Gilder scrupulously followed the directions of the Police Inspector. Uneasily, he had remained in the library until the allotted time was elapsed. He fidgeted from place to place, his mind heavy with distress under the shadow that threatened to blight the life of his cherished son. Finally, with a sense of relief he put out the lights and went to his chamber. But he did not follow the further directions given him, for he was not minded to go to bed. Instead, he drew the curtains closely to make sure that no gleam of light could pass them, and then sat with a cigar between his lips, which he did not smoke, though from time to time he was at pains to light it. His thoughts were most with his son, and ever as he thought of Dick, his fury waxed against the woman who had enmeshed the boy in her plotting for vengeance on himself. And into his thoughts now crept a doubt, one that alarmed his sense of justice. It occurred to him that this woman could not have thus nourished a plan for retribution through the years unless, indeed, she had been insane, even as he had claimed—or innocent! The idea was appalling. He could not bear to admit the possibility of having been the involuntary inflicter of such wrong as to send the girl to prison for an offense she had not committed. He rejected the suggestion, but it persisted. He knew the clean, wholesome nature of his son. It seemed to him incredible that the boy could have thus given his heart to one altogether undeserving. A horrible suspicion that he had misjudged Mary Turner crept into his brain, and would not out. He fought it with all the strength of him, and that was much, but ever it abode there. He turned for comfort to the things Burke had said. The woman was a crook, and there was an end of it. Her ruse of spoliation within the law was evidence of her shrewdness, nothing more.
Mary Turner herself, too, was in a condition utterly wretched, and for the same cause—Dick Gilder. That source of the father's suffering was hers as well. She had won her ambition of years, revenge on the man who had sent her to prison. And now the joy of it was a torture, for the puppet of her plans, the son, had suddenly become the chief thing in her life. She had taken it for granted that he would leave her after he came to know that her marriage to him was only a device to bring shame on his father. Instead, he loved her. That fact seemed the secret of her distress. He loved her. More, he dared believe, and to assert boldly, that she loved him. Had he acted otherwise, the matter would have been simple enough.... But he loved her, loved her still, though he knew the shame that had clouded her life, knew the motive that had led her to accept him as a husband. More—by a sublime audacity, he declared that she loved him.
There came a thrill in her heart each time she thought of that—that she loved him. The idea was monstrous, of course, and yet—— Here, as always, she broke off, a hot flush blazing in her cheeks.... Nevertheless, such curious fancies pursued her through the hours. She strove her mightiest to rid herself of them, but in vain. Ever they persisted. She sought to oust them by thinking of any one else, of Aggie, of Joe. There at last was satisfaction. Her interference between the man who had saved her life and the temptation of the English crook had prevented a dangerous venture, which might have meant ruin to the one whom she esteemed for his devotion to her, if for no other reason. At least, she had kept him from the outrageous folly of an ordinary burglary.
Mary Turner was just ready for bed after her evening at the theater, when she was rudely startled out of this belief. A note came by a messenger who waited for no answer, as he told the yawning maid. As Mary read the roughly scrawled message, she was caught in the grip of terror. Some instinct warned her that this danger was even worse than it seemed. The man who had saved her from death had yielded to temptation. Even now, he was engaged in committing that crime which she had forbidden him. As he had saved her, so she must save him. She hurried into the gown she had just put off. Then she went to the telephone-book and searched for the number of Gilder's house.
It was just a few moments before Mary Turner received the note from the hands of the sleepy maid that one of the leaves of the octagonal window in the library of Richard Gilder's town house swung open, under the persuasive influence of a thin rod of steel, cunningly used, and Joe Garson stepped confidently into the dark room.
A faint radiance of moonlight from without showed him for a second as he passed between the heavy draperies. Then these fell into place, and he was invisible, and soundless as well. For a space, he rested motionless, listening intently. Reassured, he drew out an electric torch and set it glowing. A little disc of light touched here and there about the room, traveling very swiftly, and in methodical circles. Satisfied by the survey, Garson crossed to the hall door. He moved with alert assurance, lithely balanced on the balls of his feet, noiselessly. At the hall door he listened for any sound of life without, and found none. The door into the passage that led to the store-room where the detectives waited next engaged his business-like attention. And here, again, there was naught to provoke his suspicion.
These preliminaries taken as measures of precaution, Garson went boldly to the small table that stood behind the couch, turned the button, and the soft glow of an electric lamp illumined the apartment. The extinguished torch was thrust back into his pocket. Afterward he carried one of the heavy chairs to the door of the passage and propped it against the panel in such wise that its fall must give warning as to the opening of the door. His every action was performed with the maximum of speed, with no least trace of flurry or of nervous haste. It was evident that he followed a definite program, the fruit of precise thought guided by experience.
