THE COMING OF A MESSAGE
The situation once realized, West worked rapidly. If this bound man was
Sexton, the quicker he could be released the better. Hobart had already
revealed his plans, and might appear at any moment for the purpose of
executing them. If escape was to be achieved, it must be accomplished at
once. In the darkness his fingers could do nothing with the knot, but the
sharp blade of a knife quickly severed the twisted cloth, and the gag was
instantly removed from between the clinched teeth. The man moaned,
breathing heavily, but made no other sound while West slashed at the
cords lashing his limbs, finally freeing them entirely. Not until this
had been accomplished did he pause long enough to ask questions.
"There; that's the last. Now who are you--Sexton?"
"Yes, sir," weakly, and in a mere whisper, "an' I know yer voice, sir.
Thank God, yer found me, sir."
"It was a bit of luck; but we'll talk that over later. Now we've got to
get out of here. Can you walk?"
"I don't know, sir; after a fashion, maybe. I'm mighty stiff and
numb, sir. Oh, Lord, but that hurts; give me a hand, an' perhaps I
can make it."
"Take it easy; work your legs up and down like that; good, that will
restore the circulation. How long have you been lying here?"
"I don't know, sir," his voice strengthening. "I must have been hit, the
way my head aches. The first thing I knew after I went into that room
with you, I was lyin' here in the dark. I couldn't move or speak, sir,
an' it was so black, I kind of got it into my head maybe I was dead and
buried. If it hadn't been for my hearing things--voices talking, and all
that--I guess I would have gone clear batty. Maybe I didn't get
everything straight, sir, but one o' them fellows was Hobart, wasn't he?"
"Yes; we walked right into his trap. The fellow who came over to the
table and talked to us was Jim Hobart. He knew me at first sight it
seems, and easily guessed what we were there for."
"And was Miss Coolidge here too, sir?"
"Yes, she was; I had a talk with her that has mixed me all up, Sexton.
She seems to be hand in glove with these fellows. But how did you suspect
she was here?"
"I heard her voice, sir; up there somewhere, sir, soon after I come to
my senses. She and some man went along outside. Sounded like he was
makin' her go with him. I couldn't get much of what was said, but he
sure talked awful rough, an' she seemed to be pleadin' with him. They
wasn't there but just a minute, an' then, a little later, I heard an
automobile start up."
"You have no idea how long ago this was?"
"No, I ain't, sir. I been lyin' here about half dead, I guess, an' I
don't seem to have known anything after that, until those fellows come
down here with the lantern. Were they hunting after you?"
"Yes; I outwitted them up stairs, and jumped from a window. But that is
enough talk now; we'll go over the whole affair when we are safely away
from this place. How is it? do you think you can navigate?"
Sexton responded by getting slowly to his feet. He trembled, and was so
uncertain, as he attempted to grope forward, that West grasped him
firmly, helping him slowly toward the foot of the steps. Even this
effort, however, helped the man to recover somewhat the use of his
numbed limbs, while his breathing became much easier. The two crept up
the stairs cautiously, and surveyed the cluttered up yard as best they
might in the dim light of the distant street lamp. It appeared entirely
deserted, nor was there any evidence that the building above was
occupied. No doubt lights were burning within, but if so the shades must
have been drawn closely, allowing no reflection to escape. No better
opportunity for evading notice could be hoped for, and West, alert now to
every chance, made instant decision.
"They are all inside. Creep along behind that pile of lumber to where you
see the hole in the fence. I'll be just behind you. That's the way."
The narrow alley was much lighter, yet still dark enough to conceal their
movements, as they clung close to the deeper shadows. Except for an old
cart it was unoccupied, the surface covered with ashes, so packed as to
leave no trace of wheels. Ahead of them at the end of the block, glowed
the only street lamp visible. Sexton, by now largely recovered from his
late experiences, broke into a run, with West following closely behind.
Both were eager to escape from the immediate neighbourhood unseen.
Suddenly Sexton stumbled, but arose almost instantly to his feet again,
grasping something which gleamed like silver in his hand.
"Not hurt, are you?" asked West anxiously.
"No; what's this I found?"
The other took it impatiently.
"What is it? Why a small pocket knife, of course. Come on, man, don't
stand mooning there." He slipped the article carelessly into his pocket.
"Let's get out into the open while the road is clear."
"Where are you going?" Sexton panted, endeavouring to keep beside him.
"Have you anything planned out?"
"Not very much; Milwaukee Avenue first. There is sure to be an all-night
restaurant somewhere in sight. Telephone for a taxi, don't dare to risk a
street car, we both look too tough."
"Suppose they will follow us?"
