It will be remembered that the Countess Olga had darted up the stairs
during the struggle between Braine and his captors. The police who had
followed her were recalled to pursue one of the lesser rogues. This
left Olga free for a moment. She stole out and down as far as the
landing.
Servan, the Russian agent, stood waiting for the taxi-cab to roll up to
the porte-cochere for himself, Braine and Vroon. Norton had taken
Florence by the hand, ostensibly to conduct her to the million.
Suddenly Braine made a dash for liberty. Norton rushed after him.
Just as he reached Braine, a shot rang out. Braine whirled upon his
heels and crashed to the floor.
Olga, intent upon giving injury to Norton, who she regarded equally
with Hargreave as having brought about the downfall, had hit her lover
instead. With a cry of despair she dashed back into Florence's room,
quite ready to end it all. She raised the revolver to her temple,
shuddered, and lowered the weapon: so tenaciously do we cling to life!
Below, they were all quite stunned by the suddenness of the shot.
Instantly they sought the fallen man's side, and a hasty examination
gave them the opinion that the man was dead. Happily a doctor was on
the way, Servan having given the call, as one of the Black Hundred had
been wounded badly.
[Illustration: INSTANTLY THEY SOUGHT THE FALLEN MAN'S SIDE]
But what to do with that mad woman up-stairs? Hargreave advised them
to wait. The house was surrounded; she could not possibly escape save
by one method, and perhaps that would be the best for her. Hargreave
looked gravely at Norton as he offered this suggestion. The reporter
understood: the millionaire was willing to give the woman a chance.
"And you are my father?" said Florence, still bewildered by the amazing
events. "But I don't understand yet!" her gaze roving from the real
Jones to her father.
"I don't doubt it, child," said Hargreave. "I'll explain. When I
hired Jones here, who is really Jedson of the Scotland Yard, I did so
because we looked alike when shaven. It was Jedson here who escaped by
the balloon; it was Jedson who returned the five thousand to Norton,
who watched the countess' apartment; it was Jedson who was wounded in
the arm. I myself guarded you, my child. Last night, unbeknown to
you, I left and the real Jones--for it is easier to call him
that!--took my place."
"And I never saw the difference!" exclaimed Florence.
"That is natural," smiled her father. "You were thinking of Norton
here instead of me. Eh?"
Florence blushed.
"Well, why not? Here, Norton!" The millionaire took Florence's hand
and placed it in the reporter's. "It seems that I've got to lose her
after all. Kiss her, man; in heaven's name, kiss her!"
And Norton threw his arms around the girl and kissed her soundly,
careless of the fact that he was observed by both enemies and friends.
[Illustration: A QUICK CLUTCH AND THE POLICEMAN HAD HER BY THE WRIST]
Suddenly the policeman who had been standing by the side of Braine ran
into the living-room.
"He's alive! Braine's alive; he just stirred."
"What?" exclaimed Norton and Hargreave in a single breath.
"Yes, sir! I saw his hands move. It's a good thing we sent for a
doctor. He ought to be along about now."
Even as he spoke the bell rang: and they all surged out into the hall,
forgetting for the moment all about the million. Olga hadn't killed
the man, then? The doctor knelt beside the stricken man and examined
him. He shrugged.
"Will he live?"
"Certainly. A scalp wound, that laid him out for a few moments. He'll
be all right in a few days. He was lucky. A quarter of an inch lower,
and he'd have passed in his checks."
"Good!" murmured Servan. "So our friend will accompany me back to good
Russia? Oh, we'll be kind to him during the journey. Have him taken
to the hospital ward at the Tombs. Now, for the little lady up-stairs."
A moment later Braine opened his eyes, and the policeman assisted him
to his feet. Servan, with a nod, ordered the police to help the
wounded man to the taxicab which had just arrived. Braine, now wholly
conscious, flung back one look of supreme hatred toward Hargreave; and
that was the last either Florence or her father ever saw of Braine of
the Black Hundred--a fine specimen of a man gone wrong through greed
and an inordinate lust for revenge.
The policeman returned to Hargreave.
"It's pretty quiet up-stairs," he suggested. "Don't you think, sir,
that I'd better try that bedroom door again?"
"Well, if you must," assented Hargreave reluctantly. "But don't be
rough with her if you can help it."
