CHAPTER VII
A WINGED MESSENGER
A snow-white pigeon dropped down out of an azure sky and settled on a top-most girder of the great Singer Building. For a time it rested there, with folded pinions, in a din of clanging hammers; and a workman far out on a delicately balanced beam of steel paused in his labors to regard the bird with friendly eyes. The pigeon returned his gaze unafraid.
"Well, old chap, if I had as little trouble getting up here and down again as you do I wouldn't mind the job," the workman remarked cheerfully.
The pigeon cooed an answer. The steel worker extended a caressing hand, whereupon the bird rose swiftly, surely, with white wings widely stretched, circled once over the vast steel structure, then darted away to the north. The workman watched the snow-white speck until it was lost against the blue sky, then returned to his labors.
Some ten minutes later Mr. E. van Cortlandt Wynne, sitting at a desk in his Thirty-seventh Street house, was aroused from his meditations by the gentle tinkle of a bell. He glanced up, arose, and went up the three flights of stairs to the roof. Half a dozen birds rose and fluttered around him as he opened the trap; one door in their cote at the rear of the building was closed. Mr. Wynne opened this door, reached in and detached a strip of tissue paper from the leg of a snow-white pigeon. He unfolded it eagerly; on it was written: Safe. I love you. D.
CHAPTER VIII
SOME CONJECTURES
Mr. Gustave Schultze dropped in to see Mr. Latham after luncheon, and listened with puckered brows to a recital of the substance of the detective's preliminary report, made the afternoon before.
"Mr. Birnes left here rather abruptly," Mr. Latham explained in conclusion, "saying he would see me again, either last night or to-day. He has not appeared yet, and it may be that when he comes he will be able to add materially to what we now know."
The huge German sat for a time with vacant eyes.
"Der gread question, Laadham," he observed at last, gravely, "iss vere does Vynne ged dem."
"I know that—I know it," said Mr. Latham impatiently. "That is the very question we are trying to solve."
"Und if we don'd solve him, Laadham, ve'll haf to do vatever as he says," Mr. Schultze continued slowly. "Und ve may haf to do vatever as he says, anywhow."
"Put one hundred million dollars into diamonds in one year—just the five of us?" demanded the other. "It's preposterous."
"Id iss brebosterous," the German agreed readily; "but das iss no argument." He was silent for a little while. "Vere does he ged dem? Vere does he ged dem?" he repeated thoughtfully. "Do you believe, Laadham, it vould be bossible to smuggle in dwenty, d'irty, ein hundred million dollars of diamonds?"
"Certainly not," was the reply.
"Den, if dey were nod smuggled in, dey are somewhere on der records of der Custom House, ain'd id?"
Mr. Latham snapped his fingers with a sudden realization of this possibility.
"Schultze, I believe that is our clew!" he exclaimed keenly. "Certainly they would have been listed by the customs department; and come to think of it, the tariff on them would have been enormous, so enormous that—that—" and he lost the hopeful tone—"so enormous that we must have heard of it when it became a matter of public record."
"Yah," Mr. Schultze agreed. "Diamonds like dose dupligates of der Koh-i-noor, der Orloff und der Regent could never haf passed through der Custom House, Laadham, mitoud attracting attention, so?"
Mr. Latham acquiesced by a nod of his head; Mr. Schultze sat regarding him through half-closed eyelids.
"Und if dey are nod on der Custom House records," he continued slowly, "und dey are nod smuggled in, den, Laadham, den—Mein Gott, man, don'd you see?"
"See what?"
"Den dey are produced in dis country!"
For a minute or two Mr. Latham sat perfectly still, gazing into the other's eyes. First he was startled, then this gave way to incredulity, and at last he shook his head.
"No," he said flatly. "No."
"Laadham, ve Amerigans produce anyding," the German went on patiently. "In eighdeen hundred und forty-eight ve didn't know California vas full of gold; und so late as eighdeen hundred und ninedy-four ve didn't know der Klondike vas full of gold. Der greadest diamond fields ve know now are in Africa, bud in eighdeen hundred und sixty-six ve didn't know id! Dere iss no reason ve should nod produce diamonds."
"But look here, Schultze," Mr. Latham expostulated, "it's—it's unheard of."
"So vas der Mizzizzippi River until id was discovered," the German argued complacently. "You are a diamond dealer, Laadham, bud you don'd know much aboud dem from whey dey come at. Iss Czenki here? Send for him. He knows more aboud diamonds as any man vat ever lived."
Mr. Latham sent an office boy for Czenki, who a few minutes later appeared with an inquiry in his beady black eyes and a nod of recognition for Mr. Schultze.
"Sid down, Mr. Czenki," the German invited. "Sid down und draw a long breath, und den dell Mr. Laadham here someding aboud diamonds."
"What is it, please?" Mr. Czenki asked of Mr. Latham.
"Mr. Czenki, have you any very definite idea as to where those diamonds came from?" asked Mr. Latham.
"No," was the unhesitating response.
"Is it possible that they might have been found in the—in the United
States?" Mr. Latham went on.
"Certainly. They might have been found anywhere."
"As a matter of fact, were any diamonds ever found in the United
States?"
"Yes, frequently. One very large diamond was found in 1855 at Manchester, across the James River from Richmond, Virginia. It weighed twenty-four carats when cut, and is the largest, I believe, ever found in this country."
Mr. Latham seemed surprised.
"Why, you astonish me," he remarked.
"Vait a minute und he'll astonish you some more," Mr. Schultze put in confidently. "Vere else in der United States haf diamonds been found, Czenki?"
"In California, in North Carolina, and in Hall County, Georgia," replied the expert readily. "There is good ground for the belief that the stone found at Richmond had been washed down from the mountains farther in the interior, and, if this is true, there is a substantial basis for the scientific hypothesis that diamond fields lie somewhere in the Appalachian Range, because the diamonds found in both North Carolina and Georgia were adjacent to these mountains." He paused a moment. "This is all a matter of record."
His employer was leaning forward in his chair, gripping the arms fiercely as he stared at him.
"Do you believe it possible, Mr. Czenki," he asked deliberately, "that Mr. Wynne has found these diamond fields?"
The expert shrugged his slender shoulders.
"It is possible, of course," he replied. "From time to time great sums of money have been spent in searching for them, so—" He waved his hand and was silent.
"Zo you see, Laadham," Mr. Schultze interpolated, "ve don'd know anyding much. Ve know der African fields, und der Australian fields, und der Brazilian fields, und der fields in India, bud ve don'd know if new fields haf been found. By der time you haf lived so long as me you won't know any more as I do."