"Hardly; they will have no idea which way we went, or how long we'll have
been gone. All Hobart will think about now will be getting out of sight
himself. Once we turn off this street, we'll be safe enough."
It was considerably past midnight when the two men finally reached the
University Club; they had lunched at an all-night restaurant, washed and
made themselves as presentable as possible, yet were hardly recognizable
as they entered the Club lobby. Neither possessed a hat; Sexton was in
his shirt sleeves, while West's coat clung to him in rags. Without
waiting to explain anything to the servant in charge, except to state
briefly that Sexton would be his guest for the night, the Captain hurried
into the waiting elevator, and accompanied by his companion, ascended to
his apartment above.
The reaction from the excitement of the evening left Sexton dull and
drowsy once he felt secure from any possible danger. His only desire was
to lie quiet, and forget. Stretched out on a comfortable lounge, he fell
asleep almost instantly, making no effort even to remove his clothes.
West was of a different temperament, his mind far too active to find
sleep possible. His only desire was to think, plan, decide upon some
future course of action. With mind busy, forgetful of the very presence
of his companion, he indulged in a bath, again dressed himself, and,
lighting a cigar, settled back into an easy chair to fight the whole out
alone with himself.
The adventures of the night had greatly changed his conception of this
affair in which he had become so strangely involved. The mystery
confronting him appeared more difficult of solution than ever. His first
vague theory of the case had already gone completely to smash. Question
after question rose before him which remained unanswered. He was more
thoroughly convinced than ever that Percival Coolidge had been murdered;
that the act had been committed either by Hobart himself, or under his
direction. He possessed no proof, however, nor could he figure out a
motive for the crime. Who was this Jim Hobart? That was one of the first
things to be learned. Was he in any way personally interested in the
fortune left by Stephen Coolidge? Or did he hold any special relationship
with the murdered man? How could he expect to profit by the sudden death
of Percival? More important still, what peculiar influence did the fellow
exert over the girl? Here was by far the deeper mystery, the one that
troubled him most. The others seemed possible of explanation, but the
sudden change in Natalie Coolidge was beyond all understanding.
Except in face, form, dress, outward appearance, she no longer seemed to
West as being the same woman he had formerly known. His original interest
in her had vanished; he had learned to distrust and doubt her sincerity
and truth. Beyond all question she was openly playing an important part
in this tragedy under Hobart's direction, but for the life of him he
could not figure out to what end. Still the very mystery of it had its
fascination. While he felt no longer any special desire to serve her, to
further risk his life in her cause, yet he experienced a fierce
determination to learn what all this really meant; to uncover the object
these conspirators had in view. Although he imagined love no longer
spurred him on, his real interest in the affair became even more intense,
with an aroused desire to read the riddle. He convinced himself that from
henceforth this was to be his only object--not the girl, nor any
attraction she once had for him, but a stern determination to solve this
crime, and bring its perpetrators to justice. If she was involved it
could not be helped, she would have to suffer with the rest; his own duty
was clear.
Yet how could he begin action? What clue did he possess which could be
followed? Practically none. Before morning, that saloon on Wray Street
would unquestionably be deserted, except perhaps by its proprietor, and
Mike would simply deny everything. A search of the place would be
useless, for Hobart would be too sly a fox to leave any trail. Two
possibilities remained; the police might have some record of the fellow,
might know his favourite haunts, even be able to locate his next probable
hiding place. If not, the only hope remaining would seem to be Natalie
Coolidge. She would undoubtedly return to Fairlawn; was probably there
already, and, by shadowing her, the whereabouts of Hobart would surely be
revealed either sooner or later.
But possibly there was a quicker way to learn their purpose than by
thus seeking to find either. If it was the Coolidge fortune which was
at stake, why not endeavour to learn in whose trust it was being held,
and what steps were being taken to safe-guard it? This investigation
ought not to be particularly difficult, even though he possessed no
authority; he could explain the nature of his interest to an attorney,
and be advised how to proceed. Determined to take all three steps the
first thing next day, West rested back comfortably in the chair,
already half asleep. One hand rested in his pocket, and as his fingers
fumbled some object there, he suddenly recalled the knife Sexton had
found in the alley.
He drew the article forth curiously, and looked at it under the glow of
the electric light--it was a small silver handled pen-knife, such as a
lady might carry, a rather strange thing to be discovered in a dirt alley
back of Wray Street. The incongruity struck him forcibly, and he sat up,
wide awake once more, seeking for some mark of identification on the
polished handle. There was none, not an inscription of any kind, but he
noted that the single slender blade did not fit closely down into its
place. He opened it idly to learn the cause--beneath appeared the white
gleam of tightly folded paper.