If the truth is to be told, Jones was as deeply chagrined over the
outcome of the counterfeit deal as was Braine. They had both failed
signally to reach the goal sought. But this time the organization had
broken even with Jones, and this fact disturbed the butler. It might
signify that the turning point had been reached, and that in the future
the good luck might swing over to the side of the Black Hundred. Jones
redoubled his cautions, reiterated his warnings, and slept less than
ever. Indeed, as he went over the ground he conceded a point to the
Black Hundred. He would no longer be able to keep tab on the
organization. They had deserted their former quarters absolutely. The
agent of whom they had leased the building knew nothing except that he
would have to repair the place. The rent had been paid a year in
advance, as it had been these last eight years. He had dealt through
an attorney who knew no more of his clients than the agent. So it will
be seen that Jones had in reality received a check.
More than all this, it would give his enemies renewed confidence; and
this was a deeper menace than he cared to face. But he went about his
affairs as usual, giving no hint to any one of the mental turmoil which
had possession of him.
It is needless to state Norton did not scoop his rivals on the
counterfeit story. But he set to work exploring the cellar of the
gutted building, and in one corner he found a battered die. He turned
this over to the secret service men. There was one man he wanted to
find--Vroon. This man, could he find him, should be made to lead him,
Norton, to the new stronghold. He saw the futility of trying to trap
Braine by shadowing him. He desired Braine to believe that his escape
from the freighter had been a bit of wild luck and not a preconceived
plan. Braine was out of reach for the present, so he began to search
for the man Vroon. He haunted the water front saloons for a week
without success.
He did not know that it was the policy of the Black Hundred to lay low
for a month after a raid of such a serious character. So the Hargreave
menage had thirty days of peace; always watched, however. For Braine
never relaxed his vigilance in that part of the game. He did not care
to lose sight of Jones, who he was positive was ready for flight if the
slightest opportunity offered itself.
Norton went back to the primrose paths of love; and sometimes he would
forget all about such a thing as the Black Hundred. So the summer days
went by, with the lilacs and the roses embowering the Hargreave home.
But Norton took note of the fact that Florence was no longer the
light-hearted schoolgirl he had first met. Her trials had made a
serious woman of her, and perhaps this phase was all the more
enchanting to him, who had his serious side also. Her young mind was
like an Italian garden, always opening new vistas for his admiring gaze.
He went about his work the same as of old, interviewing, playing
detective, fattening his pay envelope by specials to the Sunday edition
and some of the lighter magazines. Sometimes he had vague dreams of
writing a play, a novel, and making a tremendous fortune like that chap
Manders, who only a few years ago had been his desk mate. He really
began the first chapter of a novel; but that has nothing to do with
this history.
All ready, then. The chess are once more on the board, and it is the
move of the Black Hundred.
The day was rather cloudy. Jones viewed the sky wearily. He could
hear Florence playing rather a cheerless nocturne by Chopin. Fourteen
weeks ago this warfare had begun, and all he had accomplished, he and
those with him, was the death or incarceration of a few inconsequent
members of the Black Hundred. Always they struck and always he had to
ward off. He had always been on the defensive; and a defensive fighter
may last a long while, but he seldom wins; and the butler knew that
they must win or go down in bitter defeat. There was no half-way route
to the end; there could be no draw. It all reminded him of
thunderbolts; one man knew where they were going to strike.
The telephone rang; at the same moment Florence left the piano. She
stopped at the threshold.
"Hello! You? Where have you been? What has happened?"
"Who is it?" asked Florence, stepping forward.
Jones held up a warning hand, and Florence paused.
"Yes, yes; I hear perfectly. Oh! You've been working out their new
quarters? Good, good! But be very careful, sir. One never knows what
may happen. They have been quiet for some time now.... Ah! You can't
work the ceiling this time? ... Window over the way. Very good, sir.
But be careful."
The word "sir" caught Florence's attention. She ran to Jones and
seized him by the arm.
"Who was that?" she cried, as he turned away from the telephone.
"Why?"
"You said 'sir.'"
Jones' eyes widened. "I did?"
"Yes, and it's the first time I ever heard you use it over the
telephone. Jones, you were talking to my father!"
"Please, Miss Florence, do not ask me any questions. I can not answer
any. I dare not."
"But if I should command, upon the pain of dismissal?" coldly.
"Ah, Miss Florence," and Jones tapped his pocket, "you forget that you
can not dismiss me by word. I am legally in control here. I am sorry
that you have made me recall this fact to you."
Florence began to cry softly.
"I am sorry, very sorry," said the butler, torn between the desire to
comfort her and the law that he had laid down for himself. "It is very
gloomy to-day, and perhaps we are a little depressed by it. I am
sorry."
