“Do you know the man, her companion?”
“No. But it’s enough that she knows him, and——”
“Could you identify him?” Murdock interrupted.
“Sure I could. I saw him plain enough on the train.”
Murdock smiled a bit oddly, sure that Chick did not suspect him of having been the crook. He took a cigar from his pocket and lit it, remarking carelessly:
“You’re a bad egg, Kennedy, and you’re serving this woman a scurvy trick. No more could be expected of a fellow of your cloth, I suppose, and I’m not sure but that would be the best way to settle with you.”
“Sure it would!” Chick quickly agreed.
“See here, Jeff——”
“You keep quiet, Janet!” Murdock commanded. “It’s plain enough that Kennedy cannot be bullied. You’re in a mess, Janet, and I’m going to pull you out. Nevertheless, Kennedy, you must see that it’s not up to this woman to settle,” he added. “She had no hand in the job, even if your suspicions are correct. It’s up to the man to buy your silence. As a matter of fact, too, she has no money with which to bribe you. Nor have I. You must see the man himself.”
“Trot him out, then,” Chick said bluntly. “He’s the very gink I want to see. I’ll bring him to time, all right, if I can get my lamps on him.”
“It’s not so easy to trot him out,” Murdock replied. “He would have to trot a considerable distance.”
“You mean he ain’t in town?” questioned Chick, frowning suspiciously.
“Not within a dozen miles of Shelby.”
“You know where he is, then, I take it.”
Murdock nodded.
“I not only know where he is, Kennedy, but I’ll take you to him,” he said, after a moment. “He’s the man for you to see, and I have no doubt that you can make some kind of a deal with him. He will conclude that’s the best way out of the difficulty, most likely, providing your demands are not exorbitant.”
“Oh, I don’t want the earth,” Chick allowed.
“It’s up to you, then.”
“What is?”
“To go with me and see him,” said Murdock, in more friendly fashion. “I came in this morning to take Janet out there. You may go with us.”
“There’s a better way,” Chick objected, grimly shaking his head.
“A better way?”
“Sure! Let him come here and see me.”
“Don’t be a fool, Kennedy,” Murdock replied, with a growl. “He wouldn’t take chances of coming into town. It would be all that his neck is worth to him.”
“And it might be all that mine is worth to me, if I went where he is,” Chick dryly asserted.
“What do you mean by that?”
“He might give it to me where the chicken got the ax.”
“Turn you down? Is that what you mean?”
“That’s what,” Chick nodded. “I’m not taking that kind of a chance. Not for mine!”
Murdock laughed and shook his head.
“You’ll take no chance at all, Kennedy, in going to see him,” he replied, in assuring tones. “Neither he, nor any of his gang, would risk running their necks into a rope unless it was absolutely necessary.”
“Wouldn’t, eh?” queried Chick doubtfully.
“Certainly not,” Murdock insisted. “And it wouldn’t be necessary in this case. With the big wad of money acquired by the robbery, they’ll be willing enough to settle for any ordinary sum, rather than take the risk of putting you away, even if so inclined.”
“Mebbe so, after all,” Chick demurred.
“I already have shown you, besides, that I could have turned you down on the spot, if I had wanted to,” Murdock added. “But I wouldn’t have a hand in that kind of a job. You’ll take no risk, Kennedy, in going to see the man.”
Chick was not blind to the trap that was being laid for him. He had expected no less, and had laid his own plans accordingly. He still pretended to have some misgivings, nevertheless, but asked, as if somewhat impressed:
“Where must I go to see him?”
“Up Willow Creek way,” said Murdock indefinitely.
“Where’s that?”
“Nearly a dozen miles from here.”
“Is there a train?”
“You can do better than take a train. None runs very near the place, nor could you find it alone.”
“What d’ye mean by better?” Chick demanded.
“I have the touring car that I came down in this morning,” said Murdock. “I’m going to take Janet up there. You can ride with us.”
“Say, is this on the level?” asked Chick, frowning. “If not, I’ll blow the head off of some one.”
Murdock laughed.
“You mean my head, of course,” said he. “But you’ll have no cause to do so, Kennedy, on my word. I’m giving it to you dead straight, and you’ll take no risk in going with me.”
“That settles it,” Chick declared abruptly. “I’ll go. Where is your car?”
“In the next street.”
“Come on, then, and——”
“Wait!” Murdock interrupted. “We must wait for Janet.”
“I’m ready, Jeff, all but my hat!” she cried, rising.
“Put it on, then, and we’ll be off.”
Chick waited, still with ominous and doubtful mien.