There was silence for a long time. Mr. Czenki sat with impassive face, and his hands at rest on the arms of the chair. At last he spoke:
"If you'll pardon me, Mr. Latham, I may suggest another possibility."
"Vas iss?" demanded Mr. Schultze quickly.
"Did you ever hear of the French scientist, Charles Friedel?" Mr.
Czenki asked, addressing Mr. Latham.
"Never, no."
"Well, this idea has occurred to me. Some years ago he discovered two or three small diamonds in a meteor. We may safely assume, from the fact that there were diamonds in one meteor, that there may be diamonds in other meteors, therefore—"
The German importer anticipated his line of thought and arose with a guttural burst of Teutonic expletives.
"Therefore," the expert went on steadily, "is it not possible that Mr. Wynne has stumbled upon a huge deposit of diamonds in some meteoric substance some place in this country? A meteor may have fallen anywhere, of course, and it may have been only two months ago, or it may have been two thousand years ago. It may even be buried in his cellar."
The huge German nodded his head vigorously, with sparkling eyes.
"It seems extremely probable that if diamond fields had been discovered in the Appalachian Range," Mr. Czenki went on, "it would have become public in spite of every effort to prevent it; whereas, it is possible that a meteor containing diamonds might have been hidden away easily; and, also, the production of diamonds from such a source in this country would not make it necessary for the diamonds to pass through the Custom House. Is it clear, sir?"
"Why, it's absurd, fantastic, chimerical!" Mr. Latham burst out irritably. "It's ridiculous to consider such a thing."
"I beg your pardon," Mr. Czenki apologized. "It is only a conjecture, of course. I may add that I don't believe that three stones of the size of the replicas which Mr. Wynne produced here could have been found anywhere in the world and brought in here— smuggled in or in the usual way—and the secret held against the thousands of men who daily watch the diamond fields and market. It would not be difficult, however, if one man alone knew the source of the stones, to keep it from the world at large. I beg your pardon," he added.
He arose as if to go. Mr. Schultze brought a heavy hand down on the slim shoulder of the expert, and turned to Mr. Latham.
"Laadham, you are listening to der man who knows more as all of us pud in a crowd," he declared. "Mein Gott, I do believe he's right!"
Mr. Latham was a cold, unimaginative man of business; he hadn't even believed in fairies when he was a boy. This was child-talk; he permitted himself to express his opinion by a jerk of his head, and was silent. Diamonds like those out of meteors! Bosh!
CHAPTER IX
AND MORE DIAMONDS!
There was a rap on the door, and a clerk thrust his head in.
"Mr. Birnes to see you, sir," he announced.
"Show him in," directed Mr. Latham. "Sit down, both of you, and let's see what he has to say."
There was an odd expression of hope deferred on the detective's face when he entered. He glanced inquiringly at Mr. Schultze and Mr. Czenki, whereupon Mr. Latham introduced them.
"You may talk freely," he added. "We are all interested alike."
The detective crossed his legs and balanced his hat carefully on a knee, the while he favored Mr. Czenki with a sharp scrutiny. There was that in the thin, scarred face and in the beady black eyes which inevitably drew the attention of a stranger, and half a dozen times as he talked Mr. Birnes glanced at the expert.
He retold the story of the cab ride up Fifth Avenue, and the car trip back downtown—omitting embarrassing details such as the finding of two notes addressed to himself—dwelt a moment upon the empty gripsack which Mr. Wynne carried on the car, and then:
"When you told me, Mr. Latham, that the gripsack had contained diamonds when Mr. Wynne left here I knew instantly how he got rid of them. He transferred them to some person in the cab, in accordance with a carefully prearranged plan. That person was a woman!"
"A woman!" Mr. Latham repeated, as if startled.
"Dere iss alvays wimmins in id," remarked Mr. Schultze philosophically. "Go on."
Mr. Birnes was not at all backward about detailing the persistence and skill it had required on his part to establish this fact; and he went on at length to acquaint them with the search that had been made by a dozen of his men to find a trace of the woman from the time she climbed the elevated stairs at Fifty-eighth Street. He admitted that the quest for her had thus far been fruitless, assuring them at the same time that it would go steadily on, for the present at least.
"And now, Mr. Latham," he went on, and inadvertently he glanced at Mr. Czenki, "I have been hampered, of course, by the fact that you have not taken me completely into your confidence in this matter. I mean," he added hastily, "that beyond a mere hint of their value I know nothing whatever about the diamonds which Mr. Wynne had in the gripsack. I gathered, however, that they were worth a large sum of money—perhaps, even a million dollars?"
"Yah, a million dollars ad leasd," remarked Mr. Schultze grimly.
"Thank you," and the detective smiled shrewdly. "Your instructions were to find where he got them. If there had been a theft of a million dollars' worth of diamonds anywhere in this world, I would have known it; so I took steps to examine the Custom House records of this and other cities to see if there had been an unusual shipment to Mr. Wynne, or to any one else outside of the diamond dealers, thinking this might give me a clew."
"And what was the result?" demanded Mr. Latham quickly.
"My agents have covered all the Atlantic ports and they did not come in through the Custom House," replied Mr. Birnes. "I have not heard from the western agents as yet, but my opinion is—is that they were perhaps smuggled in. Smuggling, after all, is simple with the thousands of miles of unguarded coasts of this country. I don't know this, of course; I advance it merely as a possibility."
Mr. Latham turned to Mr. Schultze and Mr. Czenki with a triumphant smile. Diamonds in meteors! Tommyrot!
"Of course," the detective resumed, "the whole investigation centers about this man Wynne. He has been under the eyes of my agents as no other man ever was, and in spite of this has been able to keep in correspondence with his accomplices. And, gentlemen, he has done it not through the mails, not over the telephone, not by telegraph, and yet he has done it."
"By wireless, perhaps?" suggested Mr. Czenki. It was the first time he had spoken, and the detective took occasion then and there to stare at him frankly.
"And not by wireless," he said at last. "He sends and receives messages from the roof of his house in Thirty-seventh Street by homing pigeons!"
"Some more fandastics, eh, Laadham?" Mr. Schultze taunted. "Some more chimericals?"
"I demonstrate this much by the close watch I have kept of Mr. Wynne," the detective went on, there being no response to his questioning look at Mr. Schultze. "One of my agents, stationed on the roof of the house adjoining Mr. Wynne's" (it was the maid-servant next door) "has, on at least one occasion, seen him remove a tissue-paper strip from a carrier pigeon's leg and read what was written on it, after which he kissed it, gentlemen, kissed it; then he destroyed it. What did it mean? It means that that particular message was from the girl to whom he transferred the diamonds in the cab, and that he is madly in love with her."
