“Interested, you mean. If you don’t feel his eyes boring through your
back, you are absolutely without that sense. He seems upon the point
of devouring you. I can’t make out just how the girl is taking it, not
being able to see her face; but it’s what she is saying that’s exciting
her companion and causing him to radiate so. They must be people who
know you.”
“I told you this morning, that I knew no one in New York.”
“You made some acquaintances last night,” said Webster, meaningly.
“The man is not one of them.”
“How about the woman.”
Again Kenyon’s eyes narrowed; there were little puckers about their
corners.
“About her I cannot say.” He paused for a moment, and then asked,
eagerly: “What is the color of her hair. Is she light or dark?”
“The veil conceals everything, and she holds it in place in a way that
plainly shows that she intends it to go on doing so.”
When their dinner began to arrive Webster took his eyes from the pair
for a few moments; and when he looked up again they had gone.
“Why, I really thought they were good for an hour,” said the young
Chicagoan. “It does not seem possible that their interest could slacken
enough in that time to permit of their going away.”
Kenyon did not reply, but sat staring moodily before him. He had
maintained this attitude for some time before Webster noticed it; and
then the latter grew suddenly silent.
“It’s the girl,” he told himself. “Poor chap! She’s got him, whoever
she is. He’ll never see a woman in the distance again without thinking
it’s she; nor he’ll never see another sun arise without thinking that
it’s going to witness his meeting with her. That is, not for a while.
It’s comforting to think that such things don’t last long.”
He had reached this stage in his reflection when a boy approached.
“Mr. Kenyon?” inquired he.
“Yes,” replied Webster. “Here, wake up, old chap; there’s a message for
you.”
“From a man who just left in an automobile,” the boy informed Kenyon,
as he handed him the message. “He said there was no answer.”
Kenyon tore open the envelope. The note was written upon a sheet of
hotel stationery, and contained but two lines of writing. A glance took
this in, and with a laugh he tossed it over to Webster. The message
read:
“Your progress is wonderful! But don’t forget that boldness can be
carried too far.”
And underneath this was the signature: “Farbush.”
VII
THE BELLEVUE HOSPITAL PUZZLE
“Do you know, old chap, there are many features in this case that I
do not understand.”
--_A Frequent Remark of Garry Webster._
“MR. FARBUSH,” remarked Garry Webster, speculatively, “is more than
likely the gentleman with the half-bald head and the vulture eyes. But
just where does he enter in this thing, I wonder?”
“There is no telling,” answered Kenyon. “It is not well to introduce
all one’s characters in the first act, as every practical dramatist
knows. Farbush has been held in reserve for the opening of act second,
apparently; which reservation shows the hand of a craftsman of more or
less skill.”
There was something in the speaker’s voice that caught Webster’s
attention, and he gave him a quick, inquiring glance. It seemed to hold
a certain resolution that was not altogether clear.
“If the appearance of Mr. Farbush has any connection with your
adventure of last night, it is more like the climax of an old, rather
than the opening of a new, act,” said Garry, slowly. “Where is your
dramatist going to get his material to go on with his work? Surely not
from the actions of a man eating his dinner.”
“I do not intend to continue eating indefinitely,” smiled Kenyon. He
looked at his watch and continued: “An hour from now will find me in
Selden’s Square and ringing the bell at 98.”
“Oh,” said Webster, “I see. You intend to return the check.”
“Not only that, but I intend to put a stop to the whole matter. Why,
the thing has grown absurd. I’m not accustomed to this sort of dealing;
and the quicker it’s over and done the more comfortable I shall feel.”
When they had finished, Webster said: “A cab will take us there in less
than a half hour.”
“Us?” repeated Kenyon.
“_Us._ Why, to be sure. You don’t suppose I intend to let you go alone,
do you? Well, hardly! Another thing. Come up to my rooms for a moment
before we start.”
An elevator whirled them upward; and in a few moments the young man
from Chicago was opening a revolver case in his sample room.
“It’s a Colt,” said he, calmly, holding the weapon up for his friend’s
inspection. “Dull metal, forty-five calibre; has a barrel that assures
accuracy and a grip that is a real grip. It’ll make quite a bulge in
your pocket, but then it will also shoot a hole through a safe.”
“For a humdrum man of trade, Garry, you have lots of romance left
in you,” said Kenyon. He took the revolver and spun it around, a
forefinger through the trigger guard. “You intend that an armed force
shall move on Selden’s Square, I see. But where is your ammunition?”
