whom they had spoken with before.
“I suppose you have heard of the fate of the man from Butte,” said he
after he had greeted them.
“He’s dead, is he not?”
“Yes; fished out of the East River the other morning. And they found a
new wound upon him--a knife thrust through the heart. It really is the
most remarkable series of events that ever came under my notice. It
would seem as though there was a conspiracy of some sort on foot; and
the people behind it do not value human life very highly.”
“I should say not,” answered Kenyon, dryly. “But how are the other
patients?”
“Number two, as I call the one hailing from West Point, is still in
rather a bad way, but is recovering. The one from Saginaw left the
hospital this afternoon.”
“But he is still in New York?” eagerly.
“Oh, yes; he can be found at the Hotel Suisse on Third Avenue.”
They thanked the surgeon and departed.
“A cabman should know of the Hotel Suisse,” suggested Webster.
So one was summoned, and it proved that he had the necessary
information. A rapid drive landed them in front of a small,
clean-looking hotel in the neighborhood of the Cooper Union. A stout
German with a gleaming bald head was at the desk.
“Oh, dot Kenyon?” replied he, in answer to their inquiries. “_Ja_, I
know him! He have der room dhirty-dhree got. He is a young kind of a
fellar und has a pandage aroundt his head. _Nicht wahr?_”
“That’s the man. Can he be seen?”
“I will findt me oud.”
A colored boy was summoned.
“Mistah Kenyon is in de pool-room, sah,” he informed the clerk.
“All ride. Jusdt show dese chentlemens pack dere, yet.”
They found the person they sought perched upon a window-sill, intently
watching a game of billiards. He was a compactly-built youth of about
twenty-two or three, neatly dressed, and with the flattened nose and
swollen ear of the prize-fighter. He slipped down from his perch, and
at their invitation went with them to a quiet corner of the room. When
he found that they were looking for information upon the subject of the
attack made upon him, he at once manifested great interest.
“Police business?” inquired he.
“No; we have private reasons for seeking information in this matter,”
answered Kenyon. “Anything you can tell us will be appreciated in the
proper way.”
The little pugilist’s eyes snapped.
“Now, that’s good talk!” exclaimed he. “You see, pal, I’m a stranger in
a strange land, and my roll ain’t any too thick. New York is no place,
just now, for a man in my line; and even if it was, I couldn’t take
anyone on, the way I’m fixed here,” and he tapped his bandaged head
significantly.
“Your name is Kenyon, isn’t it?”
“Well, neighbor, it is and it isn’t. I’ve used it ever since I broke
into this mixing business, but my right name is Farral. You see, I was
raised in Kenyon, Iowa, and when I found myself looking around for a
name to put upon the fight cards in Chi. a few years ago, why, I just
picked the name of my old town. Young Kenyon is a name the sporting
editors know, and,” with some pride, “they also know that I work hard
at me job.”
“Tell me about this errand of yours to New York,” invited Kenyon.
“Now, that’s where you stick me, bo; that’s a little passage that’s got
me tied hand and foot! Ever since I got that letter I’ve been trying to
dope it out, but it won’t work into shape, no matter how hard I try;
I’m not strong on the think thing, anyhow, just at the present time.
There’s something like bees gets to buzzing in my top whenever I overdo
it.”
“But you can tell us just how the thing came about, can’t you? That
will not require you to do much thinking.”
“Oh, sure, I can tell it to youse,” cheerfully. “But there ain’t a lot
to tell, at that. You see, it’s this way: I’m sitting in my room one
morning, fixing up a black eye that I got in a job the night before.
Me landlady knocks on the door and chucks a letter over the transom. I
opens it, see? Quick! for I think it might be more work, and work is
the thing I’m looking for. The letter is from a guy named Forrester,
and he tells me to move East as far as New York in a hurry. He allows
that he’s got a good thing for me and encloses a check for expenses.
“I’m in South Bend. The time named is the next night; so I packs me bag
and takes the cushions for the big town, right on the jump. I don’t
know Forrester, you see, but money talks every time. I didn’t know how
good the thing was that was waiting for me either, but figured it out
as a soft proposition with plenty of backing that the guy wants me to
clean up for.
“I’m cheerful and neighborly when they dump me into Jersey City; I
cross the river the same way, and I whistle all the way uptown. Then
when I duck into this Selden’s Square place I gets my bumps. That’s
about all there is to it.”
