gang of counterfeiters for months and
they are clever beyond words. I've never been able to get anywhere
near their presses. And for a moment I thought this note was from a
squealer. I've a dozen men scouring the country. They find the bogus
notes, but never the men who pass them. You see, it's new stuff. I
know what all of the old-timers are at; none of them has had a hand in
this issue. Some foreigners, I take it, under the leadership of a man
I'd very much like to know. Now, what's your scheme?"
Jim outlined it briefly.
"It all depends," said the chief, "upon the fact that they will be
impatient. If they have the ability to wait, we lose. But we can
afford to risk the chance. The man who wrote this letter is not a
counterfeiter. He's an old yeggman. We haven't heard anything of him
lately. We tried to corner him on a post-office job, but he slipped
by. He may be a stool. Anyhow, I'll draw him in somehow."
"There'll be some excitement."
"We're used to that; you too. All we've got to do is to locate this
man Beggs. There are signs of spite in this letter. Very well played,
if you want my opinion. What's this Black Hundred?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell just yet. It's a strange game; half
political, half blackmail. It's a pretty strong organization. But if
they're back of this counterfeiting, there's a fine chance of landing
them all."
Here the chief's assistant came in. "Got Beggs on the wire. Says
he'll conduct you to the home if you'll promise him immunity for some
other offenses."
"Tell him he shall have immunity on the word of the chief. But also
say that he must come to see me in person."
"All right, sir."
"I don't believe it would be wise for Beggs to see me here. I gave him
a good send-off--Sing Sing--five years ago. He may recollect," said
Norton.
"Suit yourself about that. Only, keep in communication with me by
telephone and I'll tip you off as to when the raid shall take place.
Lucky you came in. I should have honestly gone there and arrested
innocent people, and they would have had a devil of a time explaining.
It would have taken them at least a week to clear themselves. That
would leave the house empty all that time."
Norton did not reply, but he put the blotter away carefully. There was
no getting away from the fact, but the god of luck was with him.
"Do you know what's back of it all?"
"I can't tell you any more than I have," said Norton.
"Then I pass. I know you well enough. If you've made up your mind not
to talk a man couldn't get anything out of you with a can-opener. And
that's why we trust you, my boy. Don't forget the telephone."
"I shan't. So long."
That same night Braine paid the Russian woman a brief visit.
"I think that here's where we go forward. The secret service will raid
the house to-morrow and then for a few days we'll roam about as we
bally please. I'm hanged if I don't have every plank torn up and the
walls pulled down. More and more I'm convinced that the money is in
that house."
"Don't be too confident," warned Olga. "So many times we have been
tripped up when everything seemed in our hands. The house should be
guarded but not entered for a day or two; at least not till after the
raid is cold. I'm beginning to see traps everywhere."
"Nonsense! Leave it to me. We shan't stick our heads inside the
Hargreave house till we are dead certain that it is absolutely empty.
Olga, you're a gem. I don't think Russia will bother us for a while.
Eh? Paroff will not dare tell how he was flimflammed. The least he
can do to save his own skin is to say that we are fully capable of
taking care of ourselves."
Olga laughed. "To think of his writing a note like that! Florence
would have recognized--and no doubt did--a palpable attempt to play an
old game twice."
"How does she act toward you?"
"Cordial as ever; and yet..."
"Yet what?"
"I thought her an ordinary schoolgirl, and yet every once in a while
she makes what you billiard players call a professional shot. What
matter? So long as they do not shut the door in my face, I ask nothing
more. But do you want my opinion? I feel it in my bones that
something will go wrong to-morrow."
"Good lord, are you losing your nerve?" cried Braine impatiently. "The
secret service has the warning; they find the green stuff, and Jones &
Co. will mog off to the police station. And there'll be a week of red
tape before they are turned loose again. They'll dig into Hargreave's
finances and all that. We'll have all the security in the world to
find out if the money is in the house or not. Why worry?"
"It's only the way I feel. There is something uncanny in the
regularity of that girl's good luck."
"Ah, but we're not after her this time; it's the whole family."
"The servants too?"
"Everybody in the house will be under suspicion."
"And can you trust Beggs?"
"His life is in the hollow of my hand. You can always trust a man when
you hold the rope that's around his neck."
Still the frown did not leave Olga's brow. With all her soul she
longed to be out of this tangle. It had all looked so easy at the
start; yet here they were, weeks later, no further forward than at the
beginning, and added to this they had paid much in lives and money.
Well, if she would be fool enough to love this man she must abide with
the consequences. She wanted him all by herself, out of danger, in a
far country. He might tire, but she knew in her heart that she never
would. This was her one great passion, and while her mode of living
was not as honest as might be, her love was honest enough and
unswerving, though it was not gilded by the pleasant fancies of youth.
