In a wild rush of words Lawrence told what he had discovered. O'Brien
listened closely and at the end of the account nodded his head.
"You have 'em pickled this time, me jool," he said. "It is damnation
enough if they so much as live in that place you're mentionin'. I know
the local cutthroats and pipemen, while every son of Ham that walks
there has a razor ready for use, right in his closed fist. I'm that glad
you came out with a whole skin. Now don't talk; lave me think."
He filled a pipe and slowly drawing on it, sat with his eyes fixed on a
corner of the room, a look of abstraction on his usually jolly face.
At last he spoke.
"Here's how I dope it. It's plain Mr. Ridgeway has picked you on your
recommendations to drive that dirigible. All right. Tomorrow you go to
Mr. Ridgeway as his guest or long-lost nephew or what not. Anyhow, you
_stay right in his house_ as his guest. There's that much less chance of
losin' you if they get on to who you are. And it's a slick crowd we are
buttin' in on. When it comes time for you to start with your silly
little papers and your shiny little jewelry wherever they belong, (and
Mr. Ridgeway will have to tell that,) you can just start on, and O'Brien
will take the job makin' the other crowd miss their train, as you might
say. What's the time o' night?"
"Twelve thirty," said Lawrence.
"Pretty late," replied O'Brien, "but let's have a try."
He picked up the telephone and almost immediately had Mr. Ridgeway on
the wire. After a moment's talk, he took his hat and told Lawrence to
follow him. In a taxi, they arrived at Mr. Ridgeway's house and found
that gentleman reading in his room.
O'Brien outlined his plan.
"That is a very good idea," said Mr. Ridgeway. "Of course if this was
merely an affair of those crown jewels, it would be easy to outwit our
friends but those jewels mean little or nothing to the man who calls
himself Smith. What he wants are the papers. Either he, or someone back
of him, is staging a little revolution, I think, and the papers are
their most important weapon. Who is Smith? Can't you make a guess,
O'Brien?"
O'Brien shook his head. "I can't, sir," he said regretfully. "All I want
is some good-luck fairy to point him out to me."
"You will find him, never fear," said Mr. Ridgeway. "You have done too
many clever jobs for me to feel worried about this one. Well, Lawrence,
I will be glad to have you here with me. When will you come?"
"He is here now," laughed O'Brien. "I take no more chances. I'm like
yourself, sir; I'm thinkin' that the matter of these papers is an affair
of nations."
Mr. Ridgeway looked grave. "I can only say that the safe transfer of
those papers is all that can possibly keep this country out of another
war as destructive and as deadly as the last. They have clever spies,
and the only thing they have not surmised, guessed at, or proved about
this journey is the identity of the pilot. As I said at the first,
Lawrence is protected by his youth." The great man sighed. "Lawrence, I
wish you were my son!" he said.
"A nice kid," commended O'Brien with a twinkle. "But hard to manage,
sir, and tellin' too little."
For four days Lawrence was a guest in the big house, spending most of
the time with his host and growing more and more devoted to the kindly,
shrewd man. He often repeated his regret that there was no son to carry
on his name, and one night in a confidential mood told Lawrence that
there had been two little boys.
"But we lost them both when they were scarcely more than babies," he
said brokenly. "I cannot talk about it." He stopped and Lawrence,
respecting his grief, turned away, not daring to offer the sympathy and
affection he felt.
The subject was never referred to again, but now Lawrence knew the
pathetic meaning of the two small, beautiful faces which had been
rendered in glass and which formed the central medallion in a great
stained glass window in the library. Near it, on the wall, was a
portrait of Mrs. Ridgeway, painted only the year before. It was a most
gracious figure, with a sweet, beautiful, appealing face, full of sorrow
bravely concealed. It held a strange fascination for Lawrence, who found
himself looking at it by the hour. Mr. Ridgeway never spoke of the
picture, although Lawrence knew that no two people ever loved each other
better than the great man and his beautiful wife. That she had been sent
away to avoid possible harm was clear to Lawrence, and he felt that Mr.
Ridgeway was very lonely. Lawrence tried to show him all the little
attentions that he could think of, and it pleased him to see how eagerly
Mr. Ridgeway accepted them. Only once in awhile a sigh told the boy that
the big heart still mourned for the two little fellows who had met an
untimely death so long ago. But no further word was spoken on the
subject.
The fifth day of Lawrence's visit fell on Tuesday. He took his bath and
hurriedly dressing, went down the broad stairs three steps at a time.
For the cleverest sky pilot in the world was hungry just as though he
had been an ordinary boy with no thought above the Saturday football
game or a coming exam. He fell upon the delicious breakfast with an
amount of energy that made Mr. Ridgeway smile with pleasure.
"I want you to eat a good big breakfast, old man," he said. "I want you
to take me for a spin in the air after while."
"That's good," said Lawrence. "If I don't fly more than I am doing now,
I will have to give up my license and take a job as instructor
somewhere. I am getting all out of practice."
"You can have some practice today," said Mr. Ridgeway. He went from the
breakfast table to the telephone, and immediately they hurried out to
the Aviation Field in Mr. Ridgeway's runabout. There the first person
who met them was O'Brien, all in leather, with his goggles in his hand.