It seemed to him that now everything was in readiness for the coming of his associates in the commission of the crime. There remained only to give them the signal in the room around the corner where they waited at a telephone. He seated himself in Gilder's chair at the desk, and drew the telephone to him.
“Give me 999 Bryant,” he said. His tone was hardly louder than a whisper, but spoken with great distinctness.
There was a little wait. Then an answer in a voice he knew came over the wire.
But Garson said nothing more. Instead, he picked up a penholder from the tray on the desk, and began tapping lightly on the rim of the transmitter. It was a code message in Morse. In the room around the corner, the tapping sounded clearly, ticking out the message that the way was free for the thieves' coming.
When Garson had made an end of the telegraphing, there came a brief answer in like Morse, to which he returned a short direction.
For a final safeguard, Garson searched for and found the telephone bell-box on the surbase below the octagonal window. It was the work of only a few seconds to unscrew the bells, which he placed on the desk. So simply he made provision against any alarm from this source. He then took his pistol from his hip-pocket, examined it to make sure that the silencer was properly adjusted, and then thrust it into the right side-pocket of his coat, ready for instant use in desperate emergency. Once again, now, he produced the electric torch, and lighted it as he extinguished the lamp on the table.
Forthwith, Garson went to the door into the hall, opened it, and, leaving it ajar, made his way in silence to the outer doorway. Presently, the doors there were freed of their bolts under his skilled fingers, and one of them swung wide. He had put out the torch now, lest its gleam might catch the gaze of some casual passer-by. So nicely had the affair been timed that hardly was the door open before the three men slipped in, and stood mute and motionless in the hall, while Garson refastened the doors. Then, a pencil of light traced the length of the hallway and Garson walked quickly back to the library. Behind him with steps as noiseless as his own came the three men to whom he had just given the message.
When all were gathered in the library, Garson shut the hall door, touched the button in the wall beside it, and the chandelier threw its radiant light on the group.
Griggs was in evening clothes, seeming a very elegant young gentleman indeed, but his two companions were of grosser type, as far as appearances went: one, Dacey, thin and wiry, with a ferret face; the other, Chicago Red, a brawny ruffian, whose stolid features nevertheless exhibited something of half-sullen good nature.
“Everything all right so far,” Garson said rapidly. He turned to Griggs and pointed toward the heavy hangings that shrouded the octagonal window. “Are those the things we want?” he demanded.
“Yes,” was the answer of English Eddie.
“Well, then, we've got to get busy,” Garson went on. His alert, strong face was set in lines of eagerness that had in it something of fierceness now.
But, before he could add a direction, he was halted by a soft buzzing from the telephone, which, though bell-less, still gave this faint warning of a call. For an instant, he hesitated while the others regarded him doubtfully. The situation offered perplexities. To give no attention to the summons might be perilous, and failure to respond might provoke investigation in some urgent matter; to answer it might easily provide a larger danger.
“We've got to take a chance.” Garson spoke his decision curtly. He went to the desk and put the receiver to his ear.
There came again the faint tapping of some one at the other end of the line, signaling a message in the Morse code. An expression of blank amazement, which grew in a flash to deep concern, showed on Garson's face as he listened tensely.
“Why, this is Mary calling,” he muttered.
“Mary!” Griggs cried. His usual vacuity of expression was cast off like a mask and alarm twisted his features. Then, in the next instant, a crafty triumph gleamed from his eyes.
“Yes, she's on,” Garson interpreted, a moment later, as the tapping ceased for a little. He translated in a loud whisper as the irregular ticking noise sounded again.
“I shall be there at the house almost at once. I am sending this message from the drug store around the corner. Have some one open the door for me immediately.”
“She's coming over,” Griggs cried incredulously.
“No, I'll stop her,” Garson declared firmly.
“Right! Stop her,” Chicago Red vouchsafed.
But, when, after tapping a few words, the forger paused for the reply, no sound came.
“She don't answer,” he exclaimed, greatly disconcerted. He tried again, still without result. At that, he hung up the receiver with a groan. “She's gone——”
“On her way already,” Griggs suggested, and there was none to doubt that it was so.
“What's she coming here for?” Garson exclaimed harshly. “This ain't no place for her! Why, if anything should go wrong now——”
But Griggs interrupted him with his usual breezy cheerfulness of manner.
“Oh, nothing can go wrong now, old top. I'll let her in.” He drew a small torch from the skirt-pocket of his coat and crossed to the hall door, as Garson nodded assent.