"Oh, dese wimmins! I dell you!" commented Mr. Schultze.
There was a little pause, then Mr. Birnes continued impressively:
"This correspondence is of no consequence in itself, of course. But it gives us this: Carrier pigeons will only fly home, so if Mr. Wynne received a message by pigeon it means that at some time, within a week say, he has shipped that pigeon and perhaps others from the house in Thirty-seventh Street to that person who sent him the message. If he sends messages to that person it means that he has received a pigeon or pigeons from that person within a week. And how were these pigeons shipped? In all probability, by express. So, gentlemen, you see there ought to be a record in the express offices, which would give us the home town, even the name and address, of the person who now has the diamonds in his or her keeping. Is that clear to all of you?"
"It is perfectly clear," commented Mr. Laadham admiringly, while the
German nodded his head in approval.
"And that is the clew we are working on at the moment," the detective added. "Three of my men are now searching the records of all the express companies in the city—and there are a great many—for the pigeon shipments. If, as seems probable, this clew develops, it may be that we can place our hands on the diamonds within a few days."
"I don'd d'ink I vould yust blace my hands on dem," Mr. Schultze advised. "Dey are his diamonds, you know, und your hands might ged in drouble."
"I mean figuratively, of course," the detective amended.
He stopped and drummed on his stiff hat with his fingers. Again he glanced at the impassive face of Mr. Czenki with keen, questioning eyes; and for one bare instant it seemed as if he were trying to bring his memory to his aid.
"I've found out all about this man Wynne," he supplemented after a moment, "but nothing in his record seems to have any bearing on this case. He is an orphan. His mother was a Van Cortlandt of old Dutch stock, and his father was a merchant downtown. He left a few thousands to the son, and the son is now in business for himself with an office in lower Broad Street. He is an importer of brown sugar."
"Brown sugar?" queried Mr. Czenki quickly, and the thin, scarred face reflected for a second some subtle emotion within him. "Brown sugar!" he repeated.
"Yes," drawled the detective, with an unpleasant stare, "brown sugar. He imports it from Cuba and Porto Rico and Brazil by the shipload, I understand, and makes a good thing of it."
A quick pallor overspread Mr. Czenki's countenance, and he arose with his fingers working nervously. His beady eyes were glittering; his lips were pressed together until they were bloodless.
"Vas iss?" demanded Mr. Schultze curiously.
"My God, gentlemen, don't you see?" the expert burst out violently.
"Don't you see what this man has done? He has—he has—"
Suddenly, by a supreme effort, he regained control of himself, and resumed his seat.
"He has—what?" asked Mr. Latham.
For half a minute Czenki stared at his employer; then his face grew impassive again.
"I beg your pardon," he said quietly. "Mr. Wynne is a heavy importer of sugar from Brazil. Isn't it possible that those are Brazilian diamonds? That new workings have been discovered somewhere in the interior? That he has smuggled them in concealed in the sugar-bags, right into New York, under the noses of the customs officials? I beg your pardon," he concluded.
Late in the afternoon of the following day a drunken man, unshaven, unkempt, unclean and clothed in rags, lurched into a small pawnshop in the lower Bowery and planked down on the dirty counter a handful of inert, colorless pebbles, ranging in size from a pea to a peanut.
"Say, Jew, is them real diamonds?" he demanded thickly.
The man in charge glanced at them and nearly fainted. Ten minutes later Red Haney, knight of the road, was placed under arrest as a suspicious character. Uncut diamonds, valued roughly at fifty thousand dollars, were found in his possession.
"Where did you get them?" demanded the amazed police.
"Found 'em."
"Where did you find them?"
"None o' your business."
And that was all they were able to get out of him at the moment.
CHAPTER X
THE BIG GAME
When the police of Mulberry Street find themselves face to face with some problem other than the trivial, every-day theft, burglary or murder, as the case may be, they are wont to rise up and run around in a circle. The case of Red Haney and the diamonds, blared to the world at large in the newspapers of Sunday morning, immediately precipitated a circular parade, while Haney, the objective center, snored along peacefully in a drunken stupor.
The statement of the case in the public press was altogether negative. There had been no report of the theft of fifty thousand dollars' worth of uncut diamonds in any city of the United States; in fact, diamonds, as a commodity in crime, had not figured in police records for several weeks—not even an actress had mislaid a priceless necklace. The newspapers were unanimously certain that stones of such value could not rightfully belong to a man of Haney's type, therefore, to whom did they belong?
Four men, at least, of the thousands who read the detailed account of the affair Sunday morning, immediately made it a matter of personal interest to themselves. One of these was Mr. Latham, another was Mr. Schultze, and a third was Mr. Birnes. The fourth was Mr. E. van Cortlandt Wynne. In the seclusion of his home in Thirty-seventh Street, Mr. Wynne read the story with puckered brows, then re-read it, after which he paced back and forth across his room in troubled thought for an hour or more. An oppressive sense of uneasiness was coming over him; and it was reflected in eyes grown somber.
After a time, with sudden determination, the young man dropped into a chair at his desk, and wrote in duplicate, on a narrow strip of tough tissue-paper, just one line:
Are you safe? Is all well? Answer quick.
W.
Then he mounted to the roof. As he flung open the trap a man on the top of the house next door darted behind a chimney. Mr. Wynne saw him clearly—it was Frank Claflin—but he seemed to consider the matter of no consequence, for he paid not the slightest attention. Instead he went straight to a cage beside the pigeon-cote, wherein a dozen or more birds were imprisoned, removed one of them, attached a strip of the tissue-paper to its leg, and allowed it to rise from his out-stretched hand.
The pigeon darted away at an angle, up, up, until it grew indistinct against the void, then swung widely in a semicircle, hovered uncertainly for an instant, and flashed off to the west, straight as an arrow flies. Mr. Wynne watched it thoughtfully until it had disappeared; and Claflin's interest was so intense that he forgot the necessity of screening himself, the result being that when he turned again toward Mr. Wynne he found that young man gazing at him.
Mr. Wynne even nodded in a friendly sort of way as he attached the second strip of tissue to the leg of another bird. This rose, as the other had done, and sped away toward the west.
"It may be worth your while to know, Mr. Claflin," Mr. Wynne remarked easily to the detective on the other house, "that if you ever put your foot on this roof to intercept any message which may come to me I shall shoot you."
Then he turned and went down the stairs again, closing and locking the trap in the roof behind him. He should get an answer to those questions in two hours, three hours at the most. If there was no answer within that time he would despatch more birds, and then, if no answer came, then—then—Mr. Wynne sat down and carefully perused the newspaper story again.