For Braine he had no sympathy. When he recalled all the misery that
devil's emissary had caused him, the years of hiding and pursuit, the
loss of the happiness that had rightfully been his, his heart became
adamant. For eighteen years to have ridden and driven and sailed up
and down the world, always confident that sooner or later that demon
would find him! He had lost the childhood of his daughter; and now he
was to lose her in her womanhood. And because of this implacable
hatred the child's mother had died in the Petrograd prison-fortress.
But what an enemy the man had been! He, Hargreave, had needed all his
wits constantly; he had never dared to go to sleep except with one eye
open. But in employing ordinary crooks, Braine had at length
overreached himself; and now he must pay the penalty. The way of the
transgressor is hard; and though this ancient saying looks dingy with
the wear and tear of centuries, it still holds good.
But he felt sorry for the woman up above. She had loved not wisely but
too well. Far better for her if she put an end to life. She would not
live a year in the God-forsaken snows of Siberia.
"My kind father!" said Florence, as if she could read his thoughts.
"I had a hard time of it, child. It was difficult to play the butler
with you about. The times that I fought down the desire to sweep you
up in my arms! But I kept an iron grip on that impulse. It would have
imperiled you. In some manner it would have leaked out; and your life
and mine wouldn't have been worth a button."
[Illustration: THE MYSTIC MILLION]
Florence threw her arms around him and held him tightly.
"That poor woman up-stairs!" she murmured. "Can't they let her go?"
"No, dear. She has lost, and losers pay the stakes. That's life.
Norton, you knew who I was all the time, didn't you?"
"I did; Mr. Hargreave. There was a scar on the lobe of your ear; and
secretly I often wondered at the likeness between you and the real
Jones. When I caught a glimpse of that ear, then I knew what the game
was. And I'll add that you played it amazingly well. The one flaw in
Braine's campaign was his hurry. He started the ball rolling before
getting all the phases clearly established in his mind. He was a brave
man, anyhow; and more than once he had me where I believed that prayers
only were necessary."
"And do you think that you can lead Florence to the million?" asked
Hargreave, smiling.
"For one thing, it is in her room, and has always been there. It never
was in the chest."
"Not bad, not bad," mused the father.
"But perhaps after all it will be better if you show it to her
yourself."
"Just a little uncertain?" jibed the millionaire.
"Absolutely certain. I will whisper in your ear where it is hidden."
Norton leaned forward as Hargreave bent attentively.
"You've hit it! But how in the world did you guess it?"
"Because it was the last place any one would look for it. I judged at
the start that you'd hide it in just such a spot, in some place where
you could always guard it, and lay your hands on it quickly if needs
said must."
"I'm mighty glad you were on my side," said Hargreave. "In a few
minutes we'll go up and take a look at those packets of bills. There's
a very unhappy young woman there at present."
"It is in my room?" cried Florence.
Hargreave nodded.
Meantime the Countess Olga hovered between two courses: a brave attempt
to escape by the window or to turn the revolver against her heart. In
either case there was nothing left in life for her. The man she loved
was dead below, killed by her hand. She felt as though she was
treading air in some fantastical nightmare. She could not go forward
or backward, and her heels were always within reach of her pursuers.
So this was the end of things? The dreams she had had of going away
with Braine to other climes, the happiness she had pictured, all mere
chimeras! A sudden rage swept over her. She would escape, she would
continue to play the game to the end. She would show them that she had
been the man's mate, not his pliant tool. She raised the window and
stepped out onto the balcony .... into the hands of the policeman who
had patiently been waiting for her to do so! Instantly she placed the
revolver at her temple. A quick clutch, and the policeman had her by
the wrist. She made one tigerish effort to free herself, shrugged, and
signified that she surrendered.
"I don't want to hurt you, Miss," said the policeman; "but if you make
any attempt to escape, I'll have to put the handcuffs on you."
"I'll go quietly. What are you going to do with me?"
"Turn you over to the Russian agent. He has extradition papers; and I
guess it's Siberia."
[Illustration: "FLORENCE, THAT IS ALL YOURS"]
"For me?" She laughed scornfully. "Do I look like a woman who would go
to Siberia?"