“Here,” and Webster handed him a dozen or more long cartridges.
Two revolvers were loaded and shoved deep into overcoat pockets; then
the two descended to the street, got into a cab and were driven to
Selden’s Square.
“Not a very live street, for so early an hour,” remarked Webster, as
they alighted at the corner and walked slowly along.
“I noticed that last night,” returned Kenyon, somewhat grimly. “The
thugs who attacked the man outside of 98 did not seem to have any fear
of interruption.”
“By the way, you did not see anything of the attacked one when you came
out, did you!”
“No; those who committed the assault either carried him away, or the
police found him before I came out.”
They had reached 98 by this time and halted. It was gloomy and deserted
looking; not a glimmer of light was to be seen at any of the windows.
They ascended the steps and Kenyon pulled the old-fashioned bell-handle.
“Speaking of policemen,” remarked Webster, in a low tone, “that looks
like one across the way.”
The gleam of the helmet plate and shield were unmistakable; but their
owner made no move toward them, though he seemed to be watching them
narrowly. Just then there came a sound at the basement door and a
shuffling of feet up the steps. In a moment a sharp, wrinkled old face
appeared above the rail and a quavering, high-pitched voice demanded:
“What is it, please? What is it?”
Kenyon looked down at the bent old woman who was peering up at him in a
dim-eyed, uncertain sort of way.
“I desire to speak to”--he hesitated a moment, then proceeded--“to the
master or mistress of the house.”
“Have I not told you a dozen times that the house is empty? Are the
police paid to annoy people? I know nothing of those who were here; I
know nothing of the dead man who was carried out in the night; I know
nothing except that the agent placed me in charge this afternoon, and
that the rent is fifty dollars a week, furnished. For anything else you
must not ask me; I am old, and I must have my sleep.”
And with that she went slowly and complainingly down the steps, and
they heard the door close abruptly behind her.
“They have gone,” said Kenyon.
“And apparently the attention of the police has been called to some
features of the case.” Webster looked at his friend for a moment and
then added. “What are you going to do now?”
“Perhaps to see Moritze & Co.’s local representative, in the morning,
would do some good. But, first, I think we may get a little information
from our friend across the way.”
They descended the steps and crossed the street toward the policeman.
The man regarded them with attention, his thumbs in his belt and his
legs very wide apart.
“How do you do?” spoke Kenyon, in a fraternal tone.
“How are you?” answered the man.
“Is this street part of your beat?”
“It is all of it, just now.”
“Ah, indeed.”
By this time the policeman seemed to have made up his mind about them.
“Reporters?” asked he.
“Something like that. I understand that you had quite an exciting time
of it hereabouts last night.”
“Yes; but say, how did the papers get it? The captain said the matter
was to be kept quiet.”
Kenyon laughed carelessly.
“Oh, the papers have many surprising little ways of getting
information. Now, the body that was carried out of 98, for instance.
Nothing has been heard of it?”
“No; and it has a nasty look. It’s the kind of thing that we police
don’t like. The detective department has it now.”
“Nothing is known of the people who occupied the house, then?”
“Not a thing. They rented it furnished for a term and paid the money
down. They gave the name of Farbush.”
The two young men exchanged swift glances; the policeman noticed the
looks:
“Do you know anyone of that name?”
“I fancy I have heard it before,” replied Kenyon.
“Well, I suppose you are not giving anything away,” grumbled the man.
“The afternoon papers will be driving the police out of business for
good if they keep on the way they are going.”
“Don’t be discouraged,” said Kenyon, with a laugh. “You see, they don’t
know so much after all. They only appear to. For example now, we don’t
know where the man was sent who was knocked out just about here last
night.”
The policeman laughed, shortly.
“The _man_?” repeated he.
Kenyon caught the inflection.
“Why, it wasn’t a woman, surely,” said he.
“I guess you’re right about the papers not being on to so much,”
grinned the policeman. “But you’ll have to call up Bellevue if you want
any information. As I said to start with, this thing is supposed to be
kept rather quiet; and I think I’ve done too much talking as it is.”
As they walked down the street Webster said thoughtfully:
“The complications seem to pile up, don’t they?”
“Amazingly. And with every lap the track gets heavier. I think the best
thing that we can do is to pay a visit to Bellevue and have a talk with
someone there who can give us definite information.”