"Your things are in the locker room," he said to Lawrence. "Get into
them quickly. Mr. Ridgeway is plannin' quite a little trip for you."
Ten minutes later, they embarked in one of the larger planes, and went
sailing off, O'Brien at the wheel, cutting a straight course toward the
east. In a wild rush of speed, reeling league after league of sky behind
them, they reached the Atlantic coast and, swerving, made for the
desolate reaches of Barnegat. Lawrence, to whom this was new territory,
watched everything with the greatest interest.
The tide was out, and just below the Inlet a half-mile stretch of beach,
hard and firm, afforded a wonderful landing. O'Brien dropped
brilliantly, and leaving the plane, they walked back until they came to
the hangar where the new dirigible was housed. Lawrence gave a quick
sigh of delight when he saw the balloon. He had never seen anything so
clean-lined and so sporty looking as the new model. For it was
absolutely the latest thing in construction, and Lawrence longed to get
his hand on the steering gear.
"What do you think of that?" asked O'Brien as Mr. Ridgeway went outside
with one of the men, who seemed to be in charge.
"I never saw anything so fine!" declared Lawrence. "I never saw anything
just like it. Even the new models in the pictures in the trade journals
are not as good in outline, and do not look as light in construction."
"They are not," said O'Brien. "This is the first time I have seen this
but I know it was designed for Mr. Ridgeway."
"What is its fuel?" asked Lawrence.
"Hyolax," said O'Brien. "In a year no gasoline will be used except for
old type autos and farm trucks. I tell you hyolax is some bird when it
comes to power!"
"I wonder if I will have any trouble managing it," said Lawrence
dubiously. "I ought to try it out, seems to me."
"That is what we came for," said O'Brien. "I have an idea you are going
across very soon. And Mr. Ridgeway wanted to let you have one chance
anyhow to get used to this type of dirigible. As far as hyolax goes, it
works exactly like gasoline except that it is about twenty times more
concentrated and its driving power is much greater. You will be crazy
over it."
A few minutes later the big dirigible, manoeuvered into the open, rose
lazily from the sand and in obedience to a command from Mr. Ridgeway,
they turned out to sea. For the next two hours, high above the tossing
waves, Lawrence manoeuvered the balloon, learning its tricks as a good
horseman learns the whims of a favorite steed. Lawrence was crazy over
it, as O'Brien had said, and the two older men, Mr. Ridgeway and
O'Brien, as well as the two mechanicians who accompanied them, were
astounded by the delicate perceptions and skillful handling that the boy
pilot gave the balloon.
When at last they had, as O'Brien expressed it, "put the tube to bed"
and had once more mounted in the invisible roads of the air, Lawrence
was at the wheel of the plane, and bad work he made of it for the first
ten minutes. It was like driving a flivver after a twelve-cylinder
touring car. The plane wobbled and shifted until he hit his stroke
again. Reaching the home field, Lawrence silently hopped out of the
plane and followed Mr. Ridgeway and O'Brien into the auto. He was very
still all the way home. The day was gone, and dinner was served soon
after their return. Then Mr. Ridgeway sat frowning, and presently leaned
forward to say:
"I will have to have a talk with you both, and on my life I don't know
where we will be safe. I am afraid everywhere."
"Right you are!" said O'Brien. "But I have just the place. A brother of
mine has a drug store over on H street. There is a basement where he
keeps his surplus stock. The stairs is at the right of the store as you
go in, away back behind the screen where they dodge to make you up tonic
pills out of newspaper and sugar.
"I will go ahead, and tip me brother off, and then you come along wan at
a time, and when you go in hold on to the left lapel of your coats so
he'll know you and go right back to the stairs and down 'em. I will have
chairs ready."
The plan worked, and Mr. Ridgeway and Lawrence wandered through the
small drug store and down the concealed stairs, to find O'Brien ready
with three soap boxes for seats.
Four walls, covered with rows of bottles of all sizes under the sun,
comprised the furnishings. As O'Brien said, there was not room enough
anywhere for a kitten to hide. There was a door at the top of the
stairs, and this O'Brien closed and locked. Another door at the bottom
he also closed, then turned expectantly to Mr. Ridgeway. That gentleman
smiled.
"Now then," he said, "it is time for me to show you all the cards. You
know, O'Brien, who this Smith is?"
"The most dangerous scoundrel in Europe, and the slickest knave that
ever planned the downfall of his own country to satisfy his own
miserable ambition. That much and more I know, but try as I may I can't
get my eyes on him, nor yet my hands."
"He is slick all right," agreed Mr. Ridgeway. "But thanks to this extra
dirigible and the place at Barnegat, we will elude him. That is all I
want now. After we are off, O'Brien, start something that will bring
that gang inside the law, and arrest the whole bunch on suspicion or
what not. Anything to keep them from doing any mischief."
"But Mr. Ridgeway, sir, it is now, _now_ while you are here that they
are dangerous."
Mr. Ridgeway shook his head.
