VIII

Early on the morning following Dorothy's hurried departure, Marcus Gard,

having dismissed his valet, was finishing his dressing in the presence

of Brencherly.

"I tried to get you last night," he rasped; "anyhow, you're here. What

have you to report to me?"

Brencherly shook his head. "As far as I can learn, sir, there's nobody

slipped in the Marteen place, sir. All the information about the safe

they have they got from the manufacturers and the people who installed

it--only a short time ago."

Gard frowned. "Well, I happen to know they got what they were after in

the way of information. But I took the liberty of being custodian of the

contents of that strong box--with Miss Marteen's permission, of

course--so there is nothing more to be done in that direction. Now, have

you had a man trailing Mahr? What I want is an interview with him in

informal and quiet surroundings, with a view to clearing the matter up,

you understand. But I'd rather not ask him for a meeting. All I know

about his mode of life is: Metropolitan Club after five, usually; the

Opera Monday nights. Neither of these habits will assist me in the

least. I want by to-morrow a pretty good list of his engagements and a

general map of his day--or perhaps you know enough now to oblige me with

that information."

Brencherly cast an inquisitive look at Gard. He had never accepted

Gard's explanation of his interest in Mahr's affairs.

"Well," he began slowly, "I put our men on the other end of the

case--Balling, the Essex Safe Company and all that, and I went after

Mahr myself. I think I can give you a fair idea of his daily life. He's

at the office early--before nine, usually--and by twelve he's off,

unless something unusual happens. He lunches with a club of men, as I

guess you know. He goes for an hour to Tim McCurdy's, the ex-pugilist,

for training. Then he's home for an hour with his secretary, going over

private business and correspondence. Then he goes to the club for

bridge, and in the evening he's usually out somewhere--any place that's

A1 with the crowd. His son he has tied as tight to the office as any

tenpenny clerk; doesn't get off till after five, and then he makes a

beeline for the Marteens' or goes wherever he'll find the girl. I

think--but, perhaps you know best." He paused, with one of his

characteristic shuffles.

Gard noted the sign and interpreted it correctly.

"If you've got a good idea, it's worth your while," he said shortly.

Brencherly blushed as guilelessly as a girl. "Oh, it's nothing, only I

think--perhaps if you want to see him alone, you might pretend some

business and go to his house about the time he's there every afternoon."

"And discuss our affairs before a secretary?" sneered Gard. "You can bet

Mahr'd have him in the office--I know his way."

"Well, his den is pretty near sound-proof, like yours, sir. And besides,

I could arrange with Mr. Long, the secretary, to have a headache, or a

bad fall, or any little thing, the day you might mention--he's a

personal friend of mine."

"Well, just now I don't much care how you manage it. What I want is that

interview. Is your friend, Mr. Long, a confidential secretary?"

"I don't think," said Brencherly demurely, "that Mr. Mahr is very

confidential even to himself."

"Could you reach him--Mr. Long, I mean--at any time?" asked Gard--he was

planning rapidly.

The detective nodded toward the telephone.

"Well," growled his employer, "could your man suggest to Mahr that he

had had wind of something in Cosmopolitan Telephone? I'll see that

there's a move to corroborate it by noon to-day, if Long gets in his tip

early. And suggest, too, that I'm sore because he bought the Heim

Vandyke; but that if he asked me to come and see it, I'd go, and he

might have a chance to pump me. I happen to know that Mahr is in the

telephone pool up to his eyes, and he'd do anything to get into quick

communication with me. He is probably going to the club to-day, and I'll

not be there--see?"

Brencherly shrugged his shoulders. "Of course, if things turn

out--um--fishy, Long loses his job. But he's a good man to have well

placed. I guess we could land him a berth."

Gard sickened. He could read the detective's secret satisfaction in the

association of that "we" in a shady transaction. Naturally, to have a

man on whom they "had something" in a place of trust might be a great

asset.

"Long will be taken care of," he snapped, replacing his scarf pin for

the twentieth time, and making an unspoken promise to himself to send

the secretary so far away from the scene of Brencherly's activities that

he would at least have a chance to begin life anew without fear of the

past.

"May I?" queried Brencherly, with a jerk of his head toward the

telephone.

"Rather you didn't--from here. Go out, get your man and tell me when he

will tip Mahr. That means my orders in the Street. Tell him there is

news of federal action. I drop out enough stock to sink the quotations a

few points--it's the truth, too, hang it! But it won't get very far."

A crafty smile curled the detective's lips as he rose to go. "Very good,

sir. We'll pull it off all right. I suppose the office will find you?"