There was something in the speaker’s tone that made his friend look at
him quickly.
“Don’t let the matter get on your nerves, old boy,” warned Webster.
“You’ll only put yourself in a daze; and then you’ll never get to the
bottom of it.”
“I know it; but then there is--”
He paused abruptly and gestured the rest.
“You mean the girl?” Webster frowned. All along he had feared this
phase of the affair; the girl had struck him from the very first as
looming altogether too large in Kenyon’s account of it.
“If it wasn’t for her,” said Kenyon, “the entire matter would be a sort
of joke to me. But she changes the face of everything. I can’t stop
thinking of her.”
“Well, you had better get into the habit of trying,” growled Garry
Webster. “You know it doesn’t do to go about falling in love with
girls like this. Now don’t try to shut me off! You _are_ in love with
her; if you don’t know it, I do. I’m experienced. I’ve been in love a
half-dozen times myself.”
He paused for a moment; and his tone changed, as he continued:
“You see, Ken, you don’t know anything about her. As the thing stands
it doesn’t look even near right. It’s a police matter, and she is
unquestionably mixed up in it.”
Kenyon winced at this and his face seemed to lose a little of its
color. But he said nothing.
“I know that my remarks hurt some,” proceeded Garry. “But it’s a fact,
and fact is a thing that I’m strong on--it’s a thing that a man doesn’t
do well to brush carelessly by. If he does he’s making a mistake.”
Kenyon put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Don’t think me an ass, old fellow; I see all these things you speak
of--and perhaps more, for I’m deeper in the maze than you think. But in
spite of it all, I can’t drive the image of that unknown girl from my
mind; and I cannot help believing that no matter what manner of things
the others may be guilty of, she is innocent.”
“All right,” returned Webster, with a sigh. “Look at it as you see fit.
I only hope you prove to be right. There is a great deal in a person’s
characteristics, I know; and of course I haven’t seen the girl.
Perhaps, if I had, I might feel just as confident of her as you do.”
“I’m sure you would,” said Kenyon, fervently. “No one to look at
her could feel otherwise. I know that I’m talking like a moonstruck
sophomore, Garry, but just the same I mean every word of it.”
At that moment Webster sighted a cab and signaled it. In a very short
space of time they had been set down at Bellevue Hospital, and a nurse
had summoned a white-clad, pleasant-faced young surgeon. When he heard
their errand he looked interested.
“Oh, yes,” said he. “The rather queer matter of last night. Sit down.”
The two young men sat down and the surgeon occupied the corner of a
desk. Apparently he made the same mistake as the policeman had, for his
opening words were:
“You are the first reporters that have called in reference to this
thing; and there is, I think, a most interesting story in it.” He
touched a bell, and a pretty girl in a nurse’s uniform made her
appearance. “Miss Dickson, get me histories 906-7-8.” When the girl had
gone, the man of medicine resumed. “It’s not often that we meet with
such a remarkable series of coincidences; but the night has strange
kinks in a big city, and the accident ward of a hospital is the best
place to see them that I know of.”
The girl re-appeared, handed the speaker three sheets of paper, and
vanished.
“I’ll read you these in regular order,” promised the surgeon. “Then
you’ll get about the same effect that I did. And before I begin I’d
like to say that these are not the regular histories demanded by the
institution, but private ones of my own. You see,” with a smile, “these
cases were so odd that I did not mind going to a little extra trouble.”
Selecting one of the sheets he began to read:
“Thursday night, November 12th. About 9.30 the patrol of the 40th
Precinct brought in a case of assault. It was a man of about thirty
years of age and weighing about one hundred and sixty pounds. He was of
dark complexion. He had been picked up by the police upon the sidewalk
in front of 98 Selden’s Square. The injuries are three incised wounds
in the back, probably made by a knife, and two contused wounds of the
head. The skull is most likely fractured.”
“Since that was written we have discovered that there is no fracture.
The man recovered consciousness and told how he came in his present
predicament. Afterwards, during the absence of the nurse, he left the
hospital. Just why I don’t know, for he was badly hurt and required
attention and nursing.”
Turning to the second sheet he read as follows:
“Thursday night, November 12th. At 10.18 the ambulance was called out.
It brought a second man, suffering the same injuries, and who had been
picked up in exactly the same place as the first. This man, however,
was conscious and able to make a statement immediately.”