They left the hotel five minutes later, however, and Murdock led the way to the waiting car.
Chick hesitated again when he saw the chauffeur and another man in the conveyance, but Murdock said quickly, in a confidential way:
“That’s only my chauffeur and one of the gang. You might do worse, Kennedy, than to join us.”
“That would hit me all right,” Chick said quickly.
“It could be arranged, I think.”
“Go on, then. I’m with you.”
Murdock introduced him to the two men—Dick Bryan and Link Magee, both in disguise.
Chick recognized both, but did not betray it. He shook hands with them, then took a seat in the tonneau, with Bryan and Murdock on either side of him, Janet riding in front, with the chauffeur.
Chick knew precisely what he was up against, and he went against it willingly.
Murdock thought he knew, also, but the game was deeper than he so much as suspected.
It was eleven o’clock when the touring car sped out of Shelby.
A quarter hour later it passed through the miserable settlement known as Benton Corners, the scene of previous arrests by the Carters, and its course then lay north, as Chick was expecting.
Others had passed that way since morning, however, several others, and then were waiting miles beyond to note the direction taken by this car at the only crossroad. They had traveled through the woods, and were waiting in the woods.
When Chick had ridden another mile, however, reaching a desolate part of the wooded foothills, the expected occurred. He felt Murdock suddenly seize his arm with a viselike grip, and a revolver was thrust under his nose.
“Now, Kennedy, you sit quiet,” he cried. “You move a finger and you’ll get all that’s coming to you.”
“What’s this?” snarled Chick, shrinking. “You don’t mean——”
“I mean what I say, blast you!” Murdock fiercely interrupted. “I’ve known you from the first. You are Chick Carter, the detective, and we’re going to land you with your running mate. Get a rope on him, Bryan. Lend a hand here, Link, and make him fast. I’ll send a bullet through him, if he shows fight, and that will end him. Be quick about it.”
The rascals needed no second bidding, but their task did not prove difficult.
For this was precisely what Chick had been expecting, and he offered no resistance, though he met their threatening remarks with predictions at which the ruffians only laughed and sneered.
Half an hour later the car swerved out of the woodland road and entered a clearing. It surrounded an isolated, miserable old house, with a stable and numerous tumble-down outbuildings, the home of two members of the bandit gang, Solomon Mauler and his brother.
Chick Carter, then bound hand and foot, sized up the miserable place—but appeared to have no interest in its surroundings.
It was in the miserable place, in part described, that Nick Carter awoke to a realization that something unexpected had befallen him. Returning consciousness brought a sense of cramped limbs and bruised muscles, the results of the blows he had received and the violence of his fall from the moving train, when Sol Mauler rudely rolled him from the express car.
The effect of all this was to leave Nick unconscious for several hours, how many he hardly knew when he finally revived.
He found himself lying on the floor of a stall in a miserable stable, bound hand and foot in a way that precluded liberating himself. He was sore, stiff, and scarce able to stir, but he could use his eyes and ears, and his brain soon became cleared of the cobwebs.
He could hear the movements of horses in the near stalls. He could see the sunlight through chinks in the walls of the old building. He knew that day had dawned, if not already well spent, for the early songs of birds in the trees through which he could hear the sweep of the wind had ceased, and he reasoned that the morning was far advanced.
All this was confirmed a little later, when the steps of approaching men fell upon his ears, and the broad door of the stable swung open on its rusty hinges. A blaze of sunlight was shed into the dismal building.
Two men strode in and around to the stall in which the detective was lying. They were Sol Mauler, who had impersonated Cady, and his brother—Zeke Mauler. Why they dwelt alone in that desolate region and how they earned their living was a mystery to many, but there were hints at moonshine whisky.
“I reckon he’s still in dreamland, Zeke,” Sol Mauler was saying, when they approached. “He was hardly breathing half an hour ago, when I fed the nags. Mebbe he’ll croak on our hands and save us the trouble of—no, blast him! here he is with eyes wide open. His head’s like a hickory nut. So you’re not going to croak without help, eh?”
The last was added when the two ruffians appeared in the entrance to the stall, both halting to glare down at the prostrate detective.
Nick Carter gazed up at them, pale and bruised, but his eyes had lost none of their confidence and severe austerity.
“It’s no fault of yours, Mauler, that I am still in the land of the living,” he sternly answered.
“You bet it ain’t,” growled Sol, with expressive nods. “You’d have been done brown and planted deep, barring a kick came from one we have to hear to. He ain’t taking chances of a rope. The coin is all he’s out for.”
“We’ve got it, too,” put in Zeke, with a villainous leer. “We got it in spite of you.”
