To the same clerk in the _Herald_ office, a fortnight later, came the
same man in black, and whispered something. The clerk recognized him,
leaned over, and asked, pleasantly:
“What is it this time?” He had a good memory. He afterward remembered
thinking that the hoarseness was chronic.
“How much for one inch in Help Wanted, Male?”
“Pica caps?”
The man nodded eagerly, half a dozen times.
“Two dollars and thirty-two cents.”
The stranger, in trying to take the exact amount from his pocket,
dropped a dime on the floor and had much difficulty in picking it up by
reason of his black gloves. This naturally made the clerk remember
about the scar, which the man evidently desired to conceal. Carroll, the
clerk, alert-minded and imaginative--as are all American Celts--caught
a glimpse of the scar between the end of the glove and the beginning of
the cuff.
On the next day, the unemployed males of New York read this in the
_Herald_:
_Wanted--A Brave Man. Wages One Hundred Dollars a Day. No Questions
Answered. Apply Room 888, St. Iago Building._
There are many brave men in New York. When W. W. Lovell stepped from the
elevator at the eighth floor he had almost to force his way through a
crowd of men of all kinds--brutes and dreamers; sturdy animals, and boys
with romance in their eyes; fierce-visaged, roughly dressed men, and
fashionably attired chaps, with high-bred, impassive faces; young men
seeking adventure and old men seeking bread. Lovell was darting keen
glances at the men. He let his gaze linger on a man neither short nor
tall, of about forty, who suggested determination rather than reckless
courage. He was shabby with the shabbiness of a man who not only has
worn the clothes a long time, but has slept in them. Lovell approached
him and whispered:
“Come about _Herald_ ad?”
“Yes.” Others drew near and listened.
“Are you really brave?” He looked anxiously into the man's face. The
man, at the question and at the grins of his fellow-applicants, turned a
brick-red.
“Try me!” he answered, defiantly.
“Before all these men?” There was a challenge in the hoarse whisper.
“If you want to,” answered the man, with quick anger. He clenched his
fists and braced his body, as for a shock.
“Come in!” and W. W. Lovell opened the door of 888.
“I'm braver than that guy!” interjected a youth, extremely
broad-shouldered and thick-necked.
Mr. Lovell looked at him coldly, steadily, inquisitively, as though he
would read the man's soul. He stared fully a minute and a half before
the thick-set youngster dropped his gaze, whereupon Mr. Lovell pushed
in the man he had picked out, followed him, and slammed the door in the
faces of the others. They tried the door-knob in vain. It was a spring
lock.
Mr. Lovell sat down at his desk, motioned to the man to draw near, and
said, sternly:
“No questions answered!”
“I'll ask none.”
Lovell gazed at him intently. He nodded to himself with satisfaction,
and proceeded, in a painful whisper:
“Your name is W. W. Lowry.”
The man hesitated. Lovell frowned and, leaning forward, said:
“One hundred dollars a day!”
“My name,” said the man, determinedly, “is now W. W. Lowry.”
“Do you know anything about travelers' checks used by the American
Express Company?”
“Yes.”
“Ever used any yourself?”
“No.”
“Ever in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When I was--er--years ago.”
“How many years?”
“Ten; no--eleven!” The man's face twitched. Remembrance was evidently
not pleasant.
“I'll pay you one thousand dollars for eight days' work in Paris.”
“I'll take it.”
“Listen carefully.”
“Go ahead.” The man looked alert.
“You will get a first-class ticket from New York to Paris and return,
and hotel coupons for ten days in the Hotel Beraud, in Paris. You will
leave, in all probability, on February first, arrive on the eighth. On
the ninth you will go to the American Express office and cash some of
your checks. They will serve to identify you. Do it again on February
tenth. At exactly eleven minutes past eleven on the eleventh you will
whisper to the mail clerk: 'It is eleven-eleven, to-day the eleventh.
Give me the eleven letters for W. W. Lowry.' If you do not receive
eleven letters, don't take any, but return the next day at precisely the
same hour, and say exactly the same words. What was it I said you should
say to the correspondence clerk?”
“It is eleven-eleven, to-day the eleventh. Give me the eleven letters
for W. W. Lowry,” repeated the man.
“Right! When you get the eleven letters you will bring them unopened to
me--here. Now go to Mrs. Brady's boarding-house, 299 East Seventy-third
Street; tell her you are Mr. Lowry. Your room and board are paid for.
Make it a point to be at the house every day at eleven in the morning
until after luncheon and at six p.m. You must not go out evenings under
any circumstances. I'll allow you eleven dollars a week for tobacco
and will bring you some clothes. Come back Wednesday at eleven-thirty.
Here's this week's eleven dollars. That will be all.”
“That's all right, my friend; but--” began the man.
Lovell frowned and interrupted sharply:
“No questions answered.”
“I wasn't going to ask; I was going to remark that you would have to
show me that one thousand dollars for the week's work.”
“Next Wednesday I'll take you to the American Express Company. I'll give
you one thousand dollars and you will buy the checks yourself and sign
them. I'll keep them until sailing-day and I'll give them to you on the
steamer. Forging,” he went on with a sneer, “is signing another man's
name with intent to defraud. You will sign your own name--your own
signature--on travelers' checks that you yourself have paid for. See? A
thousand dollars for asking for eleven letters and bringing them to me,
unopened, is good graft, friend. If you make good I'll keep you busy.”
“You are on!” said W. W. Lowry.
“No drinking. Above all things, no talking! I may be crazy, my friend;
but what would you be if you gave up a job worth a thousand dollars a
week and all expenses paid? Remember our motto: No questions answered!”
“Damned good rule!” agreed W. W. Lowry, with conviction.
“Look out for reporters and for men who say they are reporters!” warned
W. W. Lovell. “When you go out, close the door quickly behind you and
hang this sign on the door-knob. I don't want to see anybody.”
W. W. Lowry obeyed. The sign said: