CLANCY EXPLAINS
Carshaw phoned the Bureau, asking for Clancy or the chief. Both were
out.
"Mr. Steingall will be here to-morrow," said the official in charge.
"Mr. Clancy asked me to tell you, if you rang up, that he would be away
till Monday next."
This was Wednesday evening. Carshaw felt that fate was using him ill,
for Clancy was the one man with whom he wanted to commune in that hour
of agony. He dined with his mother. She, deeming him crazy after a
severe attack of calf-love, humored his mood. She was calm now,
believing that a visit to the lawyers next day, and her own influence
with the mill-manager and the estate superintendent, would soon put a
different aspect on affairs.
A telegram came late: "No news."
He sought Senator Meiklejohn at his apartment, but the fox, scenting
hounds, had broken covert.
"The Senator will be in Washington next week," said the discreet
Phillips. "At present, sir, he is not in town."
Carshaw made no further inquiry; he knew it was useless. In the morning
another telegram: "No news!"
He set his teeth, and smilingly agreed to accompany his mother to the
lawyers'. She came away in tears. Those serious men strongly approved of
her son's project.
"Rex has all his father's grit," said the senior partner. "In a little
time you will be convinced that he is acting rightly."
"I shall be dead!" she snapped.
The lawyer lifted his hands with a deprecating smile. "You have no
secrets from me, Mrs. Carshaw," he said. "You are ten years my junior,
and insurance actuaries give women longer lives than men when they have
attained a certain age."
Carshaw visited Helen Tower. She was fluttered. By note he had asked for
a _tete-a-tete_ interview. But his first words undeceived her.
"Where is Meiklejohn?" he asked.
"Do you mean Senator Meiklejohn?" she corrected him.
"Yes; the man who acted in collusion with you in kidnapping my intended
wife."
"How dare you--"
"Sit down, Helen; no heroics, please. Or perhaps you would prefer that
Ronald should be present?"
"This tone, Rex--to me!" She was crimson with surprise.
"You are right: it is better that Tower should not be here. He might get
a worse _douche_ than his plunge into the river. Now, about Meiklejohn?
Why did he conspire with you and my mother to carry off Winifred
Bartlett?"
"I--don't know."
"Surely there was some motive?"
"You are speaking in enigmas. I heard of the girl from you. I have never
seen her. If your mother interfered, it was for your good."
He smiled cynically. The cold, far-away look in his eyes was bitter to
her soul, yet he had never looked so handsome, so distinguished, as in
this moment when he was ruthlessly telling her that another woman
absorbed him utterly.
"What hold has Meiklejohn over you?" he went on.
She simulated tears. "You have no right to address me in that manner,"
she protested.
"There is a guilty bond somewhere, and I shall find it out," he said
coldly. "My mother was your catspaw. You, Helen, may have been spiteful,
but Meiklejohn--that sleek and smug politician--I cannot understand him.
The story went that owing to an accidental likeness to Meiklejohn your
husband was nearly killed. His assailant was a man named Voles. Voles
was an associate of Rachel Craik, the woman who poses as Winifred's
aunt. That is the line of inquiry. Do you know anything about it?"
"Not a syllable."
"Then I must appeal to Ronald."
"Do so. He is as much in the dark as I am."
"I fancy you are speaking the truth, Helen."
"Is it manly to come here and insult me?"
"Was it womanly to place these hounds on the track of my poor Winifred?
I shall spare no one, Helen. Be warned in time. If you can help me, do
so. I may have pity on my friends, I shall have none for my enemies."
He was gone. Mrs. Tower, biting her lips and clenching her hands in
sheer rage, rushed to an escritoire and unlocked it. A letter lay there,
a letter from Meiklejohn. It was dated from the Marlborough-Blenheim
Hotel, Atlantic City.
"Dear Mrs. Tower," it ran, "the Costa Rica cotton concession is
almost secure. The President will sign it any day now. But
secrecy is more than ever important. Tell none but Jacob. The
market must be kept in the dark. He can begin operations
quietly. The shares should be at par within a week, and at five
in a month. Wire me the one word 'settled' when Jacob says he
is ready."
"At five in a month!"
Mrs. Tower was promised ten thousand of those shares. Their nominal
value was one dollar. To-day they stood at a few cents. Fifty thousand
dollars! What a relief it would be! Threatening dressmakers, impudent
racing agents asking for unpaid bets, sneering friends who held her
I. O. U.'s for bridge losses, and spoke of asking her husband to settle;
all these paid triumphantly, and plenty in hand to battle in the
whirlpool for years--it was a stake worth fighting for.
And Meiklejohn? As the price of his help in gaining a concession granted
by a new competitor among the cotton-producing States, he would be given
five shares to her one. Why did he dread this girl? That was a fruitful
affair to probe. But he must be warned. Her lost lover might be
troublesome at a critical stage in the affairs of the cotton market.
She wrote a telegram: "Settled, but await letter." In the letter she
gave him some details--not all--of Carshaw's visit. No woman will ever
reveal that she has been discarded by a man whom she boasted was tied to
her hat-strings.
Carshaw sought the detective bureau, but Steingall was away now, as well
as Clancy. "You'll be hearing from one of them" was the enigmatic
message he was given.
Eating his heart out in misery, he arranged his affairs, received those
two daily telegrams from Miss Goodman with their dreadful words, "No
news," and haunted the bookbinder's, and Meiklejohn's door hoping to see
some of the crew of Winifred's persecutors. At the bookbinder's he
learned of the visit of the supposed clergyman, whose name, however, did
not appear in the lists of any denomination.
