“JUSTICE CALLS!”
“Followed!”
Merriwell muttered the word. He knew there was a spy on his track. It
was not a pleasant thing to think that it was possible he had been
spotted by the Black Brothers. It was not a pleasant thing to think that
it might be he had been marked as a victim.
Perhaps he would be the next to receive the blood-red star, the fearful
symbol of death!
“I’ll make sure he is shadowing me,” thought Frank.
Then he quickened his steps, turning from street to street, boarded an
omnibus, left it after a little for a cab, and left the cab at the Rond
Point de l’Etoile, where he paused to gaze at the wonderful and
awe-inspiring Arch of Triumph, the grandest triumphal arch ever
constructed, which was erected in commemoration of Napoleon’s victories.
For some minutes Frank quite forgot everything else in viewing the grand
structure, situated at the union of twelve broad and beautiful avenues,
“each of which sweeps away as grandly as the radiance of a search-light
on the sky at night.”
It was not strange that, for the time, he forgot the black shadow that
had been following him. He turned into the magnificent Avenue des Champs
Élysées. Thoughtfully, he walked along, unmindful of the glittering show
about him. He had fell to meditating once more on the mystery of the
death of Edmond Laforce. Scarcely noting where he was going, he turned
into a side street.
All at once, he turned square about, and stopped. Frank’s eyes were
keen. At a distance, on the opposite side of the street, a man was
buying a paper at one of the little kiosks at which newspapers are sold
in Paris.
“It is the shadower!” muttered the American youth, with a strange,
jumping feeling at his heart. “I have not been able to shake him! There
is no doubt about it now—I am spotted!”
He returned to the hotel, making no further effort to throw the spy off
his track. He found Browning lounging, smoking, and reading. Diamond and
Rattleton had gone out. Ten minutes after entering his room, Frank
approached the window, and looked out. In the doorway, on the opposite
side of the street, was the same figure in black!
“Browning!”
“Huah?”
“Come here.”
“What’s the matter?” asked the big fellow lazily. “I’m in a blamed
comfortable position.”
“I want you to come to this window a moment.”
Grumbling somewhat, Bruce dragged himself up, and walked heavily across
the room.
“What is it?” he asked.
Frank flung open the window.
“Look out,” he directed.
“I’m looking.”
In the open window, Frank pointed straight at the man in the doorway.
The man looked up, and saw him, but did not stir, or make an effort to
conceal himself.
“Do you see that man down there, Bruce—the man in black, who is standing
on those steps?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a spotter.”
“Eh? What?”
“He has followed me ever since I left this hotel this morning.”
“The dickens you say!”
“He was standing just where he stands now when I looked out this
morning.”
“Well, what’s the matter with him? What’s he want?”
“I don’t know what he wants, but I know he has followed me everywhere.
After I discovered it, I made an effort to throw him off.”
“But couldn’t?”
“No; not even when I dodged round corners, took an omnibus, and then
deserted that for a cab.”
Browning whistled.
“Well, that’s queer!” he said. “Do you fancy he’s some ruffian Mart
Brattle has hired to do you up?”
“Of course, I do not know who or what he is, but I do know he is a spy.”
“Well, we haven’t any particular use for spies, have we, Merriwell?”
“It doesn’t seem to me that we have.”
“Then I’ll just go down and wipe him off the face of the earth!” growled
Bruce. “Rattleton said I needed exercise. This will give me what I
need.”
“What will you do?”
“Smash him!”
“And get yourself into trouble. You will be arrested.”
“Well, are you going to let every sneak that wants to chase you around
wherever you go?”
“I do not like it, but you must remember that I have no proof the man
has chased me. When I have such proof, I’ll have him arrested for
annoying me.”
“Better lead him to some good place where I can get at him. Say, Merry,
get him to follow you down to the river, and I’ll throw him off a
bridge. That’s what he needs—a good ducking will cool him off properly.”
“I have taken a fancy to corner him first, and demand to know why he has
chased me. I think I’ll go down and do it.”
“I’m going with you.”
They descended to the street; but, when they reached it, the man in
black had disappeared, nor could they find anything of him.