“Selden’s Square is a much more abrupt place than I would have
thought,” remarked Webster.
“So it would seem. But listen to this other.” The doctor read as
follows from the third sheet:
“Same night. About 12.05 I was called down to receive a new case. It
was brought in by a cab-driver and a mail-carrier. The latter, while on
his last round of collection, found the man lying in the middle of the
street in front of 98 Selden’s Square, and at the next corner summoned
the cab-driver to his assistance. In this case, as in the other two,
the bludgeon and knife had played their parts. This man was smeared
with blood and his clothing was torn into shreds. Apparently he had
given his assailants a desperate battle.”
The physician laid down the last of the sheets and looked at his
visitors with a smile.
“Well, what do you think of that?” asked he.
“Remarkable!” answered Kenyon, briefly.
“Astonishing!” said Webster.
“I think so, too. But this is only the mildest and most conventional
side of the thing. What I have yet to tell will make you despair of
finding adjectives to express yourselves. But I can only give you the
outline, as that is all that I have as yet. The first of these men is
from Butte, Montana. He is an engineer in the employ of the Anaconda
mine, and apparently a thoroughgoing fellow, indeed. The second is from
the town of West Point, and is a sort of private coach for backward
students at the Academy there. He is a rather frail young man, with
near-sighted eyes and an impediment in his speech. The third is from
Saginaw, Michigan. He is a small, compactly-built fellow, of about
twenty-three, and with the constitution of a young bull. By profession
he is a pugilist. His first words when he recovered consciousness were
to inquire about the persons who assaulted him. And when he learned
that none of them were in the ward, as badly used up as himself, he was
the most crestfallen person I ever saw.”
“Quite a variety of types and temperaments,” remarked Kenyon. “But what
had they to say for themselves?” eagerly.
“I don’t know that I am altogether at liberty to tell you that,”
answered the young surgeon, slowly; “It’s a sort of police matter, you
see. But if you’ll agree not to publish until the authorities release
us, I’ll give it to you.”
“We’ll keep it to ourselves,” promised Kenyon.
“Very well then. But as I said before, I can only give you the outline
of their statements, at that. Each of these three men is an absolute
stranger to the others; yet each was summoned to New York upon the
same errand, by the same man, and at the same time. Upon the night
of November 12th each arrived in town, one from Butte, one from
West Point, and the other from South Bend, Ind.; and each of them
immediately made his way to the place of appointment--98 Selden’s
Square. And as they arrived there, they were attacked murderously and
left for dead. All this is strange; it only requires one more touch to
complete the mystery. And we have that in the fact that the three men’s
names are alike.”
“And what is the name?” asked Webster.
“Kenyon,” answered the young surgeon; “and a rather unusual one it is,
don’t you think?”
VIII
THE NIGHT GROWS THICK WITH WONDER
DOM MIGUAL: Hush! Walk softly. This night is filled with
astonishments.
--_From an Unacted Melodrama._
AT the surgeon’s words Webster fairly gasped his astonishment. But
Kenyon’s face was unreadable.
“A remarkable state of affairs, indeed,” said the young adventurer.
“And without a doubt it has some equally surprising meaning if we could
learn all the facts. But you said that you do not feel at liberty to
tell us more, did you not?”
“I do not know a very great deal more,” answered the surgeon.
“These men are not yet able to be seen, I suppose--that is, the
remaining two?”
“No; and will not be for some days to come.”
“That is too bad. I should have liked to ask them a few questions.”
Kenyon arose and said: “Is it permissible for you to tell me the name
of the person who summoned them to New York?”
“It is not. That is a point upon which the police left special
instructions.”
“Ah, pardon me! And thank you for what you have already told us.
Good-night.”
Once again they were upon the street, walking along in silence, hands
stuffed into overcoat pockets and heads bent in deep thought. After a
space Kenyon said:
“Well, Garry, my son, we don’t seem to have come at anything of value,
as yet, eh?”
“Rather, we have gone deeper into the tangle,” answered Webster. Then
he laughed in a sudden fit of boyish glee and continued: “But, I say,
it’s more fun than going a-fishing, isn’t it? I’d like to work at a
thing like this as a regular job. It’s got it all over hardware for
real interest.”
“It seems to me that it’s going to be my occupation, for a time, at
least,” said Kenyon, a certain grimness in his tone. “The matter
concerns me, and if it’s possible to get to the bottom of it, I’m going
to do it.”
