said to the girl, quietly:
“Take the ’phone book, and find me the name Schmelzer.”
She nervously took up the book and began to flutter the pages. Just
then Webster called:
“Hello.”
“Hello, Garry. This is Kenyon.”
“Ah, still on the quest?”
“I want you to meet me at the foot of Twenty-third Street, East River,
as soon as you can get there.”
There was a snort of astonishment at the Waldorf end of the wire. Then
Webster demanded, excitedly:
“What’s doing, Ken?”
“There promises to be plenty.”
“All right,” exultantly. “I’m with you.”
“Good; ring off, and call an auto. You can’t get there too quick.”
Kenyon hung up and turned to Dallas.
“Well?” he inquired.
“Here they are.”
She laid the directory before him and indicated a list of names. He ran
his finger along this, and then gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
Schmelzer, who kept the pool-room in Pell Street, also possessed a
telephone; so in a few moments he was talking to the ex-divekeeper,
Gypsy Brady.
“What do you want the men for?” asked the latter, after some talk.
“A tough job, perhaps. And I want tough men. The pay will be large.”
“I’m your man,” answered Brady. “The large pay is the thing that
counts. I’ll be at the place with the bunch as soon as you will.”
Calmly, and without the slightest indication of hurry, Kenyon called
up a neighboring garage and ordered a motor-car; then he had himself
connected with the information-desk of a popular newspaper, and
received much concise information upon the subject of power-boats and
where they were to be had. Person after person was summoned over the
humming wire; then he hung up, finally, with a satisfied air.
“I think I have done about all I can do in the way of precaution,”
said he, smiling. “If the matter stands as you think, I will be ready
to offer some sort of opposition to Mr. Forrester’s departure.”
“You are wonderful!” she said. And then she threw back her head and
laughed.
It was as though all her anxiety and fear had been dissolved before the
sudden rush of his thorough personality. In an instant he had assumed
all her cares; she felt herself strangely at peace and weakly willing
to allow him to bear the weight of everything. His masculine grasp and
sharp military decisions had wonderfully comforted and soothed her.
Kenyon as he looked at her gathered some of this, and his heart beat
swiftly. It was the sort of thing that tells heavily with a woman; and
he had progressed.
“If I can succeed,” was his thrilling thought, “there will be no one
stand higher than I! And I _will_ succeed!”
He heard the gruff grunting of the car’s signal outside; and he turned
to Dallas, catching up his hat.
“I must go; the men whom I have engaged will be waiting for me; and
then Forrester must not be given too much time.”
She pinned on her hat and took her long coat from a chair where it had
been thrown.
“Good-bye,” said he.
“I’m going with you,” she told him, briefly.
“Impossible!” he cried.
“And why so?” She drew herself up in that proud fashion which he had
come to know so well; the head lifted imperiously and the beautiful
eyes flashed.
“There will be danger, perhaps.”
She laughed, scornfully.
“Danger! Am I not accustomed to danger? The past week has been crowded
with perils that I could not see. This, to-night, will be at least
visible.”
He looked at her with quick admiration. And at that moment he learned
that it was her spirit and not her beauty alone that drew him to her.
“You are determined?” he asked, after a short pause.
“I am.”
“Very well.”
Without another word he led her out to the car which stood at the curb.
The night had turned overcast, and a damp wind blew from the east.
“It will be a bad night upon the river,” commented Kenyon.
He assisted her into the huge car.
“Foot of Twenty-third Street, East,” he said to the driver. “And make
good time.”
They spoke hardly a word all the way uptown; when the foot of
Twenty-third Street was reached Kenyon noticed another car.
“That must be Webster,” he exclaimed. Sure enough, in the tonneau he
espied Garry, enveloped in a huge overcoat and holding a cigar between
his teeth.
“Hello, Kenyon,” cried that young gentleman, removing the cigar and
waving his hand. “Here I am, on deck and waiting!”
“I knew you would be!” Kenyon’s car drew up beside the other. “Mr.
Webster--Miss Gilbert.”
The girl inclined her head, but Webster, so great was his astonishment,
blundered woefully.
“Great Cæsar!” was his mental exclamation. “Kenyon’s coming along, sure
enough. And she _is_ a beauty. I never saw such eyes and such a great
lot of dark hair.”
“Wait here for us,” said Kenyon to his driver. Then to Webster he
added: “And you’d better have your fellow wait, also; we may need him.”