At just about that moment the attention of one John Sutton, another of the watchful Mr. Birnes' men, on duty in Thirty-seventh Street, was attracted to a woman who had turned in from Park Avenue, and was coming rapidly toward him, on the opposite side of the street. She was young, with the elasticity of perfect health in her step; and closely veiled. She wore a blue tailor-made gown, with hat to match; and recalcitrant strands of hair gleamed a golden brown.
"By George!" exclaimed the detective. "It's her!"
By which he meant that the mysterious young woman of the cab, whose description had been drilled into him by Mr. Birnes, had at last reappeared. He lounged along the street, watching her with keen interest, fixing her every detail in his mind. She did not hesitate, she glanced neither to right nor left, but went straight to the house occupied by Mr. Wynne, and rang the bell. A moment later the door was opened, and she disappeared inside. The detective mopped his face with tremulous joy.
"Doris!" exclaimed Mr. Wynne, as the veiled girl entered the room where he sat. "Doris, my dear girl, what are you doing here?"
He arose and went toward her. She tore off the heavy veil impatiently, and lifted her moist eyes to his. There was suffering in them, uneasiness—and more than that.
"Have you heard from him—out there?" she demanded.
"Not to-day, no," he responded. "Why did you come here?"
"Gene, I can't stand it," she burst out passionately. "I'm worried to death. I can't hear a word, and—I'm worried to death."
Mr. Wynne wondered if she, too, had seen the morning papers. He stared at her gravely for an instant, then turned, crumpled up the section of newspaper with its glaring head-lines and dropped it into a waste-basket.
"I'm sorry," he said gently.
"I telephoned twice yesterday," she rushed on quickly, pleadingly, "and once last night and again this morning. There was no—no answer. Gene, I couldn't stand it. I had to come."
"It's only that he didn't happen to be within hearing of the telephone bell," he assured her. But her steadfast, accusing eyes read more than that in his face, and her hands trembled on his arm.
"I'm afraid, Gene, I'm afraid," she declared desperately. "Suppose— suppose something has happened?"
"It's absurd," and he attempted to laugh off her uneasiness. "Why, nothing could have happened."
"All those millions of dollars' worth of diamonds, Gene," she reminded him, "and he is—I shouldn't have left him alone."
"Why, my dear Doris," and Mr. Wynne gathered the slender, trembling figure in his arms protectingly, "not one living soul, except you and I, knows that they are there. There's no incentive to robbery, my dear—a poor, shabby little cottage like that. There is not the slightest danger."
"There is always danger, Gene," she contradicted. "It makes me shudder just to think of it. He is so old and so feeble, simple as a child, and utterly helpless if anything should happen. Then, when I didn't hear from him after trying so many times over the telephone —I'm afraid, Gene, I'm afraid," she concluded desperately.
The long-pent-up tears came, and she buried her face on his shoulder.
He stood silent, with narrowed, thoughtful eyes.
This, and the thing in the newspaper there! And evidently she had not seen that! It was not wise that she should see it just yet.
"That day I took the horrid things from you in the cab I was awfully frightened," she continued sobbingly. "I felt that every one I passed knew I had them; and you can't imagine what a relief it was when I took them back out there and left them. And now when I think that something may have happened to him!" She paused, then raised her tear-dimmed eyes to his face. "He is all I have in the world now, Gene, except you. Already the hateful things have cost the lives of my father and my brother, and now if he—Or you—Oh, my God, it would kill me! I hate them, hate them!"
She was shaken by a paroxysm of sobs. Mr. Wynne led her to a chair, and she dropped into it wearily, with her face in her hands.
"Nothing can have happened, Doris," he repeated gently. "I sent a message out there in duplicate only a few minutes ago. In a couple of hours, now, we shall be getting an answer. Now, don't begin to cry," he added helplessly.
"And if you don't get an answer?" she insisted.
"I shall get an answer," he declared positively. There was a long pause. "And when I get that answer, Doris," he resumed, again becoming very grave, "you will see how unwise, how dangerous even, it was for you to come here this way. I know it's hard, dear," he supplemented apologetically, "but it was only for the week, you know; and now I don't see how you can go away from here again."
"Go away?" she repeated wonderingly. "Why shouldn't I go away? I was very careful to veil myself when I came—no one saw me enter, I am sure. Why can't I go away again?"
Mr. Wynne paced the length of the room twice, with troubled brow.
"You don't understand, dear," he said quietly, as he paused before her. "From the moment I left Mr. Latham's office last Thursday I have been under constant surveillance. I'm followed wherever I go— to my office, to luncheon, to the theater, everywhere; and day and night, day and night, there are two men watching this house, and two other men watching at my office. They tamper with my correspondence, trace my telephone calls, question my servants, quiz my clerks. You don't understand, dear," he said again.
"But why should they do all this?" she asked curiously. "Why should they—"
"I had expected it all, of course," he interrupted, "and it doesn't disturb me in the least. I planned for months to anticipate every emergency; I know every detective who is watching me by name and by sight; and all my plans have gone perfectly until now. This is why it was necessary for me to keep away from out there as it was for you to keep away from here; why we could not afford to take chances by an interchange of letters or by telephone calls. When I left you in the cab I knew you would get away safely, because they did not know you were there, in the first place; and then it was the beginning of the chase and I forced them to center their attention on me. But now it is different. Come here to the window a minute."
He led her across the room unresistingly. On the opposite side of the street, staring at the house, was a man.
"That man is a private detective," Mr. Wynne informed her. "His name is Sutton, and he is only one of thirty or forty whose sole business in life, right now, is to watch me, to keep track of and follow any person who comes here. He saw you enter, and you couldn't escape him going out. There's another on the roof of the house next door. His name is Claflin. These men, or others from the same agency, are here all the time. There are two more at my office downtown; still others are searching customs records, examining the books of the express companies, probing into my private affairs. And they're all in the employ of the men with whom I am dealing. Do you understand now?"
"I didn't dream of such a thing," the girl faltered slowly. "I knew, of course, that—Gene, I shouldn't have come if—if only I could have heard from him."
"My dear girl, it's a big game we are playing—a hundred-million-dollar game! And we shall win it, unless—we shall win it, in spite of them. Naturally the diamond dealers don't want to be compelled to put up one hundred million dollars. They reason that if the stones I showed them came from new fields, and the supply is unlimited, as I told them, that the diamond market is on the verge of collapse, anyway; and as they look at it they are compelled to know where they came from. As a matter of fact, if they did know, or if the public got one inkling of the truth, the diamond market would be wrecked, and all the diamond dealers in the world working together couldn't prevent it. If they succeed in doing this thing they feel they must do, they will only bring disaster upon themselves. It would do no good to tell them so; I merely laid my plans and am letting them alone. So, you see, my dear, it is a big game—a big game!"