“Right,” agreed Webster. “It’s your place to do that very thing.”
They walked back to Webster’s hotel, in silence for the most part; when
they arrived Kenyon immediately took up a telephone directory and began
fluttering over its leaves.
“It’s just possible that the manager of Moritze & Co.’s New York branch
may have a ’phone connection at his home and I may catch him there,”
explained he to Webster. “Oh, yes, here it is. His name is Leventhal.
I trust he is a snugly married man and is at home just now.”
After a few moments waiting he got the number asked for.
“I want to speak to Mr. Leventhal,” said Kenyon.
“This is Mr. Leventhal.”
“Manager for Moritze & Co.?”
“The same.”
“I have just received a check upon your house for a considerable sum,
and I’d like to make some inquiries about the person who drew it.”
“I never transact business after business hours,” said Leventhal,
decidedly.
“But this is a matter of importance. I’d like you to tell me what you
can about Hong Yo, who I think is known to you.”
There was a sharp exclamation at the other end of the wire; after a
short pause there came the answer in the same cold tone.
“We never discuss our depositors with strangers--or anyone else, for
that matter. If you have a check signed by Hong Yo it will be honored
instantly, no matter what the sum. Good-night.”
“One moment,” cried Kenyon, hastily. But it was too late; the other had
already rung off.
“I expected that,” remarked Webster. “Bank people are rather close
mouthed as a rule. I don’t think you’ll learn much from that source.”
“It would seem not.”
Kenyon sat down and lit a cigarette. Under the light bulbs his face had
a drawn, harassed look and the usually good-humored eyes had a baffled,
eager glow in them. But in spite of this very evident mental unrest,
the elegant distinction of his manner was unimpaired; and he brushed a
speck of dust from his sleeve with solicitude.
“Your two thousand dollars is going to come in rather handy,” remarked
he thoughtfully. “It looks like a long hunt, and that sort of thing
takes money.”
“There is more where the two came from,” said Webster. “Don’t hesitate
to call again.”
“Thanks.” Kenyon puffed at the cigarette frowningly for a moment. “It
means a waste of both money and time,” grumbled he, “and I suppose I’m
next door to a fool for bothering with it. But it’s got on my nerves
and I can’t drop it.”
“The girl again,” mused Webster, regarding his friend with brooding
glance. “He doesn’t know it himself, half the time; but it’s that
confounded girl that’s doing it all.”
They discussed the different phases of the case for some hours, and
then Kenyon took his departure. It was a long way to his little hotel
near the Battery, but he was in no humor for riding, and turning into
Broadway he swung rapidly along down town. Lower Broadway is almost
deserted after business hours, and when a man loomed up alongside of
him at Canal Street and fell into step, Kenyon turned sharply.
“Forrester!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“I say, Kenyon, do you know you are a great fellow to set the pace,”
complained the bulky youth. “I’ve been trying to overtake you ever
since you crossed Fourteenth Street.”
“I’m very sorry,” replied Kenyon, recovering his presence of mind
instantly. “But I did not expect to see you.”
The other looked at him in frank astonishment.
“Why, what did you suppose had happened?” asked he, wonderingly.
Kenyon laughed.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised at anything happening,” said he. “But I
had specified nothing.”
The other regarded him curiously.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose everyone has his own way of doing things;
but do you know, you rather puzzle me sometimes?”
“I have no doubt of it,” Kenyon smiled.
“You see it’s not just the way to which I’m accustomed. I go at things
in a more direct fashion.”
“As a rule I do myself. But this matter is different from most--so you
must expect altered methods.”
“No doubt you are right. But you do so keep me on the jump. And you
don’t keep me posted. You leave me to discover things for myself. Now
I had not the faintest notion that you had succeeded in the big matter
until Farbush told me, about an hour ago.”
“Things should work in their natural course,” replied the adventurer,
coolly; “I don’t believe much in pæans of victory until the thing is
thoroughly clinched.”
Again the curious look came into Forrester’s eyes. Kenyon noticed it,
and for a moment feared that he had blundered. He had come to the
conclusion, finally, that to get at the true inwardness of the matter
in hand he must float with the current, that he must assume to be what
they supposed him to be--and so he did not desire to excite the other’s
suspicions. But the youth’s next words reassured him.