He helped Dallas out, and the three of them made their way to a pier
close by. Webster never asked a question; he knew that something of
great importance was expected to occur, or Kenyon would never have
summoned him. And then the presence of Dallas Gilbert lent an air of
suspense to the thing which he would not have broken for the world.
From a dusky spot along the pier a man arose and approached them.
“Mr. Kenyon?” he asked.
“That’s right. Are you the man I spoke to over the ’phone?”
Kenyon was brusque and direct; for in times of emergency the old
military habit was difficult to shake off.
“Yes, sir. I keep the public boat-house down below here a piece.” Then
he turned and pointed out into the stream. “I gave an eye to the yacht
_Wizard_ as you told me. That’s her out there with all the lights
going. Some people boarded her about a half hour ago; I had a night
glass on her, and I think they are trying to get up steam in a hurry.”
“Have you the glass with you?”
“Yes, sir. Here it is.”
The east wind had driven the murk in masses above the city; and along
the waters of the river a sort of thickening was noticeable in the
darkness. But Kenyon’s keen eyes and the night glass managed to gather
the salient features of the proceedings aboard the _Wizard_. Steam was
up and the anchor was being weighed.
“Can you get us out to her before she starts?” asked Kenyon.
The boatman looked at the yacht through the glass.
“It’s too late,” said he, positively. “She’ll be off before I could get
you to the launch.”
Kenyon handed the man a bill, the size of which made him stare; then
with Dallas and Webster he hurried back to the place where they had
left the cars. A group of men stood upon a corner not far from them.
“Ah, there are my fellows, now,” said Kenyon, in a tone of
satisfaction. “Everything is moving on schedule. Take my car with Miss
Gilbert, Webster, while I speak to them.”
He strode over to the group. There were seven altogether, and Gypsy
Brady and Big Slim were among them.
“How are you, pal?” saluted the latter. “I’m taking a chance, being
out, but I need the money.”
“What’s the game?” inquired the Gypsy.
“Jump into that car, there, the lot of you,” directed Kenyon, shortly,
pointing to the machine that Webster had arrived in. As they scrambled
in, hurriedly, he continued to the driver: “Follow the other car; keep
close behind, or you might lose us in the darkness.”
Then he leaped into the car with Dallas and Webster.
“Morris Heights,” he ordered. “And let us see you break a record.”
“We’ll be pinched if we try that,” protested the driver.
“We must take the risk. It is late, and there are not many people upon
the streets, so there is little danger of an accident. Open her up!”
“All right,” said the man, as the big car swept around. “The chances
are all yours. I’m used to it.”
And he followed his instructions to the letter. The machine was a
powerful one, as was the one behind; and stray pedestrians were
startled to see the two big vehicles flash by and vanish amid a cloud
of dust. Now and then a policeman waved a frantic club and shouted; but
they never heeded him, burning the streets until they reached their
destination.
“Now, then, all of you,” cried Kenyon to Gypsy Brady and his followers.
The men tumbled out, as Kenyon paid the drivers of the ears. Then they
all made their way along the river front, until Kenyon halted them at a
covered pier, the small, private door to which stood open.
A man with a big ship’s lantern stood there.
“Mr. Kenyon’s party?” inquired he.
“Yes. Is the _Vixen_ ready?”
“All but casting off.”
“Then let us get aboard.”
In a few minutes they were upon the tiny after-deck of a long, narrow
power-boat of something less than fifteen tons. Brady and his men were
gathered forward and upon the top of the low cabin. Kenyon saw the last
one aboard; then he handed Dallas down into the cabin.
“Cast off,” said he to the men in charge. “And let us see what time you
can make between here and North Brother Island.”
XIX
ON BOARD THE VIXEN
“Through the scud and fog, and the flying spray
We drove all night till the break of the day.
Yo ho, my lads, yo ho.”
--_An Improvisation of Garry Webster._
THE lines were let go and the boat shoved off; then the gasoline engine
was started, and after a moment’s hesitancy in getting under way, the
fleet craft buried its nose in the water and shot down the Harlem
toward East River.
“Now,” said Garry Webster, in a low tone to Kenyon; “now that there
seems to be a moment in which we can take breath, what in the name of
the fire-eyed gods does all this mean?”
Kenyon laughed.
“If you will come down into the cabin,” said he, “I’ll try and tell you
about it.”
Dallas sat there, still enveloped in her long coat; and Kenyon noticed,
with a quick shock, that she was very pale.
“You should not have come,” said he, and Webster nodded significantly,
aside, at the gentleness of the tone. “It has been too much for you.”
“Do I look bad?” she asked. “But perhaps it is the lantern light,” and
she smiled bravely.