“Did Forrester not mention the nature of the work he had for you to do?”
“He didn’t mention anything except his own name and the house in
Selden’s Square.”
Kenyon glanced at Webster.
“This one seems to have been told less than the fellow from Butte,”
remarked the latter. “I wonder why?”
“Perhaps the other one insisted upon knowing more before he made a
move.”
The little pugilist looked interested.
“Say,” spoke he, “if youse can put me hep on the game, I’d be obliged.
There is something coming to a couple of stick-up guys for trimming me
that night, and I’d like to settle the bill when I’m fit.”
“I’m sorry to say that we can tell you little or nothing; we are
vastly interested ourselves for certain reasons, but can learn nothing
definite. However, this much I’m sure of. One of the men who had a hand
in laying you out is a New York crook called the Stalker.”
“The Stalker, eh? I’ll remember that. In a little while my lid will be
all right and I’ll hunt him up. And if I find him, he’ll get plenty.
Make a note of it.”
Kenyon handed the youth a sum of money that caused a broad grin to
spread itself across his face.
“Pal,” said he, “yous’er all fineo. It takes a sport to pass it along
that way. And that’s no hop vision. Say,” warming up, “I’ll bet yous’er
a friend of the young lady who was to see me at Bellevue yesterday.”
“I thought you were a stranger in New York.”
“That’s right So I am. Me, the perfect stranger, see? I haven’t a
friend between here and Pittsburg. The girl is new to me. But she was
there with the bells on, just the same. I know a real one when I see
her, even if I don’t mix with the motor-car owners. I thinks she’s a
friend of yours because she treated me right, and because she asked me
about the same line of questions as you handed me.”
“It is possible that I know her. Did she tell you her name.”
“Sure. And her address.” He took a card from his pocket and read:
“DALLAS GILBERT,
_The Girls’ Club, Mulberry Street_.”
He looked up and continued: “It’s one of these things that rich girls
get up for poor ones. And she said she was there every Wednesday and
Friday night; and she also hinted, if I ever found anything out about
this Selden’s Square thing, to drop around there and tell her about it.”
“And I’ll ask you to do the same,” said Kenyon. He wrote the name of
his hotel on one of his own cards and handed it to the pugilist. “It’ll
be worth your while.”
“So her name is Gilbert, eh?” said Webster, when they reached the
street. “And she’s a girl addicted to helping the poor. I say, Kenyon,
that sounds rather good.”
Kenyon looked at his watch.
“I’ll be saying good-night,” remarked he.
“It’s not quite 9.30, and I’ll probably get there at a decent time.”
“Get where?” asked the astonished Webster.
“Why, to this Mulberry Street Club, of course. It is Friday night, you
see. I have a few straightforward words to say to Miss Gilbert about a
certain packet, and I’m going to say them at once.”
XVII
AT THE GIRLS’ CLUB IN MULBERRY STREET
“If the instinct prompts you to mistrust--obey. For instincts are the
whisperings of the gods.”
--_A Maxim of Hong Yo._
STEELE KENYON found the Girls’ Club without a great deal of trouble.
It was a new and solid-looking building and from top to bottom every
window gleamed with lights. He made inquiries of a sergeant of police
who happened along upon his round of inspection. The sergeant was a
ruddy-faced, white-haired man with the hale look of that type of old
New Yorker whose reminiscences never went above Canal Street.
“That club,” said the silver-haired sergeant, “is one of the finest
things in the city; and the women who carry it on deserve every kind
of credit. You know how girls are brought up in some parts of the
East Side; they don’t get any kind of training; they are not taught
to do any useful work in their homes. They get to know the inside of
workshops pretty early, and what they hear there, sometimes, is not the
best thing for them. Then come the dances, the drink and the street.”
“And this is the class of girls that forms the membership of the club?”
“For the most part. And it helps them a lot. If they have a talent it
is developed, if they have a liking it is encouraged. And there is
nothing preachy or goody-goody about the place. That’s the secret of
its success. They will teach a girl to dance just as readily as they’ll
teach one to spell. I think the secretary, Miss Gilbert, is responsible
for most of the successful features. She’s a wonderful young lady.”
The sergeant was about to pass on; then paused and continued:
“If you are thinking of helping the club along with a contribution,
why, do it. You’ll make no mistake. It’s the real goods.”
“Quite an idea,” mused Kenyon, after the policeman had gone. “By
George, it’s the very thing for me!”