CHAPTER XI
THE SILENT BELL
He stood looking at her with earnest thoughtful eyes. Suddenly the woman-soul within her awoke in a surging, inexplicable wave of emotion which almost overcame her; and after it came something of realization of the great fight he was making for her—for her, and the aged, feeble grandfather waiting patiently out there. He loved her, this master among men, and she sighed contentedly. For the moment the maddening anxiety that brought her here was forgotten; there was only the ineffable sweetness of seeing him again. She extended her hands to him impulsively, and he kissed them both.
"The difficulty of you leaving here," he went on after a little, "is that you would be followed, and within two hours these men would know all about you—where you are stopping, how long you have been there; they would know of your daily telephone messages to your grandfather, and then, inevitably, they would appear out there, and learn all the rest of it. It doesn't matter how closely they keep watch of me. My plans are all made, I know I am watched, and make no mistakes. But you!"
"So I should not have come?" she questioned. "I'm sorry."
"I understand your anxiety, of course," he assured her, and he was smiling a little, "but the worst never happens—so for the present we will not worry. In an hour or more, now, I imagine we shall receive a pigeon-o-gram which will show that all is well. And then I shall have to plan for you to get away somehow."
She leaned toward him a little and again he gathered her in his arms.
The red lips were mutely raised, and he kissed her reverently.
"It's all for you and it will all be right," he assured her.
"Gene, dear Gene!"
He pressed a button on the wall and a maid appeared.
"You will have to wait for a couple of hours or so, at least, so if you would like to take off your things?" he suggested with grave courtesy. "I dare say the suite just above is habitable, and the maid is at your service."
The girl regarded him pensively for a moment, then turning ran swiftly up the stairs. The maid started to follow more staidly.
"Just a moment," said Mr. Wynne crisply, in an undertone. "Miss Kellner is not to be allowed to use the telephone under any circumstances. You understand?" She nodded silently and went up the stairs.
An hour passed. From the swivel chair at his desk Mr. Wynne had twice seen Sutton stroll past on the opposite side of the street; and then Claflin had lounged along. Suddenly he arose and went to the window, throwing back the curtains. Sutton was leaning against an electric-light pole, half a block away; Claflin was half a block off in the other direction, in casual conversation with a policeman. Mr. Wynne looked them over thoughtfully. Curiously enough he was wondering just how he would fare in a physical contest with either, or both.
He turned away from the window at last and glanced at his watch impatiently. One hour and forty minutes! In another half an hour the little bell over his desk should ring. That would mean that a pigeon had arrived from—from out there, and that the automatic door had closed upon it as it entered the cote. But if it didn't come— if it didn't come! Then what? There was only one conclusion to be drawn, and he shuddered a little when he thought of it. There could only remain this single possibility when he considered the sinister things that had happened—the failure of the girl to get an answer by telephone, and the unexpected appearance of Red Haney with the uncut diamonds. It might be necessary for him to go out there, and how could he do it? How, without leaving an open trail behind him? How, without inviting defeat in the fight he was making?
His meditations were interrupted by the appearance of Miss Kellner. She had crept down the stairs noiselessly, and stood beside him before he was aware of her presence. Her eyes sought his countenance questioningly, and the deadly pallor of her face frightened him. She crept into his arms and nestled there silently with dry, staring eyes. He stroked the golden-brown hair with an utter sense of helplessness.
"Nothing yet," he said finally, and there was a thin assumption of cheeriness in his tone. "It may be another hour, but it will come— it will come."
"But if it doesn't, Gene?" she queried insistently. Always her mind went back to that possibility.
"We shall cross no bridges until we reach them," he replied. "There is always a chance that the pigeons might have gone astray, for they have this single disadvantage against the incalculable advantage of offering no clew to any one as to where they go; and it is impossible to follow them. If nothing comes in half an hour now I shall send two more."
"And then, if nothing comes?"
"Then, my dear, then we shall begin to worry."
Half an hour passed; the little bell was silent; Claflin and Sutton were still visible from the window. Miss Kellner's eyes were immovably fixed on Mr. Wynne's face, and he repressed his gnawing anxiety with an effort. Finally he wrote again on the tissue slips— three of them this time—and together they climbed to the roof, attached the messages, and watched the birds disappear.
Another hour—two hours—two hours and a half passed. Suddenly the girl arose with pallid face and colorless lips.
"I can't stand it, Gene, I can't!" she exclaimed hysterically. "I must know. The telephone?"
"No," he commanded harshly, and he, too, arose. "No."
"I will!" she flashed.
She darted out of the room and along the hall. He followed her with grim determination in his face. She seized the receiver from the hook and held it to her ear.
"Hello!" called Central.
"Give me long distance—Coaldale, Number—"
"No," commanded Mr. Wynne, and he placed one hand over the transmitter tightly. "Doris, you must not!"
"I will!" she flamed. "Let me alone!"
"You'll ruin everything," he pleaded earnestly. "Don't you know that they get every number I call? Don't you know that within fifteen minutes they will have that number, and their men will start for there?"
She faced him with blazing eyes.
"I don't care," she said deliberately, and the white face was relieved by an angry flush. "I will know what has happened out there! I must! Gene, don't you see that I'm frantic with anxiety? The money means nothing to me. I want to know if he is safe."
His hand was still gripped over the transmitter. Suddenly she turned and tugged at it fiercely. Her sharp little nails bit into the flesh of his fingers. In a last desperate effort she placed the receiver to her lips.
"Give me long distance, Coaldale Number—"
With a quick movement he snapped the connecting wire from the instrument, and the receiver was free in her hand.
"Doris, you are mad!" he protested. "Wait a minute, my dear girl— just a minute."
"I don't care! I will know!"
Mr. Wynne turned and picked up a heavy cane from the hall-stand, and brought it down on the transmitter with all his strength. The delicate mechanism jangled and tingled, then the front fell off at their feet. The diaphragm dropped and rolled away.
"Doris, you must not!" he commanded again gravely. "We will find another way, dear."
"How dare you?" she demanded violently. "It was cowardly."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand it all," she broke in. "I understand that this might lead to the failure of the thing you are trying to do. But I don't care. I understand that already I have lost my father and my brother in this; that my grandmother and my mother were nearly starved to death while it was all being planned; all for these hideous diamonds. Diamonds! Diamonds! Diamonds! I've heard nothing all my life but that. As a child it was dinned into me, and now I am sick and weary of it all. I know—I know something has happened to him now. I hate them! I hate them!"