“I have calculated to catch the _Wizard_ about North Brother Island,”
said Kenyon. “You see the stretch of water from the Twenty-third Street
anchorage to the mouth of the Harlem is one of the most congested on
earth. A craft is forced to proceed at low speed at any time, and more
especially upon a dark night like this. The cars brought us up like
hurricanes, and we’ll get into the big stream in good time, if nothing
goes wrong.”
“Good work!” applauded Webster. “I tell you what, Miss Gilbert, it
takes Kenyon to do this sort of thing properly. At college now, he was
especially excellent in planning things. Do you notice the blush?”
with a chuckle at his friend’s secret and impatient gestures. “I think
modesty is so becoming in a man, don’t you?”
“I do, indeed,” smiled the girl.
“Now, Garry, before you relapse into a state of hopeless idiocy,”
remarked Kenyon, “pay attention, and I’ll tell you what has happened.”
So while Webster listened Kenyon told him what the reader already
knows. When he had finished Webster arose.
“Miss Gilbert,” said he, bowing as well as the swaying of the flying
boat would permit, “I bend the knee before courage. Now, that little
scene of yours with an apparently desperate cracksman,” and his blue
eyes snapped with admiration, “was one that required doing, and I tell
you what, Ken,” with a wise nod toward his friend, “you should be
mighty glad that it happened. It has set you right, somehow.”
After some further discussion Webster went upon deck.
“I suppose I shall only be able to approach our conspirators as an open
enemy now,” said Kenyon to the girl.
She looked at him inquiringly.
“If Forrester has the packet, he has learned what you learned, that
I am not the sort of person I seemed to be. Though,” and he looked
puzzled, “Farbush must have known its contents all along, now that I
think of it.”
“There is nothing in the packet that would cause them to suspect you
of being an honest man,” she assured him. “That is, not unless,” and
her voice sank a little as she realized what she was saying, “they are
inclined to believe it of you.”
His heart bounded madly and his blood went tingling through his veins.
But he only said:
“Thank you. That is kind of you.”
Webster put his head into the cabin. “I say, Kenyon,” called he, “the
captain would like to speak with you for a moment. It looks important.”
“Pardon me,” said the adventurer to the girl.
He went upon deck. The owner of the craft, a round-bodied, good-natured
looking man, was at the wheel.
“Excuse me, Mr. Kenyon,” spoke he, “but your friend here tells me that
it is the steam yacht _Wizard_ that you want to meet.”
“That’s her name.” Kenyon saw that the man had something to impart, and
added: “Well?”
“It just happens, sir, that I lay alongside of the power-boat
_Piedmont_ this evening. And just before I got your message to have my
boat ready, a party comes on board of her; and from what I heard the
engineer say before they started out, they, too, were going to meet a
steam yacht. And it just happens that it, also, is the _Wizard_.”
Kenyon leaned back against the cabin and lit a cigarette; Webster
shrugged his shoulders. The group of hard-faced men upon the top of
the cabin listened intently, nodded to each other, and muttered their
opinions of the cruise upon which they had volunteered. A clear voice
spoke from the little companionway which caused them all to start and
turn. It was Dallas who stood there, her long coat and the curling ends
of her dark hair blowing in the wind.
“What sort of people were they who engaged this other boat?” she asked.
“A queer looking lot, miss,” and Kenyon smiled as he saw the speaker
shoot a quick glance at the group forward. “About ten all told, I
should think. One of them appeared to be pretty far gone; they had to
carry him aboard. It was a Chinaman.”
She looked at Kenyon and he saw her face go whiter than ever.
“Hong Yo,” she whispered. “Oh, if we only knew what that means.”
“It means, I should think, that Forrester has summoned his friends,”
said Webster. “From what Kenyon has told me, Forrester and Hong Yo seem
to be particularly intimate.”
There was a curious expression upon the face of Dallas. Kenyon wondered
when he had seen it before, and then suddenly remembered that it had
stolen across her countenance that night in Selden’s Square, when she
gazed at Anna at the old man’s bedside. And he now recognized it as a
species of doubt.
“But, surely,” cried Kenyon, “you do not think that this move of
Forrester’s is upon his own hook--that he is playing the Chinaman
false!”
“I do not know what to think,” she replied, slowly; and though he could
not see, because her head was turned from him, he felt sure that there
were tears in her eyes. “I have seen so much treachery of late that my
reason refuses to accept appearances. I have cause to thank Griscom
Forrester, as you know; but I also have cause to fear him. He may be my
friend, he may be a friend to Hong Yo, or he may be seeking to further
his own personal ends. I cannot tell.”