“Make sure you hang onto it, then,” Nick coldly advised.
“You can bet your boots on that. We’ll soon have it planted where no infernal New York dick will find it.”
“Don’t be so sure of it. You may slip a cog.”
“No slips for us,” said Sol confidently. “You ought to know that, Carter.”
“I’m not telling all I know.”
“They did a fat job who brought you down here to corral us fellows,” Mauler went on derisively. “We’re too slick for any city guy of your cut. Why, I near laughed in your ugly mug, when you boarded that express car and shoved a letter from Burdick under my nose.”
“You did, eh?”
“And then you started in to tell me who you was and all about the job you were out to queer. Oh, my, but that was rich!” cried the ruffian, with a burst of coarse laughter in which his low-browed brother joined.
“Yes, very rich,” Nick allowed.
“And then you pulled out a gun and wanted to know was I game?” cried the rascal, shaking with evil mirth. “You shoved the gun right in my hand and as much as told me to hold you up. I did it all right, Carter, and we got you—as we’re going to get those two duffers who’ve been helping you.”
“Unless they contrive to get you, you miscreant,” Nick retorted, frowning.
“Don’t you bank on that,” cried Mauler, with a snort and sneer. “We’ll have both of them by this time to-morrow. We’ll wipe you off the earth, all of you, and—by thunder, Zeke, that must be Murdock already. Let’s have a look.”
The chugging of the laboring touring car, which was at that moment entering the clearing, had fallen upon the ears of all.
Sol and Zeke Mauler rushed out of the stable, and uttered a series of triumphant yells when they saw the laden car and the powerless captive it contained.
It swept around the yard back of the house and stopped nearly in front of the stable.
Jake Hanlon came running from the house at the same moment, while Murdock leaped out of the car and cried:
“Hold your tongue, Sol. Your yelling would wake the dead.”
“There’ll soon be dead uns here to wake, all right,” Sol shouted. “So you’ve got the other one, eh?”
“One of them.”
“And that leaves only one.”
“We’ll get him, too, a little later,” snapped Murdock. “Lend a hand and bring him into the stable. We must get rid of both before dark.”
“We’ll do that, all right.”
“Swing round, Bryan, and back in the car after they’ve got him out,” Murdock continued to command. “It might be seen and known by chance. Get it under cover. I don’t want it suspected that I am in this business with you fellows. That would queer us, for fair.”
“You’re booked to be queered, all right,” thought Chick, while three of the ruffians were hastening to lift him from the car and bear him into the stable.
His anticipations were realized very much sooner, even than he expected.
Of the six ruffians comprising the gang, five of them were flocking into the small stable, three bearing the bound form of the detective.
Only Bryan remained outside, and he fell to turning the car, in which Janet Payson still was seated.
Not one among them had any apprehension of immediate danger.
Other figures were approaching, however, those of half a score of men, Patsy Garvan among them. They were stealing as noiselessly as shadows from the woods and shrubbery back of the stable, which they rapidly approached, with ranks dividing to pass around both sides of it.
Every man was armed with a rifle or a shotgun, save Patsy Garvan, and he carried a revolver in each hand.
As now may be inferred, Chick Carter’s ruse had been to place himself in the hands of Janet Payson and the man known to be her confederate, knowing that they would take him to the headquarters of the gang, and in the meantime to have Patsy so stationed with assistants north of Benton Corners that the subsequent course of the rascals could be stealthily followed.
As a matter of fact, however, Patsy had seen the car containing Murdock, Bryan, and Magee, two of whom he recognized, when it went through Benton Corners on its way to Shelby. The plans already laid with Chick told him what would follow, beyond any reasonable doubt, and he at once set about tracing the tracks of the touring car in the direction from which it had come.
This, of course, brought him and his companions to the Mauler place, less than ten minutes before Chick was brought there, and all hands were concealed scarce thirty feet back of the stable at that time.
The noise within had not abated when they came around both front corners of the stable, half a score of constables and officers from Shelby, but the voice of Patsy Garvan then rang like a trumpet over other sounds.
“Now, boys, get them!” he shouted, leading the way. “Some of you look after that fellow in the car. We’ve got those in the stable cornered like rats.”
There were yells of dismay from within before the last was said, and a rush of five crooks toward the open door.
Not a man among them ventured over its threshold however, or so much as drew a weapon in self-defense. The scene that met their gaze was enough to have daunted any gang of desperadoes.
For they found themselves confronted with half a score of leveled weapons, in the hands of as many determined men, and not one among them but knew that an aggressive move meant death.
