THE KING OF CONFIDENCE MEN.
I found a number of people at the big up-town hotel who could tell me
a little of Gerald Trent, as he appeared to them after a few days'
acquaintance; and these were unanimous in saying and believing that
young Trent was not absent by his own will.
'It's a case of foul play, I'm sure of it,' declared the clerk, to
whom I had represented myself as 'acting for one of Mr. Trent's
friends.' 'Cowles saw him at the viaduct, he told me, just before he
left; that was five days ago now, and Trent was then going down to
secure those rooms and see that they were put in order. He went by the
Suburban, because he wanted to go over to the avenues, and Cowles went
down by the Whaleback.'
There was no more to be learned up-town. Gerald Trent had been last
seen at the viaduct at the foot of Van Buren Street, where the 'cattle
cars,' the 'Suburban,' and numerous boats left the Lake Front and the
wharf beyond _en route_ for the Fair City. This was at ten o'clock
a.m., or near it.
I went back to the Fair City, as Trent had last gone, upon the
Suburban train; and before noon had begun an exploration, in the
vicinity of the north entrance, for the rooms engaged by him.
Bounding the Fair City on the west was the street known as Stony
Island Avenue, and after a short survey of such near portions of this
street as I had not seen, I satisfied myself that young Trent would
not have selected it as a place of abode for his lady mother, his
sister, and his sweetheart. One block westward, running south from
Fifty-seventh, was a short street called Rosalie Court, and after
exploring this I pushed on to Washington Avenue, and then to Madison,
running respectively one and two blocks parallel with Rosalie Court.
Something impelled me to pass by Washington Avenue, upon which Miss
Jenrys and her aunt were lodged, and to explore the farther avenue
first.
'If the rooms are within two or three blocks of the north entrance,' I
said to myself, 'and if they are upon this street, I shall find them
within one block north or south from this corner,' meaning
Fifty-seventh Street, and I turned southward and began my search in
earnest.
Not long since this part of the city had been a beautiful suburb, and
the pretty cottages and more stately villas were, for the most part,
isolated in the midst of their own grounds. Every other house it
seemed, and some of the most pretentious, bore upon paling, piazza, or
door-post the legend 'Rooms to Let,' and I applied and entered at a
number of handsome and home-like portals, first upon the east side and
then upon the west, crossing at Fifty-eighth Street to turn my face
northward.
At Fifty-seventh I paused. 'It is something more than two blocks from
the Fair entrance to this point,' I mused, 'and therefore I ought to
go but one block in this direction.' But when I had traversed the
block to Fifty-sixth Street, with no success, I crossed the street and
went on, saying, 'It's easy for a stranger to be mistaken in a matter
of distance.' At the north end of this square stood a large
old-fashioned mansion, of a decidedly Southern type. It stood upon
terraced grounds, and was a dignified reminder of better days, with
its stained and time-roughened stuccos, and the worn paint about the
ornate cornices. 'Rooms to Let' was the sign upon a tree-trunk, and
after some doubt and hesitation, I went up the terraced steps, crossed
the lawn, and rang a bell much newer than its surroundings.
Once admitted to the wide, inviting hall, with its glimpse of cheerful
dining-room beyond, and a large cool parlour opening at the side, I
felt that Trent might well have sought quarters in this roomy, airy
house; and when the 'lady of the house,' a woman small, elderly,
delicate, and refined, appeared before me, I put my question
hopefully.
'Madam, have you among the inmates of your house a Mr. Gerald Trent?'
I saw by her sudden change of countenance that the name was not
strange to her, and was not surprised when she informed me that a Mr.
Trent had engaged her best suite of rooms for himself and four others;
that he had called upon her on the Monday previous, paid her an
advance upon the rooms, and informed her that his friends would arrive
in three days, if not sooner.
'They should have been here,' she concluded, 'the day before
yesterday, but they have not appeared, and we have had no word from
them. It is very inconvenient for me. Of course, the rooms are secured
until Monday, but I have no means of knowing if they will come then;
or when I may consider them at my disposal.'
It was evident she had not seen the papers, and I at once put the
notice in her hand, and told her the nature of my business.
There seemed but one opinion of Gerald Trent. When she had read the
paper and heard my statement, she said, at once, what the inmates of
the hotel had said before her:
'Something has happened him. He never went away like this of his own
accord. I never saw a more simple and sincere young man.' And then, as
if by an afterthought, 'He had too much money about him; he was too
well dressed, and--I don't think he was of a suspicious nature.'
I learned from her very little to help my further search. Trent had
met none of the guests of the house upon either of his visits there.
In reply to a question, she had said:
'He seemed in the best of spirits when he paid the advance money and
went away; and he said that he meant to spend the day in the
Plaisance. I remember that he laughed when he said this, and added
something to the effect that he wanted to decide, before the ladies
came, where it would pay to go on the Plaisance, and what were the
things they would not care for. He had a rather frank and boyish way
of expressing himself.'
'And you think he went from here to the Fair?'
'I believe he went from here to Midway Plaisance. There is an entrance
on this street, three blocks south, and I walked to the door with him
and pointed the way to it.'
And this was all. Of course I took from her lips, as from the people
up-town, a minute description of Trent's dress and appearance on the
day of his disappearance, and then I went back to the Fair by the
Midway gate, and wished impatiently for the time to come when I should
meet Brainerd and consult with him. This I knew would not be until a
late hour, and as I lounged down the Plaisance I began to look about
for the handsome guard, in whom I had taken a decided interest.
I found him easily--as erect, soldierly, attentive to duty as
usual--and we spent the greater part of two hours chatting, while we
paced up and down Midway. He was a bright talker, and he entertained
me with a number of amusing incidents, graphically related, and
illustrative of the life of the Plaisance.
