VERNET DISCOMFITED.
While the discomfited Vernet kept watch alone with the dead, his men
were running up and down the alleys, listening, peering, searching in
by-places, in the hope of finding the hiding-place, or to overtake the
flight, of the fugitive sailor and his idiot guide.
More than an hour they consumed in this search, and then they returned
to their superior officer to report their utter failure.
"It is what I expected," said Vernet, with severe philosophy. "Those
fellows are no common rascals. They have spoiled our Raid; before this,
every rogue in the vicinity has been warned. I would not give a copper
for all we can capture now."
And Vernet was right, the Raid was a failure. Mustering his men, he made
the tour of the streets and alleys, but everywhere an unnatural silence
reigned. The Thieves' Tavern was fast shut and quite silent; the
drinking dens, the streets and cellars, where riot and infamy reigned,
were under the influence of a silent spell.
It was only the yelp of a dog, heard here and there as Silly Charlie and
Alan Warburton sped through the streets and lanes, but its effect was
magical. It told the rioters, the crooks and outlaws in hiding, that
there was danger abroad,--that the police were among them. And their
orgies were hushed, their haunts became silent and tenantless; while
every man who had anything to fear from the hands of justice--and what
man among them had not?--slunk away to his secret hiding-place, and laid
a fierce clutch upon revolver or knife.
The Raid was an utter failure; and Van Vernet, as he led his men
ruefully homeward, little dreamed of the cause of the failure.
This night's work, which had been pre-supposed a sure success, had been
spoiled by a fool. A most unusual fool,--of that Vernet was fully aware;
only a fool as he played his part. But he had played it successfully.
Vernet had been duped by this seeming idiot, and foiled by the
sailor-assassin. Of this he savagely assured himself, in the depths of
his chagrin.
But, shrewd man as he was, he never once imagined that under the rags
and tinsel, the dirt and disfigurement of the fool, the strong will and
active brain of _Richard Stanhope_ were arrayed against him; nor dreamed
that "Warburton, the aristocrat," the man who had wounded his pride and
looked down upon him as an inferior, had escaped from his clutches in
the garb of a common sailor.
Arrived at head-quarters, Vernet laid before his Chief a full report of
the night's misadventures, and concluded his narrative thus:
"It has never before been my misfortune to report so complete a failure.
But the affair shall not end here. I have my theory; I intend to run
down these two men, and I believe they will be worth the trouble I shall
take on their account. They were both shams, I am sure. The sailor never
saw a masthead; he could not even act his part. The other--well, he
played the fool to perfection, and--he outwitted _me_."
One thing troubled Vernet not a little. Richard Stanhope did not make a
late appearance at the Agency. He did not come at all that night, or
rather that morning. And Vernet speculated much as to the possible cause
of this long delay.
It was late in the day when Stanhope finally presented himself, and then
he entered the outer office alert, careless, _debonnaire_ as usual;
looking like a man with an untroubled conscience, who has passed the
long night in peaceful repose.
Vernet, who had arrived at the office but a moment before, lifted his
face from the newspaper he held and cast upon his _confrere_ an
inquiring glance.
But Dick Stanhope was blind to its meaning. With his usual easy morning
salutation to all in the room, he passed them, and applied for
admittance at the door of his Chief's private office. It was promptly
opened to him, and he walked into the presence of his superior as
jauntily as if he had not, by his unaccountable absence, spoiled the
most important Raid of the season.
It was a long interview, and as toward its close the sounds of
uproarious laughter penetrated to the ears of the loungers in the outer
room, Van Vernet bit his lip with vexation. Evidently the Chief was not
visiting his displeasure too severely upon his dilatory favorite.
Vernet's cheeks burned as he realized how utterly he had failed. Not
only had he heaped confusion upon himself, but he had not succeeded in
lessening Stanhope's claim to favoritism by bringing upon him the
displeasure of the Agency.
While he sat, still tormented by this bitter thought, Stanhope
re-entered the room, and walking straight up to Vernet brought his hand
down upon the shoulder of that gentleman with emphatic heartiness, while
he said, his eyes fairly dancing with mischief, and every other feature
preternaturally solemn:
"I say, Van, old fellow, how do you like conducting a Raid?"
It was a moment of humiliation for Van Vernet. But he, like Stanhope,
was a skilled actor, and he lifted his eyes to the face of his
inquisitor and answered with a careless jest, while he realized that in
this game against Richard Stanhope he had played his first hand, and had
lost.
"It shall not remain thus," he assured himself fiercely; "I'll play as
many trumps as Dick Stanhope, before our little game ends!"
* * * * *
When Walter Parks returned from his two days' absence, and called at the
office to receive the decisions of the two detectives, the Chief said:
"You may consider yourself sure of both men, after a little. Dick
Stanhope, whose case promised to be a very short one, has asked for
more time. And Van Vernet is in hot chase after two sly fellows, and
won't give up until they are trapped. You may be sure of them both,
however. And in order that they may start fair, after their present work
is done, I have arranged that you meet them here to-night, and let them
listen together to your statement."
"I like the idea," said Walter Parks earnestly, "and I will be here at
the appointed time."
That evening, Vernet and Stanhope,--the former grave, courteous, and
attentive; the latter cool, careless, and inconsequent as usual,--sat
listening to the story of Arthur Pearson's mysterious death, told with
all its details.
As the tale progressed, Van Vernet became more attentive, more eager,
his eyes, flashing with excitement, following every gesture, noting
every look that crossed the face of the narrator. But Dick Stanhope sat
in the most careless of lounging attitudes; his eyes half closed or
wandering idly about the room; his whole manner that of an individual
rather more bored than interested.
"It's a difficult case," said Van Vernet, when the story was done. "It
will be long and tedious. But as soon as I have found the man or men I
am looking for, I will undertake it. And if the murderer is above
ground, I do not anticipate failure."
But Stanhope only said:
"I don't know when I shall be at your disposal. The affair I have in
hand is not progressing. Your case looks to me like a dubious one,--the
chances are ninety to one against you. But when I am at liberty, if Van
here has not already solved the mystery, I'll do my level best for
you."