It followed, therefore, that the arrest of the entire gang was an easy task. All were in irons in less than five minutes, and long before dark they occupied cells in the Shelby County Jail.
The money stolen from the express car was found in the cellar of the house, and later in the day was restored to the railway company.
Upon returning to the Shelby House with Nick and Patsy, all elated over their good work, Chick found a telegram awaiting him from Lieutenant Lang.
It told him that Dan Cady, the missing express-car man, had been found confined in Janet Payson’s flat in Philadelphia, in charge of another confederate, who had been arrested.
It then appeared that Cady had been on friendly terms with the woman and with Murdock, and that he had carelessly confided the fact that he was to carry a costly money package to Shelby on the night in question. This led to Murdock’s plot with his confederates, all having been awaiting the opportunity to commit the car robbery in the manner described, and Cady was lured to the flat in the early part of the day and overcome, Sol Mauler cleverly playing the part of his substitute.
This was rendered all the more feasible because of the fact that Murdock was one of the old railway hands, discharged for evil habits, and he was thoroughly familiar with all of the details essential to such a plot.
“It will teach Cady a lesson,” Nick remarked to Chick and Patsy that evening, as they sat smoking in their suite in the hotel. “He’ll select his companions more carefully in the future. As for Murdock and the gang—well, it now is up to them to pay the price.”
THE END.
“Broken Bars; or, Nick Carter’s Speedy Service,” is the title of the story that you will find in the next issue of this weekly, No. 132, out March 20th. The great detective and his assistants have more dealings with the desperate criminals that they thought they had so safely jailed.
It is generally the easiest thing in the world to drive a horse without spirit, but there is one recorded instance where a coach driver covered himself with glory by doing so.
One afternoon he and his coach and four came rattling up to the hotel like an avalanche. As the coach stopped, one of the horses dropped dead.
“That was a very sudden death,” remarked a bystander
“That sudden?” coolly responded the driver; “that ’os died at the top of the hill two miles back, sir, but I wasn’t going to let him down till I got to the reg’lar stoppin’ place.”
By ROLAND ASHFORD PHILLIPS.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 127 of Nick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
Klein went on with the business of his part, poking at the property fire—a bunch of red globes buried in a grate of coke. Other characters made their appearance, and the dialogue opened briskly.
Miss Lindner, first to pick up the silver frame, frowned as she delivered her lines. In an undertone, aside to Klein, who was busily engaged in dusting an already spotless piece of china, she said:
“According to the property man, I’ve got a new lover to-day. Did you notice the change?”
She laughed—her back was to the audience—and as Dodge, the character man, entered noisily, she made a face at him. Dodge took his art seriously, and would not “clown” on a scene. Others of the cast, aware of it, “kidded” him at every possible opportunity.
When Dodge stood in front of the picture, addressing it in thunderous rage—as the play demanded he should—Klein watched him narrowly. Nothing happened, and Klein decided mentally that the character man had not noticed the difference between to-day’s photograph and the one used in the previous performances.
By this time Tanner was on the scene, and for possibly ten minutes the dialogue and the action did not concern the photograph. Then Miss Lindner made a hurried exit, and Tanner began a soliloquy.
This was one of the longest speeches in the piece, and the best, and Tanner delivered it with all the power and passion he could command. At the finish, Klein, as the butler, was supposed to enter and announce a visitor, who happened to be Metcalfe.
Just before Klein’s entrance Tanner strode across the floor and picked up the frame. To this he was supposed to deliver the final line, which at the same time supplied the butler’s cue.
“And as for Lord Wellingmay,” he dramatically recited, “let him beware. I am not the man to——” He stopped so abruptly as to cause a titter to run through the audience, who, up to this point had listened, spellbound.
Tanner had picked up the frame at this critical moment and noticed the photograph.
Klein, waiting in the doorway for his cue, felt his pulse quicken. The sight of the photograph—Delmar’s photograph—had caused Tanner to hesitate!
The wait grew longer. Fearful of the delay, and aware that his entrance might set the dialogue moving once more, Klein stepped through the door.
“A visitor, Mr. Lemly!” he announced stiffly.
Klein’s line apparently brought Tanner back to earth again, and with a peculiar frown he turned and took up his cue.
While they were waiting for Metcalfe to enter, Klein spoke aside to Tanner in the way that is quite common on the stage, and which is often done, although the audience has no idea how much private conversation goes on among the actors during a play.
“What made you go up in the air?” he asked—and all the time a voice whispered in his ear: “Tanner’s the man! Tanner’s the man! His actions have proved it!”
Tanner, meanwhile, was fumbling nervously at his collar.
