MISSING
Frank was a good deal upset. In the light of the cistern episode and the
knowledge that Markham seemed afraid to meet certain people, he believed
that the advent of his present visitor boded no good for his friend and
helper.
As Dale Wacker showed the wire puzzle, stating that he knew its inventor,
Frank felt that he was in the presence of a mystery.
“Let me look at that, will you?” he said.
“Sure,” grinned Wacker. “Why not? Take a good look, too. Seems familiar?
Quite the right thing, eh?”
“What do you mean?” demanded Frank.
“Why, just this,” retorted Wacker: “How do you come to be selling an
article that no one has a right to sell except my friend who made it? I
happen to know he invented that puzzle. I was with him when he did.”
“When was that?” asked Frank.
“Oh, about six months ago.”
“And where?”
“Now you’re asking questions, hey?” said Wacker, with a cunning air.
“You tell me first: do you know the fellow who made that puzzle?”
“What’s his name?” asked Frank.
“Dick Welmore.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Aha!” cried Dale Wacker triumphantly, “then I’ve got you. I say, young
fellow, you’re violating the law, you are. See here, I’m hard up. I
know where Dick Welmore is snug and tight. If you don’t make it worth
my while, I’ll go to him and have you prosecuted for stealing his
invention.”
“Get out of here,” cried Frank, with flashing eyes.
“Hold on, now. Say, give me a job, and I’ll keep mum. Say, I can write a
good hand. Once I took stock, see--”
“Yes, I reckon you’ve taken stock to your cost, if what I hear is true.
March out, and it won’t be healthy for you to come around here again.”
“I can make you trouble.”
“Try it.”
Frank gave Wacker a decided push through the open doorway. Wacker was
muttering under his breath all kinds of dire threats.
At exactly that moment Frank looked along the walk to the street at the
echo of a cherry whistle. It was instantly checked. Markham, tripping
towards the office, halted with a shock. Like a flash he turned at a
sight of Wacker. He disappeared so quickly that Frank wondered if Wacker
got a clear look at him.
The latter, with a malignant growl at Frank, went away without another
word. In some perplexity Frank sat down at his desk, thinking hard and
fast.
“I just couldn’t truckle with that fellow,” he said. “Dick Welmore, eh?
Can that be Markham’s real name? Evidently, though, this Wacker doesn’t
know Markham is here. He thinks he is somewhere else, ‘snug and tight.’
Oh, bother! there’s only one right course to take in such a case, and
I’ll follow it.”
Frank decided that at quitting time he would lock himself and Markham
into the office, and ask for an explanation of his fear and dread of
meeting Dale Wacker.
“It won’t be to Markham’s discredit, I’ll guarantee,” reflected Frank.
“He’s square, if there ever was a square boy. Here he is now.”
Markham appeared, breathing hard and looking excited. He tried, however,
to appear calm. His face was quite pale. Frank saw that he was under an
intense nervous strain.
“Oh, Markham,” said Frank, not indicating that he noticed his friend’s
perturbation, “I want you to take that money to Darry Haven.”
“All right,” answered Markham, glancing over his shoulder towards the
street.
“Be careful of it, won’t you now?” directed Frank, with a little laugh.
“Remember, it’s our entire capital, and here’s the mailing lists. Tell
Darry to get them set up and printed just as quick as he can. We need
them at once.”
Frank had decided to have the mailing list names printed, each on a
separate line with a broad margin. This he did so they could keep a
permanent record of the result of using each name. Besides that, in the
fire at Riverton the lists had got charred, and some of them were
brittle and broken away, and some pages hard to decipher.
Markham clasped the wallet containing the money tightly in one hand,
thrust it into his outside coat pocket, and tucked the rolled-up lists
under his arm.
“Be back soon,” he said.
“All right, do so. Want to have a little talk with you.”
Markham looked up quickly, hesitated, gave a sigh, and started rapidly
down the walk.
“I’ll have it over and done with, soon as he comes back,” reflected
Frank. “Poor fellow. Something’s on his mind. I’m going to help him get
rid of it.”
Frank resumed his task. He was soon engrossed in finishing up a page of
writing.
“Good,” he said finally, with satisfaction, “the last copy for the
catalogue. It will make twenty-four printed pages. The cuts I have had
made and the cuts the supply houses have loaned me make a very fine
showing. Well, the first two weeks show up pretty good. Business
started, and paying expenses. Why, that’s queer,” exclaimed Frank with a
start, as he chanced to glance at the clock--“Markham has been gone a
full half-hour.”
It was queer. Markham had less than three squares to go on his errand.
Usually he made the trip to Haven Bros. in five minutes.
Frank walked to the door and looked out. He stood there, growing
restless and anxious, as ten minutes went by. Then he grew restless, put
on his cap, waited five minutes longer, and, closing the office door,
went out to the street.
“Pshaw,” he said, looking up and down the street, “what am I worrying
about? Got that Dale Wacker on my mind, and it has upset me. Markham is
probably chatting with Bob Haven. Well, I’ve gone so far, I’ll step over
to the printing office and see.”
Frank walked rapidly to the principal street, and up the flight of
stairs in a business block to Haven Bros.’s office.
As he entered he noticed all hands busy at cases and presses. Bob, shirt
sleeves rolled up, was working on some chases on an imposing stone.
Darry was reading proof at his desk.
But there was no Markham. Frank experienced a sensation of dread for
which he could not account. He tried to keep cool, but the first word he
spoke as he approached Darry made the latter look up quickly.
“Got the money I sent you, Darry?” asked Frank.
“Why, no--did you send it?”
“Yes--over half-an-hour ago.”
“Who by?”
“Markham.”
“Oh, then, he’s doing some other errand first,” said Darry. “Sit down,
if you’re going to wait for him.”
“No, I’ll watch them doing things,” answered Frank, with an assumed
lightness of tone.
He strolled about the neat little office, pretending to be interested.
It was a dead failure. A lump of lead seemed bearing him down. Frank
glanced at his watch. An hour had passed since he had sent Markham on
his errand.
“Be back soon, Darry,” he said, and went out of the printing office with
a dull, sick feeling at heart.
Frank returned to his office. Markham was not there. He went back to the
print shop.
“Markham been here yet?” he inquired in a failing voice to Darry.
“Not yet, Frank.”
“Then something’s wrong,” suddenly burst out Frank, unable longer to
endure the strain of suspense and dread.
“Why, how pale you are,” began Darry, rising from his chair.
“Yes, Darry,” said Frank in a quivering tone--“Markham is missing, and
with him my mailing lists and over two hundred dollars in cash.”