“He took the hint, and sneaked just in time,” muttered Bruce. “Oh, if I
could have thumped him once!”
They lunched together, Rattleton and Diamond having failed to return to
be with them. Wellington Maybe had gone to Versailles. The afternoon was
spent in the Bois de Boulogne, and, although Frank looked for him often,
no more was seen of the shadow in black.
At the hour that evening when he had agreed to meet Edmond Laforce in
front of the Café de la Paix, Frank was there, sitting at the same
little table. To save his life, he could not tell why he had come there.
Something had seemed to draw him, and he came alone.
Thus far, he had said nothing to his friends and companions about his
meeting with Laforce, and the strange things that followed. In part, he
had promised secrecy to the dead man, and he knew he could not tell a
part without revealing the whole, unless he placed himself in an awkward
position. He sat there, watching the flow of life around that table, and
thinking of the Black Brothers, the blood-red star, and the mysterious
metal ball which might hold the fate of Dreyfus, and which lay safely in
his pocket. He wondered when any one would call for that ball, if ever.
How could any one know it was in his possession?
As he was thinking of this, a man paused a moment squarely in front of
the table, looked straight at Frank, and spoke two words:
“Justice calls!”
These words gave Frank a great start, for, despite all that had
happened, they were most unexpected. But the sign that was to accompany
the words was not given. The man did not cover his eyes with his hands.
Merry waited for this, and was about to speak, when the stranger added:
“Not here. Follow.”
Then he turned, and walked slowly away, not once looking back.
Frank hesitated. The signal had not been complete, nor had the man
seemed to expect to receive anything there. It was plain he fully
expected Frank would follow. Perhaps he had not wished to receive the
metal ball there in that public place, and so he had given enough of the
signal for Merry to understand, and follow him to a place more suited.
Frank arose. As he did so, his hand slid round to his hip, where he felt
a loaded revolver nestling in his pocket.
“It’s more than even chances I shall not need it,” he muttered; “but it
is there, in case I do.”
He was half tempted to remove it to another pocket, from which it could
be produced more easily and expeditiously, but, being aware he could not
do this without being seen by those around, he refrained.
The man who had spoken to him was crossing the square, and Merry
followed at a distance. The man turned into the Rue Auber, and still he
did not look back. It seemed plain that he fully expected Frank to
follow him without hesitation.
Merry felt that he was entering upon a most peculiar adventure, and he
seemed to scent danger in the air. There was something mysterious and
awesome about the affair. He felt that an unseen tie connected him with
the wretched captive far away on a barren, rock-bound island, in the
midst of a torrid sea. Perhaps, at that moment, he held the fate of
Dreyfus in his grasp!
Frank was resolved that no man should receive the metal ball from him
till he had first given the signal complete, as described by Edmond
Laforce.
“Guard that tiny ball with your life,” the duke had said.
“I will!” Frank vowed.
The man he was following turned into another street, and still Merriwell
followed him, on and on. After a time, the youth began to wonder if he
had not been mistaken. Surely, the man would pause, or look back, if he
had expected Frank to follow.
“Well, as long as I have pursued him thus far, I’ll keep it up,” Merry
decided.
At last, the man stopped before a little shop, from the windows of which
a light shone. Still without looking back, he lifted his hand, and
pointed at the door of the shop. Then he entered. In front of that shop,
Frank stopped. In his ear something seemed whispering a warning.
“If I am in danger,” he thought, “where is Mr. Noname, who has warned me
so many times?”
And he actually looked around, as if expecting to see the Man Without a
Name near at hand. Whether Frank was in danger or not, Mr. Noname did
not appear.
“I have seen nothing of him since the night he led me out of the trap
into which Mart Brattle had lured Browning and myself.”
And it really seemed that the strange man would appear if there was any
great danger for Frank. Again Merry’s hand went back to his revolver. He
took it from his hip pocket, and dropped it into a side pocket of the
coat he wore.
“It’s ten to one I am making a fool of myself,” he said. “I am an
American, and there is no reason why the Black Brothers should select me
for a victim. I am not dangerous enough for them to feel that my life
must come to an end.”