Shortly after this she went down into the cabin once more; and Kenyon
and Webster talked in low tones.
“It would seem,” remarked the young man from Chicago, “that she is not
any more sure about Forrester than you were some days, or nights, ago.
The fellow seems to be a puzzle.”
“It will not take a great while now to solve him,” answered Kenyon,
grimly. “We are coming into the East River, and once on the _Wizard’s_
deck, I’ll not waste words.”
“Yes; I don’t think a little straight talk will do any harm; the time
seems about ripe for it. But, I say, Ken, doesn’t she,” with a nod
toward the cabin, “do any talking of an enlightening nature?”
Kenyon frowned and looked down into the ghost-like billows which the
craft was throwing up upon either side. They frothed for a moment in
the lantern light and then disappeared in the darkness.
“To speak the plain truth,” said he slowly, “I doubt if she knows a
great deal more than I can guess.”
“But what little she might know,” persisted Webster, “she keeps pretty
closely to herself.”
“Yes,” reluctantly.
“I wonder why. You are upon her side; you are helping her to win out.”
“Yes. But how can she be sure of that. You heard what she just said
about Forrester? Yes? Well, consider and weigh it carefully. Do you
suppose that she referred to him only?”
Webster opened his eyes widely, and whistled.
“You mean to say that she does not altogether trust you. Why, I thought
you had become pals.”
“I’m inclined to think,” said Kenyon, “that she, personally, would
place confidence in me. But she has not, I know, herself, only, to
think of. She seems to fear for others.”
“But whom?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the mysterious ‘he’ whom I have heard referred
to now and then. But whatever it is, the girl fears treachery. And
I suppose she has good cause to fear it. You heard her say that her
reason refuses to accept appearances. I have only the appearance of
aiding her, as yet. Another man has befriended her, but she has cause
to suspect him, for all that. What assurance has she that it will be
different in my case? She even doubts the faith of the conspirators
to each other--as we have been inclined to do. How does she know but
what I, too, in spite of all that she has lately learned, may be one
of them, and willing, now, to throw them all overboard for a personal
advantage. She told me once to-night that she was circumstanced
strangely, and without a friend who could help her. So you can’t blame
her for withholding her confidence; suspicion is her only defence.”
“But she trusts herself in your hands.”
“Did she not trust herself in the hands of the others? The girl has
courage and is not afraid to venture anything that promises results.”
Webster bit the end off a cigar and stooped into the shelter of the
cabin to light it. He drew at it steadily for a moment after he arose,
then said:
“I think you’ve got the right idea, old chap. You’ve got to work
for her good opinion. But in spite of all that you might say to the
contrary, I rather fancy you’ve got a fair sort of a start. In other
words, she’d rather see you win than not.”
Kenyon made no reply. However, her words of a very little while before
came back to him, and his blood thrilled with the renewed realization
of the fact that what Webster said was true. She had told him that she
wished to believe in him. She had put it into words; and her manner
spoke so plainly. The way to set every lingering doubt that she might
have regarding him, at rest, was to win; and he set his teeth and
narrowed his eyes as he looked into the darkness ahead.
“It’s somewhere out there,” he muttered. “We are coming nearer to it
with every moment that goes by. I do not know whom I have to fight, or
why. But I don’t care, either. It’s for her; and I’m going to do it.”
XX
BAFFLED
“This sort of fox is sometimes more than usually cunning.”
--_The Long Island Huntsman._
THE November mist had settled heavily upon the East River; and when
they ran out into it, they could hear the foghorns and bells being
tooted and rung all about them.
“A bad night for making out any craft,” remarked the owner of the
power-boat. “We can’t see more than a dozen feet on any side of us.”
The man who attended to the engine suddenly lifted his head.
“There goes the _Piedmont_,” said he.
“Well, if you can see her, you’ve got mighty good sight,” laughed
Webster.
“I sure would,” returned the man. “But I don’t see her. I hear her.
Listen!”
There was a continuous, snuffling, gasping sound ahead, and the steady
thump of an engine.
“I could tell that exhaust of hers anywhere,” explained the engineer.
“It’s the worst on the river.”
For some time they listened to the coughing of the _Piedmont_. The
_Vixen_ was barely creeping along, for it was impossible to make any
speed; the danger of a collision was too great.
“She seems to be cruising up and down,” said Kenyon.