"Oh, I realize, Jones, that all this unending mystery and secrecy have
a set purpose at back. Only, it does just seem as if I should go mad
sometimes with waiting and wondering."
"And if the truth must be told, it is the same with me. We have to
wait for them to strike. Shall I get you something to read? I am
going down to the drug store and they have a circulating library."
"Get me anything you please. But I'd feel better with a little
sunshine."
"That's universal," replied Jones, going into the hall for his hat.
Had the telephone rung again at that moment it is quite probable that
the day would have come to a close as the day before had, monotonously.
But the ring came five minutes after Jones had left the house.
"Is this the Hargreave place?"
"Yes," said Florence. "Who is it?"
"This is Miss Hargreave talking?"
"Yes."
"This is Doctor Morse. I am at the Queen Hotel. Mr. Norton has been
badly hurt, and he wants you and Mr. Jones to come at once. We can not
tell just how serious the injury is. He is just conscious. Shall I
tell him you will come immediately?"
"Yes, yes!"
Florence snapped the receiver on the hook. She wanted to fly, fly. He
was hurt. How, when, where?
"Susan! Susan!" she called.
"What is it?" asked Susan, running into the room.
"Jim is badly hurt. He wants me to come at once. Oh, Susan! I've
been dreading something all day long." Florence struck the maid's
bell. "My wraps. You will go with me, Susan."
"Where, Miss Florence," asked the maid, alive to her duty.
"Where? What is that to you?" demanded Florence, who did not know that
this maid was a detective.
"Why not wait till Mr. Jones returns?" she suggested patiently.
"And let the man I love die?" vehemently.
"At least you will leave word where you are going, Miss Florence."
"The Queen Hotel. And if you say another word I'll discharge you.
Come, Susan."
There happened to be a taxicab conveniently near (as Vroon took care
there should be), and Florence at once engaged it. She did not see the
man hiding in the bushes. The two young women stepped into the taxicab
and were driven off. They had been gone less than five minutes when
Jones returned with his purchase, to find the house empty of its most
valuable asset. He was furious, not only at the maid, who, he
realized, was virtually helpless, but at his own negligence.
In the midst of his violent harangue the bell sounded. In his bones he
knew what was going to be found there. It was a letter on the back of
which was drawn the fatal black mask. With shaking fingers he tore
open the envelope and read the contents:
"Florence is now in our power. Only the surrender of the million will
save her. Our agent will call in an hour for an answer. THE BLACK
HUNDRED."
As a matter of fact, they had wanted Jones almost as badly as Florence,
but her desire for a book--some popular story of the day--had saved him
from the net. The letter had been written against this possibility.
Jones became cool, now that he knew just what to face. The Queen Hotel
meant nothing. Florence would not be taken there. He called up
Norton. It took all the butler's patience, however, as it required
seven different calls to locate the reporter.
Meantime the taxicab containing Florence and Susan spun madly toward
the water front. Here the two were separated by an effective threat.
Florence recognized the man Vroon and knew that to plead for mercy
would be a waste of time. She permitted herself to be led to a waiting
launch. Always when she disobeyed Jones something like this happened.
But this time they had cunningly struck at her heart, and all thought
of her personal safety became as nothing. For the present she knew
that she was in no actual physical danger. She was merely to be held
as a hostage. Would Susan have mentality enough to tell Jones where
the taxicab had stopped? She doubted. In an emergency Susan had
proved herself a nonentity, a bundle of hysterical thrills.
As a matter of fact, for once Florence's deductions were happily wrong.
When the chauffeur peremptorily deposited Susan on the lonely country
road, several miles from home, she ran hot-foot to the nearest
telephone and sent a very concise message home. Susan was becoming
acclimated to this strange, exciting existence.
Norton arrived in due time, and he and Jones were mapping out a plan
when Susan's message came.
[Illustration: THEY WERE MAPPING OUT A PLAN WHEN SUSAN'S MESSAGE CAME]
"Good girl!" said Jones. "She's learning. Can you handle this alone,
Norton? They want me out of the house again, for I believe they were
after me as well as Florence. Half an hour gone!"
"Trust me!" cried Norton.
And he ran out to his auto. It was a wild ride. Several policemen
shouted after him, but he went on unmindful. They could take his
license number a hundred times for all he cared. So they had got her?
They could wait till their enemy's vigilance slacked and then would
strike? But Susan! The next time he saw Susan he was going to take
her in his arms and kiss her. It might be a new sensation to kiss
Susan, always so prim and offish. Corey Street--that had been her
direction. They had put Florence in a motor boat at the foot of Corey
Street. He was perhaps half an hour behind.
