LARRY IS BAFFLED
This was much better than Larry had expected. To have the envelope
remembered so soon was good, but to have the carrier who brought it
in say he recalled having received it from the person who mailed the
letter, was better yet.
"What sort of a man was he?" asked Larry, his heart beating high
with hope.
"Why do you ask?" inquired the carrier.
"I'm a reporter from the _Leader_, and I'm trying to locate Mr.
Potter, the missing millionaire," said Larry. "This letter was from
him."
"Then I can't be of much service to you," the postman went on. "This
was given to me by a man who bore no resemblance to Mr. Potter,
whose picture I have lately seen in the papers."
"But what sort of a looking man gave you this envelope?" asked
Larry.
"He was a smooth-shaven man, rather poorly dressed. I'll tell you
how it was. This box, at which I was when the man gave me the
letter, is at the foot of a street leading to the river. It is the
last one I collect from at night. I had taken out all the mail in
the box, and was just locking it up again when some one came up the
street in a hurry. I looked around, for the neighborhood is a lonely
one, and, as I did so, I saw a man come to a halt, as if he was
surprised to see me at the box. I could see he had a letter in his
hand.
"'Come on,' I said, for often people run up to me at the last minute
to have me take letters. 'Come on,' I said, for I was in a hurry.
'I'll take the letter.'
"At that the man pulled his hat down over his eyes and advanced
slowly. He held the letter out to me, and, as he did so, I caught a
glimpse of his face, as the light from a street lamp flashed on it.
I could see he was smooth shaven. I took the letter and put it in my
bag. As I did so the man seemed to melt away in the shadows. I
thought it rather queer at the time, for it seemed as if the fellow
was afraid I'd recognize him. But I'd never seen him before, so far
as I know, so he needn't have been alarmed. I brought the letter to
the office, and as I sorted my mail, I noted that the stamp had been
stuck on with plenty of mucilage. I also saw the blot, and, as the
envelope was unlike any I had ever seen before, as far as size and
quality of paper went, the thing was impressed on my mind.
"That's all I know about it," the carrier finished, "but I'm sure
the man who gave me the letter was not the missing millionaire. I've
seen his picture too many times lately to be mistaken."
"Then who could it have been?" asked Larry.
"That's a hard question, young man," said the carrier. "It might
have been any one else. I think it was a person who didn't care
about being seen, and didn't want to attract any attention. I guess
he would have been better satisfied to have dropped the letter in
the box when no one was looking, but seeing me there he came up with
it before he knew what he was doing."
"If the letter was from Mr. Potter, and it wasn't the millionaire
who mailed it, he must have got some one to do it," the chief clerk
of the sub-station suggested, and Larry was forced to adopt this
idea. He inquired as to the location of the box at which the carrier
stood when he received the missive, and asked in what direction the
man came from. Having learned these facts, and deciding he could
gain nothing more by staying longer at the sub-station, Larry
hurried to the _Leader_ office.
"Well, I've gained something," he said to himself. "I've got a good
story, and I have a slender clue to work on. I must write the story
first, however. Then I'll go back and tell Grace what I learned."
The account of the letter and the circumstances under which it was
mailed created a new sensation in the Potter mystery, and, as on
several other occasions, the _Leader_ scored a beat.
As soon as he had finished the story Larry went to see Grace, whom
he found anxiously waiting for him. She asked a score of questions
as to what he had learned, and the reporter told her all about his
trip to the sub-station.
"What are you going to do next?" she inquired.
"I think I'll go over on the East Side and make some inquiries. Your
father may be staying there," answered Larry.
Going downtown in an elevated train, and taking a stroll through
that populous section, known as the "East Side," Larry soon found
himself in the neighborhood of the box at which the carrier had
received the letter written by Mr. Potter. He took a brief survey of
the locality.
"Not very promising," was his mental comment.
All about were big tenement houses of a substantial kind. They were
built of brick, and from nearly every window a woman's head
protruded, while the street swarmed with children. It was a
neighborhood teeming with life, for it was the abode of the poor,
and they were quartered together almost like rabbits in a warren.
For want of something better to do, Larry strolled down one side of
the street, at the end of which was located the letter box which
formed such a slender clue. Then he walked up the other side,
looking about him idly, in vain hopes of stumbling on something that
would put him on the track.
It was late in the afternoon, and the streets were beginning to
fill with workers hurrying home, for the day's labor was over. As
Larry strolled along, rather careless of his steps, he collided with
a man in front of a big tenement building.
"Excuse me," murmured the reporter.
"I beg your pardon," the man said, grabbing hold of Larry to prevent
them both from falling, so forceful had been the impact. "I was
looking to see if my wife was watching for me. She generally looks
out of the window to see me coming down the street, and then she
puts the potatoes on."
"I guess I wasn't looking where I was going," said Larry, as he
disengaged himself from the man's grip. "I was--why, hello, Mr.
Jackson!" he exclaimed.
"What! Why, bless my soul if it isn't Larry Dexter!" and the man
held out his hand. "Why, I haven't seen you in a long time. How's
your mother and the children?"
"Fine. How's Mrs. Jackson?"