He had been standing upon the opposite side; so now he crossed the
street and entered the building. A group of girls were in the hall,
muffling themselves up, for the night was cold for the time of year. At
sight of the tall, elegantly attired young man, they set up a subdued
whispering and giggling.
“I am inclined to suspect that male visitors are not very common,
here,” thought Kenyon, with a good-humored smile.
One of them, a dark-skinned, black-eyed girl, who plainly showed her
Neapolitan blood, approached him.
“Did you want to see anyone, please?” she asked.
“The secretary, Miss Gilbert,” answered he.
“You’ll find her in the office,” directed the black-eyed girl, pointing
to an open door across the hall. “Walk right in.”
“Thank you.” He entered at the door indicated and found himself in an
apartment lighted only by a shaded cluster of bulbs which hung low
over a big desk in the centre of the floor. The shade threw the light
downward upon a girl whose beautifully posed head and great mass of
dark hair immediately told him who she was. She was bent over the desk,
writing; and without looking up, she asked:
“What is it, please?”
Kenyon afterwards admitted that at that moment his heart was pounding
as it had never pounded before; but when he answered, his voice was
calm and assured.
“I have come to see the secretary,” said he, “and was told I’d find her
here.”
At the first sound of his voice she started and lifted her head. The
light showed him the color leave her face and then stream back,
brilliantly. The surprise was a sharp one, but she did not lose the
air of proud self-possession which seemed so natural to her. However,
when she spoke, there was a slight break in her voice, a fact which she
noticed and which caused her evident annoyance.
“I am the secretary,” she said.
“Ah!” He took a forward step. The light now fell upon him also, and
showed a look of mild surprise. “Thank you.”
“Will you state your business,” she asked, coldly. “I have a great deal
to do, and it is getting late.”
“Pardon me,” bowing. “I have recently heard good reports of this work,
and had thought to send the treasurer a check if I found them verified.”
“The hour is rather unconventional,” she answered. And as he looked at
her he could have sworn that he saw a quick flash of amusement in the
dark eyes.
“It must be the light,” he thought. “It sometimes plays tricks like
that.” Then he continued, aloud, “I fancy that unconventionality is as
a rule the usual thing with me.”
“Will you sit down?” She pointed to a chair beside the desk.
“Thank you.”
He seated himself and she regarded him with serious attention. Not
since the first surprise had she betrayed the slightest sign of ever
having seen him before.
“We are always glad to have people investigate us,” she said. “A great
deal of money is paid out of our fund during the year, and, of course,
it is necessary that more should come in if the work is to go on.”
“Of course,” replied he.
“There are people who contribute regularly,” she proceeded. “These help
us a very great deal. But what they give is not nearly enough; and we
are pleased to have new interest aroused, even if it is only passing.”
There was a curiously questioning look in her face as she spoke. Kenyon
noticed, but did not understand it. At first he thought it might mean
eagerness for the work in which she was engaged. But he dismissed that,
instantly. The club and its welfare had no part in her thoughts at the
present moment--he felt confident of that; it was other matters--the
events of the night before, perhaps--that interested her.
“And she is speaking by rote,” he told himself. “All that she’s saying
are the self-evident things that require no attention.”
While these things were passing through his mind she had continued on
in the same strain, speaking rapidly and clearly, but wearing the same
look of interest in something foreign to her subject. Suddenly this
changed. His observant eyes saw it give place to a new eagerness that
all but set her a-tremble. She opened a drawer in her desk and took out
a book.
“It is customary,” she said, “for visitors to sign their names here,”
placing the book before him. “Complying with this does not indicate
their willingness to contribute,” quickly; “it merely enables us
to keep track of those who have shown sufficient interest to make
inquiries.” She dipped a pen in the ink and held it out to him. “Will
you write your name and address, please?”
He took the pen, and a glimmer of humor appeared in his eyes.
“I wonder what happens after I sign?” he asked himself. “It appears to
be a lucky thought of some sort.”
He spread his bold signature across the first blank line and placed
the name of his hotel under it. Then she took the book and carefully
blotted the page; watching her keenly he saw the fixed attention which
she gave what he had written, and again saw the swift color sweep
into her face. Then she placed the book carefully in the desk, once
more, and leaning back in the office chair looked at him. He gasped in
rapture; for she was smiling.
“Do you know, Mr. Kenyon,” she said, “I cannot altogether get rid of
the notion that you had other things in your mind that you have not
mentioned, when you came here to-night.”