“I guess it—it was my nerves,” he answered. “I’ve been pounding too hard on the next week’s part. It’s frightfully warm here, isn’t it?”
The entrance of Metcalfe interrupted the conversation. The juvenile man dashed in and addressed his opening line to Tanner. Klein withdrew to the background, where he arranged the decanter and the glasses on a tray, preparatory to the next piece of business.
The dialogue between the other men continued. Both poured out their drinks. Metcalfe, posing dramatically before the table, proposed a toast.
But the toast was never drunk. Hardly had the words left Metcalfe’s lips when he reeled slightly; the muscles in his throat contracted violently. The glass slipped from his fingers and crashed upon the surface of the polished table.
A strange hush fell upon the scene, and in the silence the steady hum of the calciums came like the droning of a million bees.
It seemed an age must have elapsed before the strain was broken, but in reality it could not have been more than a few seconds. Yet in that time, swift as it was, and unexpected, too, Klein had discovered the reason for the interruption.
Metcalfe’s eyes, at the moment of the toast, had fallen upon Delmar’s photograph. And the sight of it had robbed him of all speech! He had betrayed even greater agitation than had Tanner. What did it mean? What could it mean, other than——
Like a snapping of a taut thread the tension was broken. Metcalfe, as if suddenly aroused from a stupor, broke into a hard and forced laugh, and he took up the regular lines of the play.
Passing close to him, bearing the tray, Klein noticed that the juvenile man’s fingers were clenched and that he was breathing a trifle faster than normal.
Klein was off the scene before the curtain of the act, and was touching up his eyes when Metcalfe came into the dressing room.
In a calm and matter-of-fact way Klein sought to bring out the truth of the affair by referring to the incident casually.
“Were you trying to reconstruct the second act?” he asked.
Metcalfe sank down into his chair and removed his wig.
“What are you getting at?” he asked curtly.
“Why, that impromptu scene over the toast,” Klein explained. “It was good as far as it went.”
The juvenile man’s hands were still trembling as he squared himself in his chair preparatory to removing his make-up. “I—I don’t know what—what came over me. My nerves, I guess.”
“You looked as if you’d seen a ghost,” Klein ventured to suggest.
Metcalfe flashed him a quick glance, but Klein, bending over his mirror, pretended not to notice it.
“I—I guess I did see a ghost,” he wavered. “Maybe I am a fool, and all of that, but if——” He hesitated, daubing his cheeks. “Klein,” he began once more, as if determined to relieve his mind of some weight, “I’ve been upset ever since I joined this company. There is something—something I’d like to talk over with you.”
“Fire away,” Klein told him, treating the statement with assumed indifference. “I’m all ears. I suppose one of your mash notes——”
“It is nothing like that, Klein,” Metcalfe interrupted gravely. “I’m serious for once.”
He paused, slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat. Klein waited expectantly for him to continue, confident that whatever was troubling the juvenile man would have a direct bearing upon Delmar’s photograph. That the photograph had temporarily upset and confused Tanner was not to be questioned. The excuse he had given Klein was obviously a lie. Then, following this, had come Metcalfe’s dramatic scene, which beyond any doubt had been prompted by the same photograph.
Yet both men avoided the real issue, and both attributed their lack of self-control to a case of “nerves.”
“In the first place,” Metcalfe said, “on the very day I left New York——”
The door of the dressing room was at this present moment thrown open, and Dodge stepped inside. He stood before the occupants with folded arms, glaring from one to another.
“What’s the trouble, Dodge?” Metcalfe asked, sinking back in his chair, plainly annoyed at the interruption.
“Matter? Matter?” Dodge burst out indignantly. “I should think you gentlemen would be ashamed of yourselves!”
“Ashamed?” echoed Klein. “What have we—-”
“I’d like to be stage manager of this company for about five minutes,” the character man interrupted. “That’s what I would! Such outrageous actions as I witnessed this afternoon would not be tolerated for an instant. You gentlemen have absolutely no respect for your profession—none at all. To clown on a scene deliberately is beneath the dignity of a conscientious artist.”
“He’s off,” muttered Metcalfe; then louder: “I suppose when you were with Booth and Barrett——”
“When I was with Booth, young man,” thundered Dodge, his deep voice rolling impressively, “we looked upon our art as a most serious matter. In those palmy days, sir, an actor held himself above such shameful proceedings as clowning. Mr. Booth would no more have allowed it than——”
“When I was playing the leads with ‘Too Proud to Beg,’” mocked the juvenile man, burlesquing the other, “in the palmy days of the melodrama, we were——”
“Say no more,” interrupted Dodge, lifting a hand. “It is not a thing to jest over. An artistic performance should never be marred by impromptu speeches.”