"Unfortunately not." He took a paper out of his pocket and handed it
over to O'Brien. Lawrence looked over his shoulder and slowly spelled
out the words of a curiously printed anonymous letter. It was written on
heavy wrapping paper, and read:
"This is not a threat. It is simply to tell you what will happen. If the
crown jewels that are lying in the Treasury Building and the papers
intended for a certain republic are taken out of this country, that day,
mind you, the President of the United States will forfeit his life and
so will you. You will remember this, because it is the truth. Make no
mistakes."
O'Brien whistled. "So _that's_ your little scheme, is it?" He pondered.
"Of course it will be easy to take care of the president," he said. "And
you will be safe up in the air, but no one knows what else they will do.
I think it's up to O'Brien to get after them. Well, thanks to this lad,
I know where to find most of the gang. When do you start?"
"I want to go tomorrow," said Mr. Ridgeway. "You see we have really two
journeys to make; two errands to accomplish, and the sooner we do
accomplish them, the better it will be. I will go from here to the White
House and have my papers put in order, and have the custodian of the
jewels ready with them tomorrow morning."
"Do you specially mind when you start?" asked O'Brien. "I wish you could
set the time for evening. I want a whole day to get hold of my little
family party. Even if I start tonight, it may take me that long."
"Not at all; not at all!" said Mr. Ridgeway. "It makes no difference,
only you can see by this letter that those miscreants must be locked
up."
"I will attend to that if I have to have a fight with them myself," said
O'Brien.
"Then let us be going," said Mr. Ridgeway. "Lawrence, do you want to
come down as far as Pennsylvania Avenue and keep the car there for me?"
"Yes, indeed," said Lawrence.
When Mr. Ridgeway left the car a safe distance up the broad glittering
avenue, Lawrence settled back and proceeded to enjoy himself. One of the
most beautiful thoroughfares in the world stretched before him, and
along it went representatives of every country and clime. He was intent
on the pageant when a whining voice at his elbow recalled him to the
present. A beggar, ragged, blear eyed, and out of place in the dazzling
cleanness of the avenue, had shuffled up to the curb and was begging.
As Lawrence looked at the man, some strange picture in his brain, long
forgotten and hideous, suddenly sprang into view. Where had he ever seen
the face before him? Where had he heard that peculiar, deep, grating
voice?
As he stared, the man looked him straight in the face for a minute and
Lawrence saw a deep, three-cornered scar on the man's chin. On the spur
of the moment he leaned down, and said:
"Moll certainly soaked you a good one, didn't she?" at the same time
pointing to the scar.
The man leaped back with an oath. "Who are you?" he demanded, and then,
"Moll's dead," he added.
"I know," said Lawrence.
"Who are you?" repeated the man.
"Snooks," said Lawrence.
"Dressed like that, sittin' in an auto?" cried the beggar. "You must 'a'
found your folks!"
"No; I am driving for the man who owns this car," said Lawrence, his
sense of caution keeping back the facts of the case. "I never found my
folks."
"You want to advertise," said the man. "Tell you all I know about 'em
for a dollar. Thanks! See that there Moll, she read about gettin'
ransoms for folks and she hired out for nursemaid. I never knew who to.
She didn't trust me, an' me married to her lawful! But one day 'bout
sundown she sneaked in with two kids dressed dandy. And I ast her what
was it she had, and she said, 'Oh, about two hundred thousand dollars.'
I didn't like it, an' I said so, so she got mad and walked off with the
two little beggars down toward the river.
"She told me afterwards. She took off the little fellers' shoes and
stockin's. It was ragin' hot, mid-summer; and she laid them on the bank
with her own hat and their little bunnits, and then she let 'em paddle.
They just could walk. How she told it, she just turned round, and there
was one of 'em out in the current a-sinkin', and the other rollin' down
the bank. She grabbed him, but the other had went; and she was so scared
she comes runnin' home and there we was with another kid, which was you.
Moll didn't go away nor nothin', but we kep' close about it, because it
might 'a' meant the chair. They found the bunnits, and nex' day or so
they got the other kid's body. And the papers said Moll and the two kids
was all drownded. But you wasn't drownded. And Moll used to say that
woman in the pitcher Moll had in her bag would've gave a million dollars
to get a track of you, but we didn't darst do a thing. Besides," said
the man, "there's a plenty of kids!"
"Can't you remember the name of the people?" asked Lawrence anxiously.
With a look of sly cunning, the man shook his head. "No, I don't
remember. They don't want you by now, and you are all right. Let
sleepin' dogs lay is my motter. I ain't goin' to put my head in no noose
to oblige anybody. What they ever done for me, I say?"
"I won't tell on you," begged Lawrence.
The man looked around, then as he saw a procession of some sort moving
gaily up the avenue, he said, "No, you don't get no chance. You are
doin' well. Let sleepin' dogs lay," and dodged quickly across the line
of the procession and was lost to sight, just a miserable human fragment
on the tide of humanity.
Lawrence, his brain whirling, pressed a hand over the pocket containing
the photograph.
"Oh, Pretty, Pretty!" he said in a whisper. "Are you my mother, dear?"