She stopped, glared at him with scornful eyes for an instant, then ran up the stairs again. Mr. Wynne touched a button in the wall, and the maid appeared.
"Go lock the back door, and bring me the key," he commanded.
The maid went away, and a moment later returned to hand him the key.
He still stood in the hall, waiting.
After a little there came a rush of skirts, and Miss Kellner ran down the steps, dressed for the street.
"Doris," he pleaded, "you must not go out now. Wait just a moment— we'll find a way, and then I'll go with you."
She tried to pass him, but his outstretched arms made her a prisoner.
"Do I understand that you refuse to let me go?" she asked tensely.
"Not like this," he replied. "If you'll give me just a little while then perhaps—perhaps I may go with you. Even if something had happened there you could do nothing alone. I, too, am afraid now. Just half an hour—fifteen minutes! Perhaps I may be able to find a plan."
Suddenly she sank down on the stairs, with her face in her hands. He caressed her hair tenderly, then raised her to her feet.
"Suppose you step into the back parlor here," he requested. "Just give me fifteen minutes. Then, unless I can find a way for us to go together safely, we will throw everything aside and go anyway. Forgive me, dear."
She submitted quietly to be led along the hall. He opened the door into a room and stood aside for her to pass.
"Gene, Gene!" she exclaimed.
Her soft arms found their way about his neck, and she drew his face down and kissed him; then, without a word, she entered the room and closed the door. A minute passed—two, four, five—and Mr. Wynne stood as she left him, then he opened the front door and stepped out.
Frank Claflin was just starting toward the house from the corner with deliberate pace when he glanced up and saw Mr. Wynne signaling for him to approach. Could it be possible? He had had no orders about talking to this man, but—Perhaps he was going to give it up! And with this idea he accelerated his pace and crossed the street.
"Oh, Mr. Claflin, will you step in just a moment, please?" requested
Mr. Wynne courteously.
"Why?" demanded the detective suspiciously.
"There's a matter I want to discuss with you," responded Mr. Wynne. "It may be that we can reach some sort of—of an agreement about this, and if you don't mind—"
Claflin went up the steps, Mr. Wynne ushered him in and closed the door behind him.
Three minutes later Mr. Wynne appeared on the steps again and beckoned to Sutton, who had just witnessed the incident just preceding, and was positively being eaten by curiosity.
"This is Mr. Sutton, isn't it?" inquired Mr. Wynne.
"Yes, that's me."
"Well, Mr. Claflin and I are discussing this matter, and my proposition to him was such that he felt if must be made in your presence. Would you mind stepping inside for a moment?"
"You and the girl decided to give it up?" queried Mr. Sutton triumphantly.
"We are just discussing the matter now," was the answer.
Sutton went up the steps and disappeared inside.
And about four minutes after that Mr. Wynne stood in the hallway, puffing a little as he readjusted his necktie. He picked up his hat, drew on his gloves and then rapped on the door of the back parlor. Miss Kellner appeared.
"We will go now," said Mr. Wynne quietly.
"But is it safe, Gene?" she asked quickly.
"Perfectly safe, yes. There's no danger of being followed if we go immediately."
She gazed at him wonderingly, then followed him to the door. He opened it and she passed out, glancing around curiously. For one instant he paused, and there came a clatter and clamor from somewhere in the rear of the house. He closed the door with a grim smile.
"Which are the detectives?" asked Miss Kellner, in an awed whisper.
"I don't see them around just now," he replied. "We can get a cab at the corner."
CHAPTER XII
THE THIRD DEGREE
Some years ago a famous head of the police department clearly demonstrated the superiority of a knock-out blow, frequently administered, as against moral suasion, and from that moment the "third degree" became an institution. Whatever sort of criticism may be made of the "third degree," it is, nevertheless, amazingly effective, and beyond that, affords infinite satisfaction to the administrator. There is a certain vicious delight in brutally smashing a sullen, helpless prisoner in the face; and the "third degree" is not officially in existence.
Red Haney was submitted to the "third degree." His argument that he found the diamonds, and that having found them they were his until the proper owner appeared, was futile. Ten minutes after having passed into a room where sat Chief Arkwright, of the Mulberry Street force, and three of his men, and Steven Birnes, of the Birnes Detective Agency, Haney remembered that he hadn't found the diamonds at all—somebody had given them to him.
"Who gave them to you?" demanded the chief.
"I don't know the guy's name, Boss," Haney replied humbly.
"This is to remind you of it."
Haney found himself sprawling on the floor, and looked up, with a pleading, piteous expression. His eyes were still red and bleary, his motley face shot with purple, and the fumes of the liquor still clouded his brain. The chief stood above him with clenched fist.
"On the level, Boss, I don't know," he whined.
"Get up!" commanded the chief. Haney struggled to his feet and dropped into his chair. "What does he look like—this man who gave them to you? Where did you meet him? Why did he give them to you?"
"Now, Boss, I'm goin' to give you the straight goods," Haney pleaded.
"Don't hit me any more an' I'll tell you all I know about it."
The chief sat down again with scowling face. Haney drew a long breath of relief.
"He's a little, skinny feller, Boss," the prisoner went on to explain, the while he thoughtfully caressed his jaw. "I meets him out here in a little town called Willow Creek, me havin' swung off a freight there to git somethin' to eat. He's just got a couple of handouts an' he passes one to me, an' we gits to talkin'. He gits to tellin' me somethin' about a nutty old gazebo who lives in the next town, which he had just left. This old bazoo, he says, has a hatful o' diamonds up there, but they ain't polished or nothin' an' he's there by hisself, an' is old an' simple, an' it's findin' money, he says, to go over an' take 'em away from him. He reckoned there must 'a' been a thousan' dollars' worth altogether.
"Well, he puts the proposition to me," Haney continued circumstantially, "an' I falls for it. We're to go over, an' I'm to pipe it all off to see it's all right, then I'm to sort o' hang aroun' an' keep watch while he goes in an' gives the old nut a gentle tap on the coco, an' cops the sparks. That's what we done. I goes up an' takes a few looks aroun', then I whistles an' he appears from the back, an' goes up to the kitchen for a handout. The old guy opens the door, an' he goes in. About a minute later he comes out an' gives me a handful o' little rocks—them I had—an' we go away. He catches a freight goin' west, an' I swings one for Jersey City."
"When was this?" demanded Chief Arkwright.
"What's to-day?" asked Haney in turn.
"This is Sunday morning."