"Yes," said Gard. "And I see you intend to take a flier on your inside

information. Well, all I say is, don't hang on too long. Get busy now;

there's no time to waste."

He rang for his valet to show the man out, descended to the dining room,

dispatched his simple breakfast and turned his face and thoughts

officeward. With that move came the thought of Washington. He cast it

from him angrily, yet when the swirl of business affairs closed around

him he experienced a certain pleasure and relief in stemming its tides

and battling with its current. True, the current was swift and boded the

whirlpool, but the rage that was in him seemed to give him added

strength, added foresight. At least in this struggle he was gaining,

mastering the flood and directing it to his will. Would his mastery be

proven in this other and more personal affair? He set his teeth and

redoubled his efforts, intent on proving his own power to himself. Even

as Napoleon believed in his star, Gard trusted in his luck, and it was

with a smothered laugh of sardonic satisfaction that news of the first

move in his campaign came over the wire.

"My man has tipped his hand," came Brencherly's voice. "The other one is

more than interested--excited. Make your cast and you get a bite on your

picture bait."

Gard telephoned his orders to several brokers to sell and sell quickly

and make no secret of it, then returned to work with a laugh upon his

lips.

Contrary to his habit he remained in his office during the luncheon

hour, having a tray sent in. He was to remain invisible. Mahr would

doubtless make every effort to find him by what might appear accident.

Later a message, asking him to join a bridge game at the Metropolitan

Club, caused him to chuckle. His would-be host was a friend of Mahr's.

He answered curtly that he was sick of wasting his time at cards, and

had decided to drop it for a while, hanging up the receiver so abruptly

that the conversation ceased in the midst of a word. An hour later Mahr

addressed him over the wire.

"Ah, Gard, is that you? I called you up to tell you the Heim Vandyke has

just been sent up to me. I hear you were interested in it yourself,

though you saw only the photograph. Don't you want to stop in on your

way uptown and see it? It's a gem. You'll be sorry you didn't bid on it.

But, joking aside, you're the connoisseur whose opinion I want. I don't

give a continental about the dealers; they'll fill you up with

anything." Gard growled a brief acceptance. "I'll be glad to see you.

Good-by."

Abruptly he terminated his interviews and conferences, adjourning all

business till the following day. Mentioning an hour when, if necessary,

he might be found in his home, he dismissed his officials, slipped into

his overcoat, secured his hat, turned at the door of his private office,

muttering something about his stick, and, quickly crossing the room,

opened a drawer of his writing table and drew forth a small, snub-nosed

revolver. He hesitated a moment, tossed it back, and squaring his

shoulders strode from the room.

Half an hour later he entered the spacious lobby of Victor Mahr's

ostentatious dwelling.

"Mr. Mahr is expecting you, sir," said the solemn servant, who conducted

him to a vast anteroom, hung with trophies of armor, and bowed him into

a second room, book-lined and businesslike, evidently the secretary's

private office, deserted now and in some confusion, as if the occupant

had left in haste. The servant crossed to a door opposite, and having

discreetly knocked and announced the distinguished visitor, bowed and

retired. The lackey would have taken Gard's overcoat and hat, but he

retained his hold upon them, as if determined that his stay should be

short.

Mahr rose to greet him, his hand extended. Gard's impedimenta seemed to

preclude the handshake, and the host hastened to insist upon his guest

being relieved.

Gard shook his head. "I have only a moment to inspect your picture,

Mahr," he said coldly.

"Oh, no, don't say that. Have a highball; you will find everything on

the table. What can I give you? This Scotch is excellent."

"No," said Gard sternly. "Excuse me; I am here for one purpose."

Mahr was chagrined, but switched on the electric lights above the canvas

occupying the place of honor on the crowded wall. The portrait stood

revealed, a jewel of color, rich as a ruby, mysterious as an autumn

night, vivid in its humanity, divine in its art, palpitating with life,

yet remote as death itself. The marvelous canvas glowed before them--a

thing to quell anger, to stifle love, to still hate itself in an impulse

of admiration.

Suddenly Marcus Gard began to laugh, as he had laughed that day long

ago, at his own discomfiture.

"What is it?" stuttered Mahr, amazed. "Don't you think it genuine?"

There was panic in his tone.

Gard laughed again, then broke off as suddenly as he had begun; and

passion thrilled in his voice as he turned fierce eyes upon his enemy.

"I am laughing at the singular role this painting has played in my life.

We have met before--the Heim Vandyke and I. If Fate chooses to turn

painter, we must grind his colors, I suppose. But what I intend to grind

first, is you, Victor Mahr! You--you cowardly hound! No--stand where you

are; don't go near that bell. It's hard enough for me to keep my hands

off you as it is!"