"She's well. There she is looking out of the window, wondering why I
don't come home to supper. You must come in and see her. Come, and
stay to supper."
The man Larry had thus unexpectedly met was the one in whose flat
Mrs. Dexter and the children had stayed the first night they had
come to New York, and found that the sister of Larry's mother, with
whom they expected to remain, had suddenly moved away. The Dexter
family, sad and discouraged at the loss of their farm, would have
fared badly on their arrival in the big city had not Mrs. Jackson
and her husband befriended them.
While Larry was getting a start in the newspaper work the Dexter
family had lived in the same tenement with the Jacksons, and they
had become firm friends. Larry and his mother since then had moved
to other quarters, and had, for some time back, lost trace of their
acquaintances.
"I didn't know you lived here," said Larry when he had recovered
somewhat from his surprise at seeing Mr. Jackson.
"We haven't lived here long. I got a better position in this part of
the city, and as I like to be near my work I moved here. We like it
quite well, but it's rather crowded. However, almost any place is in
New York. But you must come in to supper. Mrs. Jackson will be
anxious to hear all about your folks. I can see her making signs to
me to hurry up. I suppose the potatoes are all cooked and the tea
made."
Larry did not require much urging to accept the kind invitation. He
wanted to see his friends again, and he thought they might be able
to give him some information concerning the people of the
neighborhood.
"Because it's the best place in the world to hide in. If I wanted to
drop out of sight I'd go about two blocks away from here and keep
quiet. No one would ever think of looking for me so near my home."
"I hope you don't contemplate anything like that," said Larry with a
laugh.
"No, indeed. But New York is the best hiding place, and you can
depend on it, Mr. Potter is here."
"You haven't seen him in the neighborhood, have you?" asked the
reporter, glad of the opportunity which gave him a chance for that
question.
"No, I can't say that I have. If they'd offer a reward I might take
time to hunt for him," and Mr. Jackson laughed. "I can't afford to
turn detective as it is now," he added. "It's too hard to get a
living."
Larry spent the evening with his friends, keeping the talk as much
as possible, without exciting suspicion, on the Potter case. In this
way he learned considerable about the persons living in the
immediate vicinity of the Jacksons, for Mrs. Jackson was fond of
making new acquaintances.
But in all this there was no clue such as Larry sought. There were
any number of men, concerning whom there seemed to be some mystery,
but none answered the description of Mr. Potter.
"There are a queer lot of people in this tenement," said Mr.
Jackson, during the course of the talking. "All of 'em have some
story hidden away, I guess. Especially one man."
"Who is he?"
"Nobody knows," replied Mr. Jackson. "He came here one night, and
seemed quite excited. Let's see, it was Thursday night, I remember
now. He acted as though he was afraid some one was after him."
"Thursday night," thought Larry. "That was the night the man got
away from the deserted tenement."
"My wife and I were sitting here," continued Mr. Jackson, "when all
at once a knock sounded on the door. I opened it, and there was this
man. He asked if I had any rooms to rent. I hadn't, but I told him I
had a spare bed, for I saw he was respectable. He seemed glad to get
it, and paid me well, though I didn't want to take the money. But he
seemed to have plenty."
"What was queer about him?" asked Larry, beginning to take an
unusual interest in what his friend was saying.
"Well, the excitement he seemed to be in, for one thing. And
another, he had just been shaved. I could see the talcum powder on
his cheeks. I thought it strange that a man who had time to shave or
get shaved should be in such a hurry. But it wasn't any of my
affair, so I said nothing."
"What became of him?" Larry was quite eager now. He seemed to be on
the verge of discovering something; if not of the Potter mystery
then of the other, that cropped up every now and again--that of the
man he had helped save from the wreck.
"He went away the next morning," Mr. Jackson resumed. "I didn't see
him again until the next night. Then he told me he had a room in
this tenement."
"Where?" inquired the young reporter.
"On the floor below--a front room, at the end of the corridor. But
are you going to call on him?" and Mr. Jackson looked somewhat
surprised at Larry's eagerness.
"Maybe I could get a story out of him," replied the reporter
non-commitally. "Have to be always on the lookout, you know."
"Well, I guess you'll not get much out of this man," said Mr.
Jackson. "He hardly speaks to me, though he doesn't seem cross or
ugly. Only there's some mystery about him. I'm sure of that."
"If he's Mah Retto I'm positive there is," thought Larry. "And it
looks as if it might be that fellow."
Not wishing to seem too keen on the scent of the queer man, the
newspaper youth changed the subject. In a little while he said he
had better be going home, as he had not told his mother he would be
out late. He promised to ask Mrs. Dexter to call on Mrs. Jackson,
and, with many good wishes from his friends, he left.
"Now for a try at the room on the next floor," said Larry in a
whisper, as he found himself in the corridor. "It's only a slim
chance, but a reporter has to take all that come his way."
He found the room Mr. Jackson had described, and knocked on the
door. There was a sound from within, as though some one had arisen
from a chair. Then a voice asked:
"Who's there?"
"Does Mah Retto live here?" asked Larry, determining on a bold plan.
Hardly had he spoken the words when the door was quickly opened.