"Be careful, Miss. As I said, I don't want to put the cuffs on unless
I have to."
She laughed again. It did not have a pleasant sound in the officer's
ears. He had heard women, suicidal bent, laugh like that.
"I'll ask you for that ring on your finger."
"Do you think there is poison in it?"
"I shouldn't be surprised," he admitted.
She slipped the ring from her finger and gave it to him.
"There is poison in it; so be careful how you handle it," she said.
The policeman accepted it gingerly and dropped it into his capacious
pocket. It tinkled as it fell against the handcuffs.
At that moment the other policeman broke in the door.
"All right, Dolan; she's given up the game."
"She didn't kill the man after all," said Dolan.
"He's alive?" she screamed.
"Yes; and they've taken him off to the Tombs. Just a scalp wound.
He'll be all right in a day or two."
"Alive!" murmured Olga. She had not killed the man she loved, then?
And if they were indeed taken to Siberia, she would be with him until
the end of things.
With her handsome head proudly erect, she walked toward the door. She
paused for a moment to look at the portrait of Hargreave. Somehow it
seemed to smile at her ironically. Then on, down the stairs, between
the two officers, she went. Her glance traveled coolly from face to
face, and stopped at Florence's. There she saw pity.
"You are sorry for me?" she asked skeptically.
"Oh, yes! I forgive you," said the generous Florence.
"Thanks! Officers, I am ready."
So the Countess Olga passed through that hall door forever. How many
times had she entered it, with guile and treachery in her heart? It
was the game. She had played it and lost, and she must pay her debts
to Fate the fiddler. Siberia! The tin or lead mines, the
ankle-chains, the knout, and many things that were far worse to a
beautiful woman! Well, so long as Braine was at her side, she would
suffer all these things without a murmur. And always there would be a
chance, a chance!
When they heard the taxicab rumble down the driveway to the street,
Hargreave turned to Florence.
"Come along, now, and we'll have the bad taste taken off our tongues.
To win out is the true principle of life. It takes off some of the
tinsel and glamour, but the end is worth while."
They all trooped up-stairs to Florence's room. So wonderful is the
power and attraction of money that they forgot the humiliation of their
late enemies.
Hargreave approached the portrait of himself, took it from the wall,
pressed a button on the back, which fell outward. Behold! There, in
neat packages of a hundred thousand each, lay the mystic million! The
spectators were awed into silence for a moment. Perhaps the thought of
each was identical--the long struggle, the terrible hazards, the
deaths, that had taken place because of this enormous sum of money.
A million, sometimes called cool; why, nobody knows. There it lay,
without feeling, without emotion; yellow notes payable to bearer on
demand. Presently Florence gasped, Norton sighed, and Hargreave
smiled. The face of Jones (or Jedson) alone remained impassive.
[Illustration: AFTER THE STORM, THE SUNSHINE]
A million dollars is a marvelous sight. Very few people have ever seen
it, not even millionaires themselves. I dare say you never saw it; and
I'm tolerably certain I never have, or will! A million, ready for
eager, careless fingers to spend, or thrifty fingers to multiply! What
Correggio, what Rubens, what Titian, could stand beside it? None that
I wot of.
"Florence, that is all yours, to do with as you please, to spend when
and how you will. Share it with your husband-to-be. He is a brave and
gallant young man, and is fortunate in finding a young woman equally
brave and gallant. For the rest of my days I expect peace. Perhaps
sometimes Jones here and I will talk over the strange things that have
happened; but we'll do that only when we haven't you young folks to
talk to. After your wedding journey you will return here. While I
live this shall be your home. I demand that much. Free! No more
looking over my shoulder when I walk the streets; no more testing
windows and doors. I am myself again. I take up the thread I laid
down eighteen years ago. Have no fear. Neither Braine nor Olga will
ever return. Russia has a grip of steel."
Three weeks later Servan, the Russian agent, left for Russia with his
three charges, Olga, Braine and Vroon. It was a long journey they went
upon, something like ten weeks, always watched, always under the
strictest guard, compelled to eat with wooden forks and knives and
spoons. Waking or sleeping they knew no rest from espionage. From
Paris to Berlin, from Berlin to St. Petersburg, as Petrograd was then
called; and then began the cruel journey over the mighty steppes of
that barbaric wilderness to the Siberian mines. The way of the
transgressor is hard.