“It is quite possible,” returned he, coolly. “Under certain
circumstances one does not immediately plunge into the matters which
interest one most.”
“You came to ask certain questions, did you not?” She placed her elbows
upon the desk and her chin in her palms. For the first time Kenyon
noticed the beauty of her hands. “Questions upon matters on which you
think information might be of service to you.”
“Precisely.” His admiration blunted his observation; he did not notice
that she was entertained by his even manner. “There is information
which I fancy would relieve my mind to a greater or less extent. There
are facts which have been dancing on ahead of me, so to speak, too
elusive to grasp, but interesting enough to make it worth while to try.”
“I think I understand. And it might be some balm to you to know that
you have not been alone in this.”
“I do not think,” said Kenyon, slowly, “that you refer to yourself. It
is not possible.”
She raised her brows inquiringly, but said nothing.
“A girl of your parts should find no difficulty in obtaining
information. There is a bird, I believe, that always waits until some
other bird has built a nest. Then it calmly takes possession. I have
always thought this a serviceable talent.”
“I do not think I understand.”
“I will be more illuminative. A man runs a desperate risk and works
very hard to achieve a certain thing. When the victory is in his hands,
a woman snatches it from him.”
She gave a gasp of wonder; her great, startled eyes searched his face.
“It was you!” she said. “It was you--last night!”
“And, I think,” smiled he, “that it was also you.”
“You were masked,” she said. “A masked burglar!” There was terror in
her manner and voice, and she shrank a little from him. “I did not
recognize you; I was too frightened.”
“You were not too frightened to remain and lay a little plan to beat me
out,” remarked he, and there was an admiration in his tone that caused
her to flush rosily. “But, then,” slowly, “it was, somehow, about the
sort of thing I would have expected of you. Miss Anna did not seem at
all the girl for such an undertaking, though of course I thought at
first it was she.”
“Why _of course_?” she asked, a little resentfully.
“Because of her manner last night, when I talked with her on the
stairs.”
“You talked with her--on the stairs!”
She half arose in her chair. But almost instantly she recovered
her self-possession, though the wide-open eyes told plainly of the
excitement that her words had betrayed.
“I--I had not heard of it,” she said, trying to smile. “It sounds
interesting; pray tell me about it.”
“It’s no great story. Anna was frightened when she met me on the stairs
leading to the second floor; she said some things that meant nothing,
but her manner caused me to suspect much. Later I was convinced that
I was right, by her stealing downstairs to assure herself that I was
gone.”
“What did you suspect?”
“That there was another design upon the safe beside my own--that she
had someone concealed in the house who was to help her.”
“No, no, that can’t be true. Anna knows nothing of the packet.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“Then you and she were not partners, so to speak; you knew nothing of
her movements?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was so impressed with the notion that she was about to attempt some
secret design, that when you caught the glimmer of my torch in the dark
hall and came to the office door, I felt sure that it was she.”
A startled look came upon the face of Dallas; her voice was low and
frightened as she exclaimed:
“When was this?”
“Before I began operations upon the safe. Don’t you remember? You
opened the office door and listened. You could see nothing, the
darkness was so thick. You were frightened; and you whispered: ‘Who’s
there?’ Then you went slowly down the hall.”
“You heard this?” she demanded, and her face was pale.
“I did.” He regarded her curiously; then a thought struck him. “By
George, it was she after all. She must have stolen away to find
Forrester.”
“Forrester!”
“Of course. He was there. I saw them together in the lower hall
immediately after you snatched the packet and ran. And Farbush was
standing before them wild with passion, and with a revolver in his
hand.”
Without a word Dallas arose, went swiftly to a small bookcase at the
farther side of the room, and opened a secret and cunningly contrived
drawer at its base. Then she turned and he saw that her face was as
white as death.
“It’s gone!” she said.
“Not--not--?” he could not finish.
“Yes, the packet.”
He stood for a moment overwhelmed.
“You are sure that it is gone?” he cried. “Look again!”
She shook her head.
“No use. I am quite sure.”
“And you are positive that you placed it there?”
She nodded.
“It was the safest place I knew of,” she answered.
“But the drawer is a secret one! Who knew of it beside yourself?”
“Anna, only.”
“Ah!” and a look of intelligence came into his face. “And when was she
here last?”
“Less than an hour ago.”