“God! Why did she have to come?” Garson muttered, filled with forebodings. “If anything should go wrong now!”
He turned back toward the door just as it opened, and Mary darted into the room with Griggs following. “What do you want here?” he demanded, with peremptory savageness in his voice, which was a tone he had never hitherto used in addressing her.
Mary went swiftly to face Garson where he stood by the desk, while Griggs joined the other two men who stood shuffling about uneasily by the fireplace, at a loss over this intrusion on their scheme. Mary moved with a lissome grace like that of some wild creature, but as she halted opposite the man who had given her back the life she would have thrown away, there was only tender pleading in her voice, though her words were an arraignment.
“Joe, you lied to me.”
“That can be settled later,” the man snapped. His jaw was thrust forward obstinately, and his clear eyes sparkled defiantly.
“You are fools, all of you!” Mary cried. Her eyes darkened and distended with fear. They darted from Garson to the other three men, and back again in rebuke. “Yes, fools! This is burglary. I can't protect you if you are caught. How can I? Oh, come!” She held out her hands pleadingly toward Garson, and her voice dropped to beseeching. “Joe, Joe, you must get away from this house at once, all of you. Joe, make them go.”
“It's too late,” was the stern answer. There was no least relaxation in the stubborn lines of his face. “We're here now, and we'll stay till the business is done.”
Mary went a step forward. The cloak she was wearing was thrown back by her gesture of appeal so that those watching saw the snowy slope of the shoulders and the quick rise and fall of the gently curving bosom. The beautiful face within the framing scarf was colorless with a great fear, save only the crimson lips, of which the bow was bent tremulously as she spoke her prayer.
“Joe, for my sake!”
But the man was inexorable. He had set himself to this thing, and even the urging of the one person in the world for whom he most cared was powerless against his resolve.
“I can't quit now until we've got what we came here after,” he declared roughly.
Of a sudden, the girl made shift to employ another sort of supplication.
“But there are reasons,” she said, faltering. A certain embarrassment swept her, and the ivory of her cheeks bloomed rosily. “I—I can't have you rob this house, this particular house of all the world.” Her eyes leaped from the still obdurate face of the forger to the group of three back of him. Her voice was shaken with a great dread as she called out to them.
“Boys, let's get away! Please, oh, please! Joe, for God's sake!” Her tone was a sob.
Her anguish of fear did not swerve Garson from his purpose.
“I'm going to see this through,” he said, doggedly.
“But, Joe——”
“It's settled, I tell you.”
In the man's emphasis the girl realized at last the inefficacy of her efforts to combat his will. She seemed to droop visibly before their eyes. Her head sank on her breast. Her voice was husky as she tried to speak.
“Then——” She broke off with a gesture of despair, and turned away toward the door by which she had entered.
But, with a movement of great swiftness, Garson got in front of her, and barred her going. For a few seconds the two stared at each other searchingly as if learning new and strange things, each of the other. In the girl's expression was an outraged wonder and a great terror. In the man's was a half-shamed pride, as if he exulted in the strength with which he had been able to maintain his will against her supreme effort to overthrow it.
“You can't go,” Garson said sharply. “You might be caught.”
“And if I were,” Mary demanded in a flash of indignation, “do you think I'd tell?”
There came an abrupt change in the hard face of the man. Into the piercing eyes flamed a softer fire of tenderness. The firm mouth grew strangely gentle as he replied, and his voice was overtoned with faith.
“Of course not, Mary,” he said. “I know you. You would go up for life first.”
Then again his expression became resolute, and he spoke imperiously.
“Just the same, you can't take any chances. We'll all get away in a minute, and you'll come with us.” He turned to the men and spoke with swift authority.
“Come,” he said to Dacey, “you get to the light switch there by the hall door. If you hear me snap my fingers, turn 'em off. Understand?”
With instant obedience, the man addressed went to his station by the hall door, and stood ready to control the electric current.
The distracted girl essayed one last plea. The momentary softening of Garson had given her new courage.
“Joe, don't do this.”
“You can't stop it now, Mary,” came the brisk retort. “Too late. You're only wasting time, making it dangerous for all of us.”
Again he gave his attention to carrying on the robbery.
“Red,” he ordered, “you get to that door.” He pointed to the one that gave on the passageway against which he had set the chair tilted. As the man obeyed, Garson gave further instructions.
“If any one comes in that way, get him and get him quick. You understand? Don't let him cry out.”
Chicago Red grinned with cheerful acceptance of the issue in such an