Metcalfe puckered his lips and started to whistle. Dodge glared at him for a second, then almost turned pale under his make-up.
Metcalfe laughed. “Still superstitious, Dodge? Well, don’t take it too hard. Let’s see; to whistle in a dressing room is a sign that the man nearest the door will be whistled out of the company. Isn’t that it?”
But the character man stalked out, slamming the door behind him.
“I guess he took the hint,” Klein said. “To my mind, he is the one bore in the company.”
The call boy’s voice came echoing through the hall:
“Third act! Third act!”
Klein, who was on near the opening of the act, rose to his feet.
“That’s me! I almost missed my entrance last night. If I get in late this afternoon, Bond will fine me. I’ll talk with you later, Metcalfe.”
He hurried out of the room and down the hall to the stage.
The following night, Saturday, while the stage crew were setting the second act, Klein strolled into the property room for a “side prop.”
“Where’s my decanter?” he asked of the property man, Kingston.
The latter motioned toward a shelf. “Up there. I’ve had a new batch of tea put in it.”
Klein took the decanter and started with it toward the door. At the same time he noticed Kingston placing a new photograph in the silver frame used in the coming act.
Aware of the actor’s apparent interest, the property man said, in a disgusted way: “These fool temperamental actors make me sick. Tanner told me I must change the picture in this frame. I told him to go chase himself, but when Metcalfe came along a few minutes later and asked me to do the same thing—well, I thought I’d better give in and not take chances on makin’ trouble.”
“What is the matter with the photograph?” Klein asked casually.
“That’s what I couldn’t get at,” Kingston returned. “The thing ain’t seen by the audience. If it wasn’t for the director stickin’ to what he calls details, I could just as well have stuck in a sheet of cardboard.”
Klein reflected, watching the man insert a new photograph and toss Delmar’s into a drawer.
“Didn’t Tanner or Metcalfe give any reason why they wanted the change made?” he asked presently.
“Nary a one,” Kingston answered. “Oh, I ain’t been around actors for ten years for nothin’. You got to treat ’em like a bunch of kids. If I didn’t change this picture, and one or the other of the fellows went up in the air over it, Bond would lay me out. You see, I ain’t takin’ no chances.”
Klein went on the scene that night still puzzled. The fact that both Tanner and Metcalfe had urged Kingston to remove Delmar’s photograph from the frame suggested to Klein’s mind several possibilities.
In attempting to deceive him, both men had placed themselves in a bad light. It was plain to Klein that the two men had been acquainted with Delmar, in one way or another, and for certain reasons neither of them desired the fact to become known.
Had not Dodge interrupted yesterday, Metcalfe might have cleared up some of the mystery; but later, when Klein broached the subject in a tactful manner—he did not want to give the impression of being too interested—the juvenile man seemed strangely perturbed, and did not appear at all anxious to resume the story.
While Klein was disappointed, he was still far from being discouraged—in fact, he had long ago dismissed the latter word from his vocabulary.
“As Nick Carter would say,” he murmured to himself, as he took his position before the fireplace and waited for the rising of the curtain: “‘The trail is growing warmer every minute.’”
After the fall of the final curtain, a party of young people who had witnessed the performance came back to the stage. Metcalfe, who had been through the second act, guided them around, answering volleys of questions.
To the ordinary person in the audience there is always a certain amount of mystery and glamour connected with the region on the other side of the footlights, and when offered an opportunity to visit this kingdom of canvas and tinsel little time is lost in accepting.
When Klein had finished dressing and was giving a final tug at his cravat, the door of his room was flung open and a bevy of giggling girls, led by Metcalfe, swarmed in.
“Behold Mr. Klein!” cried the juvenile man, making an exaggerated bow. “Our lowly but none the less faithful butler.”
Klein was introduced to all of the party.
“This comes near being a surprise party, doesn’t it?” he exclaimed. “Oh, perhaps, you ladies are making a tour of inspection.”
“Miss Lydecker has come to invite us all to her house,” said Metcalfe enthusiastically.
Klein bowed his personal acknowledgment. Miss Lydecker seemed about the most attractive girl he had ever seen.
On the way out of the theater Klein found himself between Miss Lydecker and her friend, Miss Reed. The latter was considerably the younger of the two girls, and appeared to be at that age when the feminine heart is likely to yearn for the glamour of the footlights.
“I think you made a splendid butler, Mr. Klein,” she said. “Really, I do. I told Helen so when you first came out. Didn’t I, Helen?”