“Yes; her skipper knows that this is about the best place to meet any
vessel making for the Sound. They come this way to avoid the currents
around Hell Gate.”
Backward and forward cruised the _Vixen_ passing and repassing the
_Piedmont_ in the darkness. Once those on board the latter seemed to
become suspicious, and she crept forward, her port and starboard lights
shining through the fog.
“Hello!” cried a voice. “Who is that?”
“Don’t come any nearer,” replied the skipper of the _Vixen_. “I know
how that old box of yours steers, Morgan.”
“Oh, is that you, Phylen? All right.”
And then the _Piedmont_ crept away again, resuming her cruising up and
down. At this point Dallas re-appeared upon deck.
“I thought I heard someone calling,” she said.
“You did,” answered Kenyon. “We’ve come up with the other boat that the
captain was telling us of.”
She gave a little gasp and looked off in the direction of the now
distant boat.
“Do you know,” she whispered in a frightened sort of way, “that sound
out there reminds me of the cough of Hong Yo.” She had placed her hand
upon his arm, and he could feel the shudder that ran through her. “Oh,
how I fear that man.”
“You have excellent cause. The man from Butte was close to the truth
when he called him a dying devil.”
She gave him a quick, surprised glance but said nothing.
“The murder of that man was one of the worst exhibitions of deadly
ferocity that I ever saw--and my career in South America was not
without its experiences.”
“It was dreadful,” said the girl, shudderingly, and she covered her
face with her hands.
Now and then a steam vessel would pass them in the darkness, and the
skipper of the _Vixen_ would hail its deck and draw alongside. But they
were mostly tugs and “truck” boats; as yet no yacht had split the murk.
“Do you feel quite sure that she has not yet gone by?” asked Webster at
length.
“I’m positive of it,” replied Kenyon. “She had not the time. But she
should be due at almost any minute now.”
“Hark, there!” cried the skipper; “do you hear that whistle?”
There came a low, mournful wailing from down river.
“It’s one of those toy sirens that some yachtsmen fit their crafts
with,” the skipper informed them. “Like as not this is the vessel you
want.”
“Yes; and there goes the _Piedmont_ for her,” said Webster. The
coughing exhaust of the unseen power-boat gurgled and volleyed from
ahead; and they could see her port light streaming dimly through the
fog.
At Kenyon’s order the _Vixen_ swept around and followed the other boat
like a beagle. Suddenly the lights of a large yacht stared down at
them, from the distance of about twenty-five yards. Then they heard a
shrill hail from the deck of the _Piedmont_.
“Ahoy! Is that the _Wizard_?”
No reply came from the yacht.
“Hello! is that the yacht _Wizard_?” came another voice.
“Farbush,” Kenyon told Webster.
Still there was no answer from the yacht.
“She’s increasing her speed,” spoke the skipper of the _Vixen_. “Her
people don’t seem to want to be friendly.”
Bells could be heard jingling from the engine-room of the larger
vessel; the rush of water around her bow grew greater; then she shot
forward at a swifter rate. The _Piedmont’s_ lights were seen to swing
in pursuit; and almost at the same moment the _Vixen_ performed a like
manœuvre.
“She can’t outfoot us,” said Kenyon to Dallas, “but we may have some
trouble stopping her, if they persist in going ahead.”
“We’ll have to do it before we pass City Island,” growled the _Vixen’s_
skipper. “This craft can’t ride the seas that’s piling into the Sound
to-night. She’d swamp if we tried to shove her through.”
They rushed along until they were almost overlapping the _Wizard’s_
stern. However, they were some thirty or more yards to the starboard of
her; the _Piedmont_ was upon the port side and apparently directly in
her wash.
“It seems as though they were going to try to lay alongside and board
her,” cried Webster, suddenly, as he peered through a night glass.
“They’ll go to the bottom if they make the attempt,” prophesied the
engineman of the _Vixen_. “They must be damned fools.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Kenyon, quietly. “They are out here
to board that yacht, and it’s up to them to do the best they can in the
matter. If the people on board the _Wizard_ refuse to stop, they must
take steps to accomplish their object, anyhow.”
“But it’s impossible to get to the deck of that vessel at her present
speed,” protested the skipper.
“I’ll show you in a few minutes that it is not,” Kenyon assured him.
“What do you mean?” suspiciously.
“Just point her nose toward the yacht’s stern. I think I can get her
rail in a jump from the cabin roof.”
“You could never do it. Another thing, I’m not going to give you a
chance to try. If the _Vixen_ once got so far into the wash of that
craft, she’d be swamped.”