"Well, it was yesterday mornin' sometime, Saturday. When I gits to Jersey I takes one o' the little rocks an' goes into a place an' shows it to the bar-keep. He gives me a lot o' booze for it, an' I guess I gits considerable lit up, an' he also gives me some money to pay ferry fare, an' the next thing I knows I'm nabbed over in the hock-shop. I guess I was lit up good, 'cause if I'd 'a' been right I wouldn't 'a' went to the hock-shop an' got pinched."
He glanced around at the five other men in the room, and he read belief in each face, whereupon he drew a breath of relief.
"What town was it?" asked the chief.
"Little place named Coaldale."
"Coaldale," the chief repeated thoughtfully. "Where is that?"
"About forty or fifty miles out'n Jersey" said Haney.
"I know the place," remarked Mr. Birnes.
"You are sure, Haney?" said the chief after a pause. "You are sure you don't know this other man's name?"
"I don't know it, Boss."
"Who was the man you robbed?"
"I don't know."
The chief arose quickly, and the prisoner cringed in his seat.
"I don't know," he went on protestingly. "Don't hit me again."
But the chief had no such intention; it was merely to walk back and forth across the room.
"What kind of man was he—a tramp?"
Haney faltered and thoughtfully pulled his under-lip. The cunning brain behind the bleary eyes was working now.
"I wouldn't call him a tramp," he said evasively. "He had on collar an' cuffs an' good clothes, an' talked sort o' easy."
"Little, skinny man you said. What color was his hair?"
The chief turned in his tracks and regarded Haney with keen, inquiring eyes. The prisoner withstood the scrutiny bravely.
"Sort o' blackish, brownish hair."
"Black, you mean?"
"Well, yes—black."
"And his eyes?"
"Black eyes—little an' round like gimlet holes."
"Heavy eyebrows, I suppose?"
"Yes," Haney agreed readily. "They sort o' stuck out."
"And his nose? Big or little? Heavy or thin?"
Haney considered that thoughtfully for a moment before he answered.
Then:
"Sort o' medium nose, Boss, with a point on it."
"And a thin face, naturally. How much did he weigh?"
"Oh, he was a little feller—skinny, you know. I reckon he didn't weigh no more'n a hundred an' twenty-five or thirty."
Some germ had been born in the fertile mind of Mr. Birnes; now it burst into maturity. He leaned forward in his chair and stared coldly at Haney.
"Perhaps," he suggested slowly, "perhaps he had a scar on his face?"
Haney returned the gaze dully for an instant, then suddenly he nodded his head.
"Yes, a scar," he said.
"From here?" Mr. Birnes placed one finger on the point of his chin and drew it across his right jaw.
"Yes, a scar—that's it;" the prisoner acquiesced, "from his chin almost around to his ear."
Mr. Birnes came to his feet, while the official police stared. The chief sat down again and crossed his fat legs.
"Why, what do you know, Birnes?" he queried.
"I know the man, Chief," the detective burst out confidently. "I'd gamble my head on it. I knew it! I knew it!" he told himself. Again he faced the tramp: "Haney, do you know how much the diamonds you had were worth?"
"Must 'a' been three or four hundred dollars."
"Something like fifty thousand dollars," Mr. Birnes informed him impressively; "and if you got fifty thousand dollars for your share the other man got a million."
Haney only stared.
CHAPTER XIII
MR. CZENKI APPEARS
Half an hour later Mr. Birnes, Chief Arkwright and Detective Sergeant
Connelly were on a train, bound for Coaldale. Mr. Birnes had left
them for a moment at the ferry and rushed into a telephone booth.
When he came out he was exuberantly triumphant.
"It's my man, all right," he assured the chief. "He has been missing since Friday night, and no one knows his whereabouts. It's my man."
It was an hour's ride to Coaldale, a sprawling, straggly village with only four or five houses in sight from the station. When the three men left the train there, Mr. Birnes walked over and spoke to the agent, a thin, cadaverous, tobacco-chewing specimen of his species.
"We are looking for an old gentleman who lives out here somewhere," he explained. "He probably lives alone, and we've been told that he has a little cottage somewhere over this way."
He waved his hand vaguely to the right, in accordance with the directions of Red Haney. The station agent scratched his stubbly chin, and spat with great accuracy through a knot-hole ten feet away.
"'Spect you mean old man Kellner," he replied obligingly. "He lives by hisself part of the time; then again sometimes his grand-darter lives with him."
Granddaughter! Mr. Birnes almost jumped.
"A granddaughter, yes," he said with a forced calm. "Rather a pretty girl, twenty-two or three years old? Sometimes she dresses in blue?"
"Yes," the agent agreed. "'Spect them's them. Follow the road there till you come to Widow Gardiner's hog-lot, then turn to your left, and it's about a quarter of a mile on. The only house up that way— you can't miss it."
The agent stood squinting at them, with friendly inquiry radiating from his parchment-like countenance, and Mr. Birnes took an opportunity to ask some other questions.
"By the way, what sort of old man is this Mr. Kellner? What does he do? Is he wealthy?"
A pleasant grin overspread his informant's face; one finger was raised to his head and twirled significantly.
"'Spect he's crazy," he went on to explain. "Don't do nothing, so far as nobody knows—lives like a hermit, stays in the house all the time, and has long whiskers. Don't know whether he's rich or not, but 'spect he ain't becuz no man with money'd live like he does." He thrust a long forefinger into Mr. Birnes' face. "And stingy! He's so stingy he won't let nobody come in the house—scared they'll wear the furniture out looking at it."
"How long has he lived here?"
"There ain't nobody in this town old enough to say. Why, mister,
I'll bet that old man's a thousand years old. Wait'll you see him."
That was all. They went on as indicated.
"The very type of man who would scrimp and starve to put all his money in something like diamonds," mused Chief Arkwright. "The usual rich old miser who winds up by being murdered."
They passed the "Widow Gardiner's hog-lot" and came into a pleasant country road, which, turning, brought them to a shabby little cottage, embowered in trees. Through the foliage, farther on, they caught the amber gleam of a languid river; and around their feet, as they entered the yard, scores of pigeons fluttered.
"Carriers!" ejaculated Mr. Birnes, as if startled.
With a strange feeling of elation the detective led the way up the steps to the veranda and knocked. There was no answer. He glanced at the chief significantly, and tried the door. It was locked.
"Try the back door," directed Chief Arkwright tersely. "If that's locked we'll go in anyway."