Helen Lydecker nodded.
“Oh, it must be wonderful to be on the stage,” Miss Reed went on, gazing around at the bare walls, her eyes shining. “To think of devoting all the years of your life to such a grand profession! Don’t you just love it, Mr. Klein?”
“I find it interesting,” Klein answered. Swiftly, like a film upon a screen, he recalled the hours he had spent in chilly offices waiting for engagements that never materialized; recalled, too, the nerve-racking rehearsals, once an engagement had been trapped, and the hundred side parts he had learned in a few days, to say nothing of the weary months of one-night stands. All of this he remembered, but still smiled into the girl’s eager face.
Later, when they had reached the stage door and were climbing into several automobiles standing at the curb, Miss Reed leaned close to Klein and whispered:
“I’m just dying to be an actress. Don’t you think you could help me to get on the stage?”
“I’m afraid any assistance I might offer would be of small benefit,” Klein answered. “Getting a start upon the stage depends on the individual.”
In the automobile Klein was separated from Miss Reed—a condition of affairs that brought no regret—and found Helen Lydecker a delightful substitute.
From her he learned that these Saturday-night dances at her home were regular throughout the season, and that the members of the Hudson Stock Company were always honored guests.
“You see,” she hastened to explain, “I discovered there were no rehearsals on Sunday mornings, so that made it possible for you of the company to remain up a little later on Saturday nights. Oh, I have taken a great interest in theatricals. Father, you know, owns the house in which the company is playing.”
“Your friend, Miss Reed, is also interested in the profession, isn’t she?” Klein returned. They both laughed.
“Miss Reed imagines she has had a great sorrow in her life,” Miss Lydecker said. “It was a love affair, of course.”
“And so she turns to the stage for solace, I suppose.”
“That must be it.”
The three big automobiles had deserted the city streets, and were spinning swiftly along the hard dirt road. Suddenly they swerved and began climbing a slope.
“Our home is quite a distance from the town,” Miss Lydecker remarked, as the machines glided between high iron gates and came to a stop before a big white house. “But it makes it all the more enjoyable.”
Klein helped her out of the motor car. The others, laughing and chattering, hurried indoors. Miss Lydecker motioned him to the far end of the long porch.
“Look!” She stretched out a hand. “Isn’t that wonderful? I often sit here for hours.”
Far below, in the soft, white moonlight, spread the great Atlantic. The booming of the surf came faintly to Klein’s ears; the humid tang of salt air crept to his nostrils and misted against his cheeks.
“It is wonderful,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, he added: “This is my first real glimpse of the Atlantic.”
“You’re from inland, then?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. California claims me. I belong to that sect of egotists known as Native Sons. We are not supposed to hear, feel, or see, once we have stepped across our State line. Naturally, under these conditions, I am of the opinion that there is no ocean except the Pacific.”
The girl smiled and tossed her head. “Will you always hold that opinion, Mr. Klein?”
“I don’t know,” he reluctantly confessed. “I—I believe I am already weakening.”
From one end of the porch ran a narrow footbridge, spanning the lower lawn and ending at a high cliff. Miss Lydecker, noticing Klein’s interest in this, hastened to explain.
“Daddy has built a summerhouse on the very edge of that cliff. Would you care to go out? We call it Eagle’s Nest.”
They ventured out, the girl leading the way. Reaching the cliff, the two stood for a minute in silence, gazing down upon the sea. Only a narrow rail, breast-high, was between them and a sheer drop of a hundred feet.
“Don’t lean too far over the rail,” the girl warned him, half jesting. “One of our men fell here a few years ago.” She shuddered. “I wouldn’t come near the Nest for months afterward.”
Suddenly, above the steady throb of the surf, there came the first sounds of a distant orchestra.
“There!” exclaimed Miss Lydecker; “the first dance! And we’re missing it.”
They ran along the footbridge and across the broad porch toward the big door. Just as they were about to enter, Miss Lydecker stopped short, and a cry came from her lips.
“What is the matter?” Klein asked anxiously.
“Right there!” She pointed a finger.
“What?”
“A man! I saw him slipping along—near those bushes!”
Without another word Klein leaped from the porch and gained the high hedge that ran parallel to the pebbled roadway. He searched both sides for a dozen yards, finally giving up the hunt and rejoining the girl.
“It must have been a ghost,” he told her laughingly.
“I certainly saw some one,” she answered nervously. Then her brow cleared. “How foolish of me! Let’s not waste any more time. The first dance will be over before we get on the floor.”