"Of what are you thinking?" he asked when he concluded that the pause
had been long enough.
"You."
"H'm. Complimentary?"
"No; just ordinary every-day love."
"Ah, Olga, why the deuce must you go and fall in love with a bundle of
ashes like myself? Ashes, and bitter ashes, too. Sometimes I regret.
But the regretting only seems to make me all the more savage. What
opium and dope are to other men, danger and excitement are to me. It
is not written that I shall die in bed. I have told you that already.
There is no other woman--now. And I do love you after a fashion, as a
man loves a comrade. Wait till this dancing bout is over and I may
talk otherwise. And now I am going to shake hands and hobnob with the
elite--beautiful word! And while I bow and smirk and crack witticisms,
I and the devil will be chuckling in our sleeves. But this I'll tell
you, while there's a drop of blood in my veins, a breath in my body,
I'll stick to this fight if only to prove that I'm not a quitter."
He caught her suddenly in his arms, kissed her, ran lightly to the
door, and was gone before she could recover from her astonishment.
The affair went smoothly, without a hitch. Norton and his men gained
the house through the tunnel without attracting the least attention.
The Black Hundred, watching the front and rear of the house, never
dreamed that there existed another mode of entrance or that there was a
secret cabinet room.
Half an hour later the head of the secret service, accompanied by his
men, together with "Spider" Beggs, who was in high feather over his
success, arrived, demanded admittance, and went at the front of the
business at once.
"Your name is Jones?" began the chief.
The butler nodded, though his face evinced no little bewilderment at
the appearance of these men.
"What is it you wish, sir?"
"I am from the secret service and I have it from a pretty good source
that there is counterfeit money hidden in this house. More than that,
I can put my hand on the very place it is hidden."
"That is impossible, sir," declared Jones indignantly.
"I am an old hand, Mr. Jones. It will not do you a bit of good to put
on that bold front."
Beggs smiled. How was he to know that this was a comedy set especially
for his benefit?
"I should like to see that money," said Jones, not quite so bravely.
"Come with me," said the secret service man. "Where's the library?"
"Beyond that door, sir."
The chief beckoning to his men, entered the library, went directly to a
certain shelf, extracted three volumes, and there lay the money in
three neat packages.
"Good heavens!" gasped Jones.
"I shall have to request you and the family to accompany me to the
station."
"But it is all utterly impossible, sir! I know nothing of that money
nor how it got there. It's a plot. I declare on my oath, sir, that I
am innocent, that Miss Florence and her companion know nothing about
it."
"You will have to tell that to the federal judge, sir. My duty is to
take you all to the station. It would be just as well not to say
anything more, sir."
"Very well; but some one shall smart for this outrage."
"That remains to be seen," was the terse comment of the secret service
man.
He led his prisoners away directly.
Norton and his men had to wait far into the night. The Black Hundred
did not intend to make any mistake this time by a hasty move. At
quarter after ten they descended. Braine was not with them. This was
due to the urgent request of Olga, who still had her doubts. The men
rioted about the house, searching nooks and corners, examining floors
and walls, opening books, pulling out drawers, but they found nothing.
They talked freely, and the dictagraph registered every word. The
printing plant, which had so long defied discovery, was in the cellar
of the house occupied by the Black Hundred. Norton and his men
determined to follow and raid the building. And the reporter promised
himself a good front-page story without in any way conflicting with his
promises to Jones.
[Illustration: THE MEN RIOTED ABOUT THE HOUSE SEARCHING NOOKS AND
CORNERS]
Events came to pass as they expected. The trailing was not the easiest
thing. Norton knew about where the building was, but he could not go
to it directly. He was quite confident that its entrance was identical
with that which had the trap door through which he had been flung that
memorable day when he had been shanghaied.
When they reached the building he warned the men to hug the wall to the
stairs. The trap yawned, but no one was hurt. They scampered up the
stairs like a lot of eager boys; broke the door in--to find the weird
executive chamber dark and empty and an acrid smoke in their nostrils.
This latter grew stifling as they blundered about in the dark. By luck
Norton found the exit and called to the men to follow. They saw Beggs
at the top of the stairway and called out to him to surrender. He held
up his hands and the stairs collapsed. Real fire burst out and Norton
and his companions had a desperate battle with flame and smoke to gain
the street.
The fire was put out finally, but there was nothing in the ruins to
prove that there had been a counterfeiting den there. There was,
however, at least one consoling feature: in the future the Black
Hundred would have to hold their star-chamber elsewhere.
It was checkmate; or, rather, it was a draw.