They passed around the house to the rear, and Mr. Birnes laid one hand upon the door-knob. He turned it and the door swung inward. Again he glanced at Chief Arkwright. The chief nodded, and led the way into the house. They stood in a kitchen, clean as to floors and tables, but now in the utmost disorder. They spent only a moment here, then passed into the narrow hall, along this to a door that stood open, and then—then Chief Arkwright paused, staring downward, and respectfully lifted his hat.
"Always the same," he remarked enigmatically.
Mr. Birnes thrust himself forward and through the door. On the floor, with white face turned upward, and fixed, staring eyes, lay an old man. His venerable gray hair, long and unkempt, fell back from a brow of noble proportions, the wide, high brow of the student; and a great, snow-white beard rippled down over his breast. Save for the glassiness of the eyes the face was placid in death, even as it must have been in life.
Mutely Mr. Birnes examined the body. A blow in the back of the head—that was all. Then he glanced around the room inquiringly. Everything was in order, except—except here lay an overturned cigar-box. He picked it up; two uncut diamonds were on the floor beneath it. The rough, inert pebbles silently attested the obvious manner of death which simultaneously forced itself upon the three men—the cowardly blow of an assassin, a dying struggle, perhaps, for the contents of the box, and this—the end!
From outside came sharply in the silence the rattle of wheels on the gravel of the road, and a vehicle stopped in front of the door.
"Sh-h-h-h!" warned the chief.
Some one came along the walk, up the steps and rapped briskly on the door; the detectives waited motionless, silent The knob rattled under impatient fingers, then the footsteps passed along the veranda quickly, and were lost, as if some one had stepped off at the end intending to come to the back door, which was open. A moment later they heard steps in the kitchen, then in the narrow hall approaching, and the doorway of the room where they stood framed the figure of a man. It was Mr. Czenki.
"There's your man, Chief," remarked Mr. Birnes quietly.
The diamond expert permitted his gaze to wander from one to another of the three men, and then the beady black eyes came to rest on the silent, outstretched figure of the old man. He started forward impulsively; the grip of Detective-Sergeant Connelly on his arm stopped him.
"You're my prisoner!"
"Yes, I understand," said Mr. Czenki impatiently. He didn't even look up; he was still gazing at the figure on the floor.
"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?" demanded Chief
Arkwright coldly.
Mr. Czenki met the accusing stare of the chief squarely for an instant, then the keen eyes shifted to the slightly flushed face of Mr. Birnes and lingered there interrogatively.
"I have nothing whatever to say," he replied at last, and he drew one hand slowly across his thin, scarred face. "Yes, I understand," he repeated absently. "I have nothing to say."
CHAPTER XIV
CAUGHT IN THE NET
Doris looked down in great, dry-eyed horror upon the body of this withered old man whom she had loved, and the thin thread of life within her all but snapped. It had come; the premonition of disaster had been fulfilled; the last of her blood had been sacrificed to the mercilessly glittering diamonds—father, brother and now him! Mr. Wynne's face went white, and his teeth closed fiercely; he had loved this old man, too; then the shock passed and he turned anxiously to Doris to receive the limp, inert figure in his arms. She had fainted.
"Well, what do you know about it?" inquired Chief Arkwright abruptly.
Mr. Wynne was himself again instantly—the calm, self-certain perfectly poised young man of affairs. He glanced at the chief, then shot a quick, inquiring look at Mr. Czenki. Almost imperceptibly the diamond expert shook his head. Then Mr. Wynne's eyes turned upon Mr. Birnes. There had been triumph in the detective's face until that moment, but, under the steady, meaning glare which was directed at him, triumph faded to a sort of wonder, followed by a vague sense of uneasiness, and he read a command in the fixed eyes—a command to silence. Curiously enough it reminded him that he was in the employ of Mr. Latham, and that there were certain business secrets to be protected. He regarded the coroner's physician, hastily summoned for a perfunctory examination.
"Well?" demanded the chief again.
"Nothing—of this," replied Mr. Wynne. "I think, Doctor," and he addressed the physician, "that she needs you more than he does. We know only too well what's the matter with him."
The physician arose obediently. Mr. Wynne gathered up the slender, still figure in his arms, and bore it away to another room. The doctor bent over Doris, and tested the fluttering heart.
"Only shock," he said finally, when he looked up. "She'll come round all right in a little while."
"Thank God!" the young man breathed softly.
He stooped and pressed reverent lips to the marble-white brow, then straightened up and, after one long, lingering look at her, turned quickly and left the room.
"I have no statement to make," Mr. Czenki was saying, in that level, unemotional way of his, when Mr. Wynne reentered the room where lay the dead.
"We are to assume that you are guilty, then?" demanded Chief
Arkwright with cold finality.
"I have nothing to say," replied the expert. His gaze met that of Mr. Wynne for a moment, then settled on the venerable face of the old man.
"Guilty?" interposed Mr. Wynne quickly. "Guilty of what?"
Chief Arkwright, without speaking, waved his hand toward the body on the floor. There was a flash of amazement in the young man's face, a sudden bewilderment; the diamond expert's countenance was expressionless.
"You don't deny that you killed him?" persisted the chief accusingly.
"I have nothing to say," said the expert again.
"And you don't deny that you were Red Haney's accomplice?"
"I have nothing to say," was the monotonous answer.
The chief shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Some illuminating thought shone for an instant in Mr. Wynne's clear eyes and he nodded as if a question in his mind had been answered.
"Perhaps, Chief, there may be some mistake?" he protested half-heartedly.
"Perhaps this gentleman—what motive would—"
"There's motive enough," interrupted the chief briskly. "We have this man's description straight from his accomplice, Red Haney, even to the scar on his face—" He paused abruptly, and regarded Mr. Wynne through half-closed lids. "By the way," he continued deliberately, "who are you? What do you know about it?"
"My name is Wynne—E. van Cortlandt Wynne" was the ready response. "I am directly interested in this case through a long-standing friendship for Mr. Kellner here, and through the additional fact that his granddaughter in the adjoining room is soon to become my wife." There was a little pause. "I may add that I live in New York, and that Miss Kellner has been stopping there for several days. She has been accustomed to hearing from her grandfather at least once a day by telephone, but she was unable to get an answer either yesterday or to-day, so she came to my home, and together we came out here."
Mr. Birnes looked up quickly. It had suddenly occurred to him to wonder as to the whereabouts of Claflin and Sutton, who had been on watch at the Thirty-seventh Street house. The young man interpreted the expression of his face aright, and favored him with a meaning glance.
"We came alone," he supplemented.
Mr. Birnes silently pondered it.
"All that being true," Chief Arkwright suggested tentatively, "perhaps you can give us some information as to the diamonds that were stolen? How much were they worth? How many were there?" He held up the uncut stones that had been found on the floor.