After several dances in the big room cleared for that purpose, the guests were invited to an adjoining room, where supper was served by the hostess and her mother. Tanner, Metcalfe, and other members of the stock company were hovering about Miss Lydecker, drinking impromptu toasts, laughing, and exchanging pleasantries.
She finally broke away from them and came over to where Klein was chatting with Miss Reed.
“I was just telling Miss Reed,” Klein said, “how careless the majority of you girls are with your jewels.”
“You don’t suppose for one minute, Mr. Klein, that we would keep them locked up when so many gallant men are about!” Miss Lydecker exclaimed. She fumbled at a big brooch pinned on her bodice. It was a wonderful piece of workmanship, fashioned of diamonds and other precious stones, and cunningly wrought in the shape of a lotus flower.
“Daddy gave me this last week, and told me never to wear it except on state occasions,” Miss Lydecker announced. “It has been in our family several generations, and——”
Metcalfe interrupted at this moment. “Playing favorites so early in the evening, Miss Lydecker?” he asked.
“I’ve just been given a warning,” she said.
“A Black-hand letter?” asked Tanner, who had strolled up.
“Hardly as bad as that. But as usual it fell upon deaf ears.”
Several other men came up at this moment, and the conversation was abruptly shifted. Klein watched as Miss Lydecker walked away, surrounded by a group of admirers.
Perhaps five minutes elapsed. None of the guests had left the room—of this Klein was positive, since he was sitting nearest the door—and the incessant chatter rose and fell like the murmur of surf on a distant shore.
The men were allowed to enjoy cigars, and the room was soon filled with drifting smoke. Tanner, evidently at some one’s request, stepped to the nearest window and opened it.
“There!” he exclaimed. “That’s better.” He drew in a deep breath. “Isn’t the sea air refreshing?”
He sat down on the arm of Klein’s chair. “Do you know it is three o’clock?”
“I’d forgotten about the time,” Klein answered. “I suppose we ought to be home.”
“Dress rehearsal to-morrow night, remember,” Tanner cautioned. “Bond raked me over the coals to-day. I’ve got sixty sides for next week, and I’ve hardly glanced at the script. It is up to me to pound all day to-morrow.”
Miss Lydecker came over and joined them. “The party is breaking up. I’ll have the cars sent around,” she said.
“That’s thoughtful of you, Miss Lydecker,” replied Tanner. “What a hostess you are!”
“You must not forget next Saturday night,” she cautioned both of the men. “We’re going to have a real party. It’s my birthday. Daddy has promised me an orchestra from New York.”
“You could not keep us away,” murmured Tanner.
Klein, who had been watching her closely, suddenly spoke. “I notice, after all, Miss Lydecker, that you have taken heed of my warning.”
“What warning?” she asked, frowning.
“About the brooch. You have put it away.”
The girl’s hand went quickly to her collar, and instantly she paled. “The—the brooch,” she gasped; “it’s—gone.”
“You didn’t take it off yourself?” cried Klein.
“No,” she faltered; “I—I—it’s lost.”
“Good Lord!” broke from Tanner’s lips.
“You haven’t been out of this room since you spoke with me last, have you?” inquired Klein.
She shook her head.
“Then it must be in here—some place!”
Tanner gripped Klein’s arms. “Do you think some one might——”
“We’ll have to find that out,” said Klein. “I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour. Not one of the guests passed out; I’m positive of that.”
Tanner’s eyes narrowed as he caught Klein’s meaning. “I understand. We’ll keep them all here until——”
A few minutes later the whole room was made aware of the discovery. The girls huddled together in a frightened group, while the men gathered around Tanner and Klein.
“I saw the brooch barely fifteen minutes ago,” Klein said, addressing them. “And Miss Lydecker has not been out of this room. The brooch must be in here.”
Under his direction the room was gone over, inch by inch. Nothing was found. After that, at Tanner’s suggestion, each of the men submitted himself to a search. Tanner allowed Klein to search him, and then the process was reversed. Following this, Klein assured himself that none of the other men present had the jewel upon him.
Klein walked over to Miss Lydecker and spoke to her. “Don’t give up so readily, Miss Lydecker. Your brooch cannot be far away. Every man here, I am sure, will make a determined effort to——”
“What—what’ll daddy say?” she moaned. “He told me not to wear it.”
“Cheer up!” exclaimed Klein. “I’ll wager you’ll be wearing it before next Saturday night.”
Miss Lydecker finally calmed herself, and offered a limp hand to the departing guests. The machines drew up at the door, and the girls and their escorts silently took their seats.
“Don’t worry too much,” Klein said, smiling into her white face; “things may brighten to-morrow. Good-by.”