XVIII
KENYON SHOWS HIS METAL
“He is a young man of quick observation and sure judgment. And once
he has made up his mind, he acts like lightning.”
--_Extract from a letter of Nunez._
FOR a moment Dallas Gilbert and Steele Kenyon stood looking into each
other’s face in silence; each was reading a suspicion akin to their own.
“I’m inclined to think that Anna has the packet,” stated Kenyon, slowly.
“I am sure of it,” cried the girl. “Oh, I have always hated myself for
not believing in her! She seemed so child-like in some things, and she
is so clinging and pretty.”
“Ah! Then there has always been a sort of distrust of her?”
“Yes. I could not make up my mind, at times, that she was quite
sincere; I often thought that I detected a hidden purpose in her
apparently artless questions. Once or twice I have noticed--” But she
paused, hesitatingly, then broke out: “But I must not talk this way to
you. You do not understand the situation.”
Kenyon bowed.
“There are a great many things, as I have had occasion to remark upon
one or two previous occasions, that I do not understand in this case,”
said he, smiling.
Again he saw hesitancy in her eyes; then she suddenly held out her hand.
“I ask your pardon,” she said, simply.
Quickly he took the hand; but his manner told her that he did not
understand.
“For things that I have said, and things that I have done. I did not
believe in you--then.”
“And now?” eagerly.
“I know you to be a brave man.”
A slight shadow came upon his face.
“There are many sorts of brave men,” he said. “Some of the greatest
villains have been as courageous as lions.” She understood and hung
her head. “Do you know,” he went on, “I think I have been much more
generous than you in this matter. You have come upon some sort
of evidence that has proven to you that I am not an out and out
blackguard; and so, in part, you have repented your first opinion of
me.”
She colored, but her beautiful eyes were lifted to meet his,
inquiringly.
“I did not require any evidence to prove your worth to me,” Kenyon
continued. “You suspected me because you were convinced that I was
associated with Hong Yo and the others. I had every reason to believe
the same of you--at first--but I did not.”
An impulsive answer seemed to tremble upon her lips; her eyes shone
through the gathering tears. But she held herself in check.
“I can tell you nothing now,” she said, and her voice faltered a
little. “Because it would seem so strange and unconvincing. I am but a
girl, and for months have been circumstanced as a girl has never been
before. When one is constantly surrounded by hidden dangers and secret
foes, one fears to trust--anyone.”
“I wish I could do something to make you trust me,” he said. “It is
not enough for a man to have a girl tell him that she thinks him
brave. Mere courage is not an uncommon thing. I don’t know what this
evidence is that you have discovered in my favor, but I do know that
it must be incomplete. I do not ask to know the meaning of any of the
strange things that I have encountered during the past week. All I
know is that, somehow, and for some reason, you are engaged in a sort
of warfare with a number of men. Let me complete the testimony. Let
me fight upon your side and convince you that I am honest, as well as
brave.”
For a long time--it seemed minutes to Kenyon--she searched his face.
Then with sudden resolve she said:
“I will. I accept you as a recruit.”
“And I,” exclaimed Kenyon, “will serve you as I never served a leader
before! Name the deeds that you desire done,” laughing, “and I shall do
them.”
But her face was grave; indeed, discouragement was written heavily upon
her.
“Oh, I am so helpless to deal with it all,” she almost sobbed, suddenly
breaking down. “It is more than a girl’s work. At every turn I see
things that appear beyond my strength to overcome. I cannot plan
with these men; their cunning overmatches mine. Even at this moment
everything seems black. If Anna took the packet from the secret drawer,
she has turned it over to Griscom Forrester before this, and he--” She
paused suddenly, drawing in her breath in short gasps, then she sprang
toward Kenyon and grasped his arm. “Quick, quick!” she cried. “The
_Wizard_.”
He looked at her in astonishment.
“It is Griscom Forrester’s yacht; she lies in the East River not far
from Twenty-third Street. If she has given him the packet he will get
up steam at once.”
Like lightning his mind grasped the situation. He stepped to the
desk, took up the ’phone that stood there, and asked for the
Waldorf-Astoria. With the receiver to his ear awaiting a reply he
turned to her, calmly.
“What sized yacht is the _Wizard_?”
“About seventy tons.”
“And her crew?”
“I think, fifteen men.”
“Thank you.” Then he spoke into the ’phone: “Ah, is that the Waldorf?
I’d like to speak to Mr. G. A. Webster, if you please.”