During the two hours, however, I broke the monotony of a continuous
tramp by an excursion, now on one side and then on the other; now to
see the glass-blowers; now the submarine exhibit; and, lastly, to the
Irish village that clustered about Blarney Castle.
It was on my return from this that, as I approached him, I saw, with
some surprise, that he was in earnest conversation with a woman, and
as I came nearer and he shifted his position slightly, I saw that the
woman was none other than that _ignis fatuus_ the brunette. Her back
was toward me, and she was squarely facing him, so that, as I came
nearer and directly toward them, I caught his eye, and, nodding with a
gesture which I think he understood, I turned away and watched the
manoeuvres of 'the little mystery,' as Brainerd so often called the
brunette, wondering if this unknown guard was also to be enmeshed in
the plot she seemed to be weaving. And then there flashed into my mind
that first meeting with the guard, and his avowed acquaintance with
Miss Jenrys. Was this interview in any way connected with or
concerning her?
The brunette had not seen me; of that I was quite assured, and even so
I had small fear of recognition, for while I had not, on the occasion
of our two meetings face to face, worn any disguise, I was confident
that the widely different garments worn on the two occasions, together
with my ability to elongate, twist, and change my features, and to
alter the pitch of my voice, was masquerade sufficient. But I did not
desire to become known to this anomalous personage, and I lingered
here and there, within sight and at a safe distance, until I saw her
nod airily and trip away, flinging a smile over her shoulder.
In the time spent in waiting the end of this little dialogue I had
decided that I must know this young man--so reticent, yet so
frank--better, and that I must win his confidence, and to do this
perfect frankness, I knew, would be my best aid.
When the 'mystery' was safely out of sight, and on this occasion I had
no desire to follow her, I rejoined the guard, and I was sure that I
surprised upon his face a look of perplexity and annoyance, which
vanished when I put my hand upon his arm, and, falling into step with
him, began:
'I hope you understood my meaning when I went into ambush so suddenly?
I really did not care to encounter your friend.'
'That is hardly the right name, seeing that the lady is a stranger to
me,' he replied, slightly smiling.
'Indeed!' I retorted. 'Then may I wager that I know what she had to
say to you?' I saw him flush, and his lips compress themselves as if
to hold back some hasty speech, but I went lightly on: 'That is the
young person who claimed the bag belonging to your acquaintance--you
remember the circumstance--and if she is still as angry at me as she
was on that day she was doubtless imploring you to "run me in," and
put me in more irons than Christopher Columbus ever wore. Honestly
now, am I not right?'
He was silent and seemed perplexed again, and I promptly changed my
tone. 'If I am mistaken, and if the young woman is someone you know, I
beg your pardon; but, remembering how she turned her look upon you on
the occasion of that first meeting----'
'One moment,' he broke in. 'It is possible that we have been unjust in
this case, and I think I may tell you, without a breach of confidence,
what this young lady'--I thought he emphasized the 'lady'
somewhat--'who by-the-by is a stranger to me, had to say just now.'
I bowed my assent, lest speech might cause a discussion, and he went
on:
'The young lady, after excusing herself for doing what she termed an
unconventional thing in addressing me, asked at once after you.'
'After me? But--go on.'
'She spoke of you as "the person" I was talking with on the day when
her friend lost her bag and she tried to reclaim it, and when I
disclaimed all knowledge of you, she told me how "cavalierly"--that is
also her word--you refused to yield up the bag, and how anxiously her
friend was hoping to secure that bag--even yet.'
'Ah! Indeed!'
'You will pardon me,' he went on, not heeding my interjection, and
speaking with marked courtesy, 'but I almost fear you have mistaken
this young lady.'
'Why?'
'Because she not only gave me the name of the owner of the bag, but
she assured me that the lady recognised me in passing, a thing which I
regret, and she called me by my name.'
Here was a coil indeed. My head was a nest of queer thoughts and
suspicions, but I kept to the subject by asking:
'And may I ask how you replied to all this?'
'In the only way I could. You were a stranger, who was anxious, I felt
sure, to restore the bag to its owner. You had assured me of this
much. As to your address, I could not give it, and your name I did not
know; but I added the promise that should I chance to meet you, as I
might, I would ask you to send the bag to the lady's address.'
'Pardon--was this the lady's proposition?'
'No. She asked me to get it from you--the bag.'
'And to restore it through her?'
'Yes.'
'And the address? Did she give you the young lady's address, the
owner's, or her own?'
'She gave the owner's address.'
'Then if you will give it to me I can promise that to-morrow will see
the little bag in its owner's possession.'
He took from his pocket a visiting card, upon which was engraved the
name June E. Jenrys, and underneath in pencil the address.
I had seen just such a card, minus the pencilled address, in Miss
Jenrys' card-tray on Washington Avenue; and that pencilled address! It
was that of the café to which Miss Jenrys was to send her note
concerning the evening excursion.
I had not spoken of the adventure of the bag during the afternoon, and
I had not meant to do so. Since our last meeting my position in
relation to Miss Jenrys had been changed. I was now in some degree the
guardian of her interests, and while I believed in and admired this
handsome and secretive stranger guard, and might have entrusted him
with a secret all my own, perhaps, my mouth was closed concerning the
young lady whom he professed to know yet was unwilling to meet.
As I looked at the tall, lithe figure, the erect head and handsome
face, I wondered what this mystery could be which caused him to
withhold his name from those who might be his friends; to shun a
lovely girl whom he knew and in whom he was evidently interested; and,
above all, which linked him, as was now fairly proven, through the
wily brunette, with the strange pursuit of Miss Jenrys. Was it
possible, I asked myself, that this medley of mysterious happenings
could reach back through the brunette to Greenback Bob, the
counterfeiter, and Delbras, the king of confidence men?