Florence never opened her lips. She stared ahead proudly. She would
show these scoundrels that she was her father's daughter. They plied
her with questions, but she pretended not to hear.
"Well, pretty bird, we'll make you speak when the time comes. We've
got you this trip where we want you. There won't be any jumping
overboard this session, believe me. We've wasted enough time. We've
got you and we're going to keep you."
"Let her be," said Vroon morosely. "We'll put all the questions we
wish when we're at our destination." And he nodded significantly
toward the ships riding at anchor.
Florence felt her heart sink in spite of her abundant courage. Were
they going to take her to sea again? She had acquired a horror of the
sea, so big, so terrible, so strong. She had had an experience with
its sullen power. They had gone about four miles down when she looked
back longingly toward shore. Something white seemed to be spinning
over the water far behind. At first she could not discern what it was.
As she watched it it grew and grew. It finally emerged from the
illusion of a gigantic bird into the actuality of an every-day
hydroplane. Her heart gave a great bound. This flying machine was
coming directly toward the launch; it did not deviate a hair's breadth
from the line. Fortunately the men were looking toward the huge
freighter a quarter of a mile farther on, and from their talk it was
evident that the freighter was to be her prison--bound for where?
Nearer and nearer came the hydroplane. Was it for her?
It was impossible for the men not to take notice of the barking of the
engines at last.
"The thing's headed for us!"
Vroon stared under his palm. It was not credible that pursuit had
taken place so quickly. To test yonder man-bird he abruptly changed
the course of the launch. The hydroplane veered its course to suit.
Florence heard her name called faintly. One of the men drew his
revolver, but Vroon knocked it out of his hand.
"There's the police boat, you fool!"
"Jump!" a voice called to Florence.
She flung herself into the water without the slightest hesitation.
All this came about something after this fashion. When Norton arrived
at the foot of Corey Street a boatman informed him that a young woman
of his description had got into a fast motor boat and had gone down the
river.
"Was there any struggle?"
"Struggle? None that I could see. She didn't make no fuss about
going."
"Have you a launch?"
"Yes, but the other boat has half an hour's start, and I'd never catch
her in a thousand years. But there's a hydroplane a little above here.
You might interest the feller that runs it."
"Thanks!"
But the aviator would not listen.
"A life may hang in the balance, man!" expostulated Norton, longing to
pommel the stubborn man.
"What proof have I of that?"
Norton showed his card and badge.
"Oh, I see!" jeered the aviator. "A little newspaper stunt in which I
am to be the goat. It can't be done, Mr. Norton; it can't be done."
"A hundred dollars!"
"Not for five hundred," and the aviator callously turned away toward
the young woman with whom he had been conversing prior to Norton's
approach. The two walked a dozen yards away.
Norton had not served twelve years as a metropolitan newspaper man for
nothing. He approached the mechanics who were puttering about the
machine.
"How about twenty apiece?" he began.
"For what?" the men asked.
"For sending that paddle around a few times."
"Get into that seat, but don't touch any of those levers," one of them
warned. "Twenty is twenty, Jack, and the boss is a sorehead to-day
anyhow. Give her a shove for the fun of it."
It was a dumfounded aviator who saw his hydroplane skim the water and a
moment later sail into the air. These swift moving days a reporter of
the first caliber is supposed to be able to run railroad engines,
submarines, flying machines, conduct a war, able to shoot, walk, run,
swim, fight, think, go without food like a python, and live without
water like a camel. Norton had flown many times in the last four
years. At the moment he called out to Florence to jump he dropped to
the water with all the skill of an old-timer and took her aboard. And
he could not use a line of this exploit for his paper!
Jones heard the bell. It was the agent from the Black Hundred. He
smiled jauntily.
"Well, old fox, we've cornered you at last, haven't we? I want that
money, or Hargreave's daughter takes another sea voyage, and this time
she will not jump overboard. A million; and no more nonsense."
"Give me fifteen minutes to decide," begged Jones, hoping against hope.
"Fifteen seconds!"
"Then we can't do business. What! Give you a million, knowing you all
to be a pack of liars? Bring Miss Florence back and the money is
yours. We are tired of fighting." As indeed Jones really was. The
strain had been terrific for weeks.
"The money first. We don't lie any better than you do. Fork over.
You'll have to trust us. We have no use for the girl once we get the
cash."
"And you'll never touch a penny of it, you blackguard!" cried Norton
from the doorway.
The agent turned to behold the reporter and the girl. He did not stop
to ask questions, but bolted. He never got beyond the door, however.
"Always the small fry," sighed Jones. "And if I could have put my
hands on the money I'd have given it to him! Ah, girl, it doesn't do
any good to talk to you, does it?"
"But they told me he was dying!"
Jones shrugged.