On the same day that Olga and Braine made their first descent into the
deadly mines, Florence and Norton were married. After the storm, the
sunshine: and who shall deny them happiness?
[Illustration: IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE CEREMONY]
Immediately after the ceremony the two sailed for Europe, on their
honeymoon; and it is needless to say that some of the million went with
them, but there was no mystery about it!
THE END
Harold MacGrath
A Sketch of the Author at Work and at Play
Harold MacGrath, author of more than a dozen best sellers, the book of
an operetta, and short stories without number, is a native of Syracuse,
N. Y., having been born in that city on September 4, 1871, and lived
there ever since, except when he is out circling the globe or in Gotham
looking things over.
Mr. MacGrath was a journalist before he essayed the higher form of
literature that sells on a royalty basis, instead of by the yard, and
he claims that he owes his start in "romancing" to a physical defect.
Mr. MacGrath is partially deaf and while serving as a newspaper
reporter he heard only about half of what was said to him, and had to
"make up" the other half himself. Thus, his imagination was given
quite a course in physical culture before its owner's conscience began
to prick him. "Why not do the thing right?" MacGrath asked himself.
"I don't knew," he replied. "Let's try it," he suggested. "All
right," he answered. And he quit the newspaper game and started a
novel, "Arms and the Woman," which appeared in 1890. This was followed
by many good sellers, the speed limit of the author being three books
some years.
Next to being a novelist MacGrath is a globe-trotter. He has been in
every nook and corner on the face of the globe where white man dares to
go and can get there without swimming or flying. As a result, he has
obtained the inspirations for most of his novels while amid the
fascinating surroundings in some Asiatic harbor town, while traveling
down the Rhine, or while listening to strains of Viennese music in some
little out-of-the-way cafe along the Danube. He is a genius in pen
picturing and can impart the color, the life, the action of real life
into his pages in a manner that is bound to attract.
He is fond of tennis and out-of-door sports. He likes boxing and is
one of the best amateur pool and billiard players in the country. He
has friends in almost every large city in the world and has met more
"crowned heads" than any other author, perhaps, outside of Hallie
Erminie Rives, wife of Post Wheeler, the versatile secretary of the
American Embassy at Tokio.
As a collector and connoisseur, Mr. MacGrath has a wide reputation, his
especial hobby being Turkish rugs and antique jewelry, of which he has
a wonderful collection. Another of his hobbies is horses, and although
he owns only one himself, he will never pass a good looking horse by
without stopping to pat it. He even carries lump sugar in his pocket
and takes great delight in feeding it to the horses of the mounted
officers in New York, many of whom (the officers) know him.
His method of working up his stories is unique. According to his own
statement, he first "thinks out" the start of his story, carrying his
idea through what develops into the first few chapters of the book.
Then he drops the thread of thought and starts again, but this time at
the end, and figures out how he will dispose of his characters and how
best the story should end. This accomplished, he sits down to his
typewriter and "goes to work." While writing, he often strikes on good
ideas to be incorporated in parts already considered. Immediately he
jots down his idea on the back of an envelope or a scrap of paper and
inserts the note among the pages of his manuscript just where it
belongs After completing his first draft, he goes back over the entire
manuscript, making corrections here and there and additions. He then
sits down to sum the whole story up in his mind and by this process is
able to pick out the flaws. His second draft, therefore, is quite a
finished product. He makes the final draft of his manuscript himself,
as he has found that he often strikes upon improvements at the eleventh
hour that go far to better his stories. If he turned the work of
making the final draft over to a stenographer, this last chance would
be lost.
He is one of the few modern writers who does not have to try to be
funny. It is natural with him to amuse.
Those interested in the chronological order of his stories will find
them as follows:
In 1901 he published his second book, "The Puppet Crown." "The Grey
Cloak" followed in 1903, and by the time it appeared, most of the
readers of fiction had acquired the MacGrath habit and were on the
lookout for the next dose of his delightful literary stimulant that
chased the "blues." Then came the story which established MacGrath's
reputation, "The Man on the Box," which appeared in 1904 and is still
one of the best sellers in popular editions. In 1905 MacGrath put on
some extra speed. He worked a double shift in his brain mill and the
result was that before the dawn of the next New Year's Day he had three
more successful books to his credit. They were "The Princess Elopes,"
a novelette; "Enchantment," a book of short stories, and "Hearts and
Masks," a novel that dealt with entanglements developing at a mask
ball. In the same year he wrote "Half a Rogue," another highly popular
story. In 1906 he turned out "The Watteau Shepherdess," an operetta.
