PERSECUTORS
During the brief run up-town Winifred managed to dry her tears, yet the
mystery and terror of the circumstances into which she was so suddenly
plunged seemed to become more distressful the longer she puzzled over
them. She could not find any outlet from a labyrinth of doubt and
uncertainty. She strove again to read the printed accounts of the crime,
in order to wrest from them some explanation of the extraordinary charge
brought against her aunt, but the words danced before her eyes. At last,
with an effort, she threw the paper away and bravely resolved to follow
Steingall's parting advice.
When she reached the warehouse she was naturally the object of much
covert observation. Neither Miss Sugg nor Mr. Fowle spoke to her, but
Winifred thought she saw a malicious smile on the forewoman's face. The
hours passed wearily until six o'clock. She was about to quit the
building with her companions--many of whom meant bombarding her with
questions at the first opportunity--when she was again requested to
report at the office.
A clerk handed her one of the firm's pay envelopes.
"What's comin' to you up to date," he blurted out, "and a week's salary
instead of notice."
She was dismissed!
Some girls might have collapsed under this final blow, but not so
Winifred Bartlett. Knowing it was useless to say anything to the clerk,
she spiritedly demanded an interview with the manager. This was refused.
She insisted, and sent Steingall's letter to the inner sanctum, having
concluded that the dismissal was in some way due to her visit to the
detective bureau.
The clerk came back with the note and a message: "The firm desire me to
tell you," he said, "that they quite accept your explanation, but they
have no further need of your services."
Explanation! How could a humble employee explain away the unsavory fact
that the smug respectability of Brown, Son & Brown had been outraged by
the name of the firm appearing in the evening papers as connected, even
in the remotest way, with the sensational crime now engaging the
attention of all New York?
Winifred walked into the street. Something in her face warned even the
most inquisitive of her fellow-workers to leave her alone. Besides, the
poor always evince a lively sympathy with others in misfortune. These
working-class girls were consumed with curiosity, yet they respected
Winifred's feelings, and did not seek to intrude on her very apparent
misery by inquiry or sympathetic condolence. A few among them watched,
and even followed her a little way as she turned the corner into
Fourteenth Street.
"She goes home by the Third Avenue L," said Carlotta. "Sometimes I've
walked with her that far. H'lo! Why's Fowle goin' east in a taxi! He
lives on West Seventeenth. Betcher a dime he's after Winnie."
"Whadda ya mean--after her?" cried another girl.
"Why, didn't you hear how he spoke up for her this mornin' when Ole
Mother Sugg handed her the lemon about bein' late?"
"But he got her fired."
"G'wan!"
"He did, I tell you. I heard him phonin' a newspaper. He made 'em wise
about Winnie's bein' pinched, and then took the paper to the boss. I was
below with a packin' check when he went in, so I saw that with my own
eyes, an' that's just as far as I'd trust Fowle."
The cynic's shrewd surmise was strictly accurate. Fowle had, indeed,
secured Winifred's dismissal. Her beauty and disdain had stirred his
lewd impulses to their depths. His plan now was to intercept her before
she reached her home, and pose as the friend in need who is the most
welcome of all friends. Knowing nothing whatsoever of her domestic
surroundings he deemed it advisable to make inquiries on the spot. His
crafty and vulpine nature warned him against running his head into a
noose, since Winifred might own a strong-armed father or brother, but no
one could possibly resent a well-meant effort at assistance.
The mere sight of her graceful figure as she hurried along with pale
face and downcast eyes inflamed him anew when his taxi sped by. She
could not avoid him now. He would go up-town by an earlier train, and
await her at the corner of One Hundred and Twelfth Street.
But the wariest fox is apt to find his paw in a trap, and Fowle, though
foxy, was by no means so astute as he imagined himself. Once again that
day Fate was preparing a surprise for Winifred, and not the least
dramatic feature thereof connoted the utter frustration and undoing of
Fowle.
About the time that Winifred caught her train it befell that Rex
Carshaw, gentleman of leisure, the most industrious idler who ever
extracted dividends from a business he cared little about, drove a
high-powered car across the Harlem River by the Willis Avenue Bridge,
and entered that part of Manhattan which lies opposite Randall's Island.
This was a new world to the eyes of the young millionaire. Nor was it
much to his liking. The mixed citizenry of New York must live somewhere,
but Carshaw saw no reason why he and his dainty car should loiter in a
district which seemed highly popular with all sorts of undesirable
folks; so, after skirting Thomas Jefferson Park he turned west, meaning
to reach the better roadway and more open stretches of Fifth Avenue.