At last arrived a telegram from Burlington, Vermont. "Come and see me.
Clancy." Grown wary by experience, Carshaw ascertained first that Clancy
was really at Burlington. Then he instructed Miss Goodman to telegraph
to him in the north, and quitted New York by the night train.
In the sporting columns of an evening paper he read of the sale of his
polo ponies. The scribe regretted the suggested disappearance from the
game of "one of the best Number Ones" he had ever seen. The Long Island
estate was let already, and Mrs. Carshaw would leave her expensive flat
when the lease expired.
Early next day he was greeted by Clancy.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Carshaw," said the little man. "Been here before?
No? Charming town. None of the infernal racket of New York about life in
Burlington. Any one who got bitten by that bug here would be afflicted
like the Gadarene swine and rush into Lake Champlain. Walk to the hotel?
It's a fine morning, and you'll get some bully views of the Adirondacks
as you climb the hill."
"Winifred is gone. Hasn't the Bureau kept you informed?"
Clancy sighed.
"I've had Winifred on my mind for days," he said irritably. "Can't you
forget her for half an hour?"
"She's gone, I tell you. Spirited away the very day I asked her to marry
me."
"Well, well. Why didn't you ask her sooner?"
"I had to arrange my affairs. I am poor now. How could I marry Winifred
under false pretenses?"
"What, then? Did she love you for your supposed wealth?"
"Mr. Clancy, I am tortured. Why have you brought me here?"
"To stop you from playing Meiklejohn's game. I hear that you camp
outside his apartment-house. You and I are going back to New York this
very day, and the Bureau will soon find your Winifred. By the way, how
did you happen onto the Senator's connection with the affair?"
Taking hope, Carshaw told his story. Clancy listened while they
breakfasted. Then he unfolded a record of local events.
"The Bureau has known for some time that Senator Meiklejohn's past
offered some rather remarkable problems," he said, dropping his
bantering air and speaking seriously. "We have never ceased making
guarded inquiries. I am here now for that very purpose. Some thirty
years ago, on the death of his father, he and his brother, Ralph Vane
Meiklejohn, inherited an old-established banking business in Vermont.
Ralph was a bit of a rake, but local opinion regarded William as a
steady-going, domesticated man who would uphold the family traditions.
There was no ink on the blotter during upward of ten years, and William
was already a candidate for Congress when Ralph was involved in a
scandal which caused some talk at the time. The name of a governess in a
local house was associated with his, and her name was Bartlett."
Carshaw glanced at the detective with a quick uneasiness, which Clancy
pretended not to notice.
"I have no proof, but absolutely no doubt," he continued, "that this
woman is now known as Rachel Craik. She fell into Ralph Meiklejohn's
clutches then, and has remained his slave ever since. Two years later
there was a terrific sensation here. A man named Marchbanks was found
lying dead in a lakeside quarry, having fallen or been thrown into it.
This quarry was situated near the Meiklejohn house. Mrs. Marchbanks, a
ward of Meiklejohn's father, died in childbirth as the result of shock
when she heard of her husband's death, and inquiry showed that all her
money had been swallowed up in loans to her husband for Stock Exchange
speculation. Mrs Marchbanks was a noted beauty, and her fortune was
estimated at nearly half a million dollars. It was all the more amazing
that her husband should have lost such a great sum in reckless gambling,
seeing that those who remember him say he was a nice-mannered gentleman
of the old type, devoted to his wife, and with a passion for cultivating
orchids. Again, why should Mrs. Marchbanks's bankers and guardians allow
her to be ruined by a thoughtless fool?"
Clancy seemed to be asking himself these questions; but Carshaw, so far
from New York, and with a mind ever dwelling on Winifred, said
impatiently:
"You didn't bring me here to tell me about some long-forgotten mystery?"
"Ah, quit that hair-trigger business!" snapped Clancy. "You just listen,
an' maybe you'll hear something interesting. Ralph Vane Meiklejohn left
Vermont soon afterward. Twelve years ago a certain Ralph Voles was
sentenced to five years in a penitentiary for swindling. Mrs.
Marchbanks's child lived. It was a girl, and baptized as Winifred. She
was looked after as a matter of charity by William Meiklejohn, and
entrusted to the care of Miss Bartlett, the ex-governess."
Carshaw was certainly "interested" now.
"Winifred! My Winifred!" he cried, grasping the detective's shoulder in
his excitement.
"Tut, tut!" grinned Clancy. "Guess the story's beginning to grip. Yes.
Winifred is 'the image of her mother,' said Voles. She must be 'taken
away from New York.' Why? Why did this same Ralph vanish from Vermont
after her father's death 'by accident'? Why does a wealthy and
influential Senator join in the plot against her, invoking the aid of
your mother and of Mrs. Tower? These are questions to be asked, but not
yet. First, you must get back your Winifred, Carshaw, and take care that
you keep her when you get her."
"But how? Tell me how to find her!" came the fierce demand.
"If you jump at me like that I'll make you stop here another week," said
Clancy. "Man alive, I hate humbug as much as any man; but don't you see
that the Bureau must make sure of its case before it acts? We can't go
before a judge until we have better evidence than the vague hearsay of
twenty years ago. But, for goodness' sake, next time you grab Winifred,
rush her to the nearest clergyman and make her Mrs. Carshaw, Jr.
That'll help a lot. Leave me to get the Senator and the rest of the
bunch. Now, if you'll be good, I'll show you the house where your
Winifred was born!"