These two productions were followed by "The Best Man" in 1907; "The
Enchanted Hat" and "The Lure of the Mask" in 1908. "The Goose Girl"
was MacGrath's next novel, and went far to uphold his reputation. "A
Splendid Hazard" and "The Carpet of Bagdad" followed within the space
of little more than a year. Next "The Place of Honeymoons" was
published, then "Parrot & Co.," "Deuces Wild," "Pidgin Island," "The
Adventures of Kathlyn," and "Voice in the Fog."
The "purpose novel," as that term is generally understood, finds but
little sympathy at the hands of Harold MacGrath. Yet he has a definite
purpose of his own. It is to amuse.
"The one definite idea I have in mind in writing stories," he says, "is
to afford an agreeable, pleasant hour or two to my readers. I wish to
amuse them, to make them wish that they, too, might have lived as this
or that hero, in this or that land, probable or improbable. I prefer
sunshine, mirth, buoyancy, and I believe most readers prefer the same.
Grown-up people never wholly lose their love of fairy tales; and grown
up fairy tales have been the scheme of most of my novels."
Could an author have a better purpose than this? Could he serve men to
better advantage than by lightening the burden they are destined to
carry through life by allowing their minds to dwell in pleasant places
and to rejoice with the people of a make-believe world?
"I usually begin a story as a dramatist begins a play--with the end,"
says MacGrath. "The characters work out the plot themselves; I have
very little to do with it after they have started."
"The structure of a plot must naturally be foremost; for, after all is
said and done, the story's the thing. I never outline a plot; I carry
the main thread in my head until I am ready to put it on paper, and
after it assumes body on paper, it has many devious twists and turns of
which I have no prior idea."
"I write whenever I feel like it, for when I am in the mood I do better
work. I never force myself to do so much work each day. There are
days when it is impossible to write one hundred words; again, I have
written as many as seven thousand words a day. Obstacles? There are
altogether too many to demonstrate. A character that doesn't "balk"
never fails to be uninteresting. I have always tried to place human
people in absurd or unique situations and to let them extricate
themselves as you or I, if so placed.
"The anatomy of a motif for a story is a complex thing, but of a
practical joke, 'The Man on the Box' was evolved. A young man
disguised as a coachman drove his sister and her friend to a ball one
night. This happened in my native town, Syracuse, and it amused me
greatly when critics said that the exploit was highly improbable. Out
of the Italian state and church marriage came the plot of 'The Lure of
the Mask.' The most trivial thing sometimes will suggest a plot. I
found the ten of hearts one night on the sidewalk. It became the motif
of 'Hearts and Masks.' Once, in Indianapolis, I chanced to see an
Italian selling plaster images. It gave me a starting point for 'A
Splendid Hazard.' Walking down Broadway one day I stopped to look in a
window where oriental rugs were being advertised. When I turned away
the seed germ for my latest book, 'The Carpet from Bagdad,' was in my
mind."
Mr. MacGrath is an enthusiastic fisherman. He goes to Cape Vincent,
Lake Ontario, every summer, when he isn't ambling in China, or India,
or Africa. He believes that the best bass grounds in the world are
within a radius of twenty miles from Cape Vincent, which is really in
the head of the St. Lawrence River. A friend undertook to convince him
that there were other places, so MacGrath consented to accompany him to
Canada. They arrived at sunset, and the host extemporized over the
glories of the setting sun.
"Ever see anything to beat that, Mac?"
"Fine!"
On the following morning they went out for bass. At four o'clock in
the afternoon they had caught exactly one.
The host again rhapsodized over the sunset.
The second day they caught no bass at all. On their way back to the
hotel the host was silent. As they came up to the landing, MacGrath
touched his host on the shoulder.
"There's your darned sunset, Jim!"
End of Project Gutenberg's The Million Dollar Mystery, by Harold MacGrath