A too hasty express wagon, however, heedless of the convenience of
wealthy automobilists, bore down on Carshaw like a Juggernaut car, and
straightway smashed the differential, besides inflicting other grievous
injuries on a complex mechanism. A policeman, the proprietor of a
neighboring garage, and a greatly interested crowd provided an impromptu
jury for the dispute between Carshaw and the express man.
The latter put up a poor case. It consisted almost entirely of the
bitter and oft-repeated plaint:
"What was a car like that doin' here, anyhow?"
The question sounded foolish. It was nothing of the kind. Only the
Goddess of Wisdom could have answered it, and she, being invisible, was
necessarily dumb.
At last, when the damaged car was housed for the night, Carshaw set out
to walk a couple of blocks to the elevated railway, his main objective
being dinner with his mother in their apartment on Madison Avenue. He
found himself in a comparatively quiet street, wherein blocks of cheap
modern flats alternated with the dingy middle-class houses of a by-gone
generation. He halted to light a cigarette, and, at that moment, a girl
of remarkable beauty passed, walking quickly, yet without apparent
effort. She was pallid and agitated, and her eyes were swimming with
ill-repressed tears.
As a matter of fact, Winifred nearly broke down at sight of her empty
abode. It was a cheerless place at best, and now the thought of being
left there alone had induced a sense of feminine helplessness which
overcame her utterly.
Carshaw was distinctly impressed. In the first place, he was young and
good-looking, and human enough to try and steal a second glance at such
a lovely face, though the steadily decreasing light was not altogether
favorable. Secondly, he thought he had never seen any girl who carried
herself with such rhythmic grace. Thirdly, here was a woman in distress,
and, to one of Carshaw's temperament and upbringing, that in itself
formed a convincing reason why he should wish to help her.
He racked his brain for a fitting excuse to offer his services. He could
find none. Above all else, Rex Carshaw was a gentleman.
Of course, he could not tell that the way was being made smooth for
knight-errantry by a certain dragon named Fowle. He did not even quicken
his pace, and was musing on the curious incongruity of the maid in
distress with the rather squalid district in which she had her being
when he saw a man bar her path.
This was Fowle, who, with lifted hat, was saying deferentially: "Miss
Bartlett, may I have a word?"
Winifred stopped as though she had run into an unseen obstruction. She
even recoiled a step or two.
"What do you want?" she said, and there was a quality of scorn, perhaps
of fear, in her voice that sent Carshaw, now five yards away, into the
open doorway of a block of flats. He was an impulsive young man. He
liked the girl's face, and quite as fixedly disliked Fowle's. So he
adopted the now world-famous policy of watchful waiting, being not
devoid of a dim belief that the situation might evolve an overt act.
"I want to tell you how sorry I am for what happened to-day," said
Fowle, trying to speak sympathetically, but not troubling to veil the
bold admiration of his stare. "I tried hard to stop unpleasantness, and
even risked a row with the boss. But it was no use. I couldn't do a
thing."
"But why are you here?" demanded Winifred, and those sorrow-laden eyes
of hers might have won pity from any but one of Fowle's order.
"To help, of course," came the ready assurance. "I can get you a far
better job than stitchin' octavos at Brown's. You're not meanin' to stay
home with your folks, I suppose?"
"That is kind of you," said Winifred. "I may have to depend altogether
on my own efforts, so I shall need work. I'll write to you for a
reference, and perhaps for advice."
She had unwittingly told Fowle just what he was eager to know--that she
was friendless and alone. He prided himself on understanding the ways of
women, and lost no more time in coming to the point.
"Listen, now, Winnie," he said, drawing nearer, "I'd like to see you
through this worry. Forget it. You can draw down twice or three times
the money as a model in Goldberg's Store. I know Goldberg, an' can fix
things. An', say, why mope at home evenings? I often get orders for two
for the theaters an' vaudeville shows. What about comin' along down-town
to-night? A bit of dinner an' a cabaret'd cheer you up after to-day's
unpleasantness."
Winifred grew scarlet with vexation. The man had always been a repulsive
person in her eyes, and, unversed though she was in the world's wiles,
she knew instinctively that his present pretensions were merely a cloak
for rascality. One should be fair to Winifred, too. Like every other
girl, she had pictured the Prince Charming who would come into her life
some day. But--Fowle! Her gorge rose.
"How dare you follow me here and say such vile things?" she cried
hysterically.
"What's up now?" said Fowle in mock surprise. "What have I said that you
should fly off the trolley in that way?"
"I take it that this young lady is telling you to quit," broke in
another voice. "Go, now! Go while the going is good."
Quietly but firmly elbowing Fowle aside, Rex Carshaw raised his hat and
spoke to Winifred.