Then he entered the shop.
An old man, with spectacles set astride his nose, was in the front room.
He bowed to Frank, saying softly:
“Monsieur, the gentleman waits for you in that room.”
He pointed to a narrow door that was standing open. It was plain now
that Frank had not been deceived in following the man who had spoken to
him before the Café de la Paix. That man had known he would follow, and
the old man in the shop had expected him to enter.
Wondering what would happen next, Frank passed through the narrow door.
The man he had followed was standing in the middle of the small room,
beside a table, on which stood a lighted lamp. He bowed gravely as
Merriwell appeared. He had a thin, sharp face, and a pair of unpleasant
eyes.
“Monsieur,” he said, “justice calls!”
He held out his hand as he spoke.
Frank Merriwell looked him straight in the eyes for a moment, and then
quietly said:
“Justice has often called in vain.”
He did not offer to take the little ball from his pocket and pass it to
the man, for the signal was not complete. They stood there in silence,
looking at each other, the young American cool and self-possessed, the
Frenchman stern-faced and frowning. Frank fancied that the man showed
disappointment.
Once more the stranger repeated the words:
“Justice calls!”
Frank was tempted to turn his back, and walk out of the place without
another word. He had vowed to hold fast to the little ball till the
proper signal was given, and something seemed to tell him that this
unknown man who sought possession of it had no right to claim it.
After some seconds, the stranger said:
“Justice should not call in vain to you, for you have what may give
justice to one who is in sore need of it. Come, monsieur, I am waiting.”
“There is another who is waiting in an iron cage. It seems that the ways
of justice are so slow that his short life may be spent in waiting.”
“Then you are his enemy?” cried the man.
“He has many enemies,” said Frank evasively.
“But you—you have been trusted as a friend.”
“Why should I be trusted? I am an American. He is nothing to me.”
“Do you speak the truth?”
“Why should he be aught to me? He is not a countryman of mine. If France
sees fit to let him rot in his prison cage, what is it to me? It is her
disgrace.”
The moment he spoke those final words, Frank was sorry, for he saw he
had lost an opportunity to draw the man on by deceiving him into
believing he had no sympathy with the captive of Devil’s Island. He had
begun well, but deception formed no part of Frank Merriwell’s nature,
and it was hard for him to repress his real feelings. A strange smile
came to the face of the man. He shrugged his shoulders, and nodded.
“You are right—you are discreet, Monsieur American. It may be well for
you to have a care, and take no interest in the captive of whom you
speak, but you have been given a trust. I have come to relieve you of
that.”
“When the right man comes, he may receive what he seeks. You have failed
to convince me that you are the right man.”
Frank retreated a step toward the door, keeping his eyes on the man
before him, and his hand near the hidden revolver. Now Merry knew he was
in danger, for he was convinced that the stranger had no right to the
metal ball that was said to hold in its heart the fate of Dreyfus.
The Frenchman fixed his piercing eyes on Merry, saying quietly:
“Wait a little. Let’s talk it over.”
“There is no more to be said.”
“You have what I seek. I have called for it, and I have given the
signal.”
“Have you?”
Frank was cool. He had slipped a hand into the side pocket of his coat,
and his fingers gripped the butt of his revolver. The coolness of the
American youth seemed to anger the other.
“You know I have!” he cried. “If you refuse to give it up, you are false
to your trust!”
“If I gave anything to you, I should be false to my trust.”
“Why?”
“Because you are an impostor, a fraud!”
“Harsh words, Monsieur American!”
“But true. You know it. You thought to deceive me, but you have failed.”
“Oh, come,” purred the man in an oily manner. “Why is all this? I came
to you in the manner that you expected one to come. I have done my part;
do yours. Justice calls.”
“It is useless for you to repeat those words. From your lips, they are
meaningless.”
Frank had retreated to the door. Now he placed a hand behind him, and
made a discovery. The door was closed! It had swung quietly to behind
him.
The Frenchman smiled into his face, and he realized that he was trapped!
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