The attack had been so unexpected that Mahr was honestly at a loss to

account for it. He looked anxiously toward the door, remembered the

absence of his secretary and gasped in fear. He was at the mercy of the

madman. With an effort he mastered his terror.

"Don't be angry," he stammered. "Don't be annoyed with me; it's all a

mistake, you know. Are you--are you feeling quite well? Do let me give

you something--a--a glass of champagne, perhaps. I'll call a servant."

Gard's smile was so cruel that Mahr's worst fears were confirmed. But

the torrent of accusation that burst from Gard's lips bore him down with

the consciousness of the other's knowledge.

"You scoundrel!" roared the enraged man. "You squirming, poisonous

snake! You would strike at a woman through her daughter, would you! You

would send anonymous letters to a child about her mother! You would hire

sneaks for your sneaking vileness!--coward, brute that you are! Well, I

know it all--_all_, I say. And as true as I live, if ever you make one

move in that direction again, I shall find it out, and I will kill you!

But first I'll go to your boy, Victor Mahr, and I shall tell him: 'Your

father is a criminal--a bigamist. Your mother never was his wife. Sneak

and beast from first to last, he found it easier to desert and deceive.

You are the nameless child of an outcast father, the whelp of a cur.'

I'll say in your own words, Victor Mahr: 'Obscurity is best, perhaps,

even exile.' Do you remember those words? Well, never forget them again

as long as you live, or, by God, you'll have no time on earth to make

your peace!"

Mahr's face was gray; his hands trembled. He looked at that moment as if

the death the other threatened was already come upon him. There was a

moment of silence, intense, charged with the electricity of emotions--a

silence more sinister than the noise of battles. Twice Mahr attempted to

speak, but no sound came from his contracted throat. Slowly he pulled

himself together. A look awful, inhuman, flashed over his convulsed

features. Words came at last, high, cackling and cracked, like the voice

of senility.

"It's you--it's _you_!" he quavered. "So she told you everything, did

she? So you and she--"

The sentence ended in a hoarse gasp, as Mahr launched himself at Gard

with the spring of an animal goaded beyond endurance.

Gard was the larger man, and his wrath had been long demanding

expression. They closed with a jar that rocked the electric lamp on the

desk. There was a second of straining and uncertainty. Then with a jerk

Gard lifted his adversary clear off his feet, and shook him, shook him

with the fury of a bulldog, and as relentlessly. Then, as if the

temptation to murder was more than he could longer resist, he flung him

from him.

Mahr fell full length upon the heavy rug, limp and inert, yet conscious.

Gard stooped, picked up his hat and gloves from where they had fallen

and turned upon his heel.

At that moment the outside door of the secretary's office opened and

closed, and footsteps sounded in the room beyond.

"Get up," said Gard quietly, "unless you care to have them see you

there."

The sound had acted like magic upon the prostrate man. He did not need

the admonition. He had already dragged his shaking body to an upright

position, ere he slowly sank down into the embrace of one of the huge

armchairs.

A quick knock was followed by the appearance of Teddy Mahr. The room was

in darkness save for the light on the table and the clustered radiance

concentrated upon the glowing portrait, that had smiled down remote and

serene upon the scene just enacted, as it had doubtless gazed upon many

another as strange.

"Father!" exclaimed the boy, and as he came within the ring of light,

his face showed pale and anxious.

Gard did not give him time for a reply. "Good evening," he said. "I have

been admiring the Vandyke. A wonderful canvas, and one thing that your

father may well be proud of."

At the sound of the voice the young man turned and advanced with an

exclamation of welcome. "Mr. Gard, the very one I most wanted to see.

Tell me--what is the matter? Where has Dorothy gone? I've been to the

house, and either they don't know or they won't tell me. She didn't let

me know. I can't understand it. For heaven's sake, tell me! Nothing is

wrong, is there?"

"Why, of course, you should know, Teddy." For the first time he used the

familiar term. "I quite forgot about you young people. You see, Dorothy

received threatening letters from some crank, and as we weren't sure

what might occur I sent her off. _Mahr, shall I tell your son?_"

He turned to where the limp figure showed huddled in the depths of red

upholstery. There was a question and a threat in the measured words.

"Of course, tell him Miss Marteen's address," and in that answer there

was a prayer.

"Then here." Gard wrote a few words on his card and gave it into the

boy's eager hand. "Run up and see her. She's with her aunt. I can bring

her home any time now, however. We've located the trouble and got the

man under restraint. Good-night."

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