"If this fellow is annoying you he can soon be dealt with," he said. "Do
you live near? If so, he can stop right here. I'll occupy his mind till
you are out of sight."
The discomfited masher was snarling like a vicious cur. The first swift
glance that measured the intruder's proportions did not warrant any
display of active resentment on his part. Out of the tail of his eye,
however, he noticed a policeman approaching on the opposite side of the
street. The sight lent a confidence which might have been lacking
otherwise.
"Why are you buttin' in?" he cried furiously. "This young lady is a
friend of mine. I'm tryin' to pull her out of a difficulty, but she's
got me all wrong. Anyhow, what business is it of yours?"
Fowle's anger was wasted, since Carshaw seemed not to hear. Indeed, why
should a chivalrous young man pay heed to Fowle when he could gaze his
fill into Winifred's limpid eyes and listen to her tuneful voice?
"I am very greatly obliged to you," she was saying, "but I hope Mr.
Fowle understands now that I do not desire his company and will not seek
to force it on me."
"Sure he understands. Don't you, Fowle?" and Carshaw gave the
disappointed wooer a look of such manifest purpose that something had to
happen quickly. Something did happen. Fowle knew the game was up, and
behaved after the manner of his kind.
"You're a cute little thing, Winifred Bartlett," he sneered, with a
malicious glance from the girl to Carshaw, while a coarse guffaw
imparted venom to his utterance. "Think you're taking an easier road to
the white lights, I guess?"
"Guess again, Fowle," said Carshaw.
He spoke so quietly that Fowle was misled, because the pavement rose and
struck him violently on the back of his head. At least, that was his
first impression. The second and more lasting one was even more
disagreeable. When he sat up, and fumbled to recover his hat, he was
compelled to apply a handkerchief to his nose, which seemed to have been
reduced to a pulp.
"Too bad you should be mixed up in this disturbance," Carshaw was
assuring Winifred, "but a pup of the Fowle species can be taught manners
in only one way. Now, suppose you hurry home!"
The advice was well meant, and Winifred acted on it at once. Fowle had
scrambled to his feet and the policeman was running up. From east and
west a crowd came on the scene like a well-trained stage chorus rushing
in from the wings.
"Now, then, what's the trouble?" demanded the law, with gruff
insistency.
"Nothing. A friend of mine met with a slight accident--that's all," said
Carshaw.
"It's--it's--all right," agreed Fowle thickly. Some glimmer of reason
warned him that an expose in the newspapers would cost him his job with
Brown, Son & Brown. The policeman eyed the damaged nose. He grinned.
"If you care to take a wallop like that as a friendly tap it's your
affair, not mine," he said. "Anyhow, beat it, both of you!"
Carshaw was not interested in Fowle or the policeman. He had been
vouchsafed one expressive look by Winifred as she hurried away, and he
watched the slim figure darting up half a dozen steps to a small
brown-stone house, and opening the door with a latch-key. Oddly enough,
the policeman's attention was drawn by the girl's movements. His air
changed instantly.
"H'lo," he said, evidently picking on Fowle as the doubtful one of these
two. "This must be inquired into. What's your name?"
"No matter. I make no charge."
Fowle was turning away, but the policeman grabbed him.
"You come with me to the station-house," he said determinedly. "An' you,
too," he added jerking his head at Carshaw.
"Have you gone crazy with the heat?" inquired Carshaw.
"I hold you for fighting in the public street, an' that's all there is
to it," was the firm reply. "You can come quietly or be 'cuffed, just as
you like. Clear off, the rest of you."
An awe-stricken mob backed hastily. Fowle was too dazed even to
protest, and Carshaw sensed some hidden but definite motive behind
the policeman's strange alternation of moods. He looked again at the
brown-stone house, but night was closing in so rapidly that he could
not distinguish a face at any of the windows.
"Let us get there quickly--I'll be late for dinner," he said, and the
three returned by the way Carshaw had come.
Thus it was that Rex Carshaw, eligible young society bachelor, was drawn
into the ever-widening vortex of "The Yacht Mystery." He did not
recognize it yet, but was destined soon to feel the force of its
swirling currents.
Gazing from a window of the otherwise deserted house Winifred saw both
her assailant and her protector marched off by the policeman. It was
patent, even to her benumbed wits, that they had been arrested. The
tailing-in of the mob behind the trio told her as much.
She was too stunned to do other than sink into a chair. For a while she
feared she was going to faint. With lack-lustre eyes she peered into a
gulf of loneliness and despair. Then outraged nature came to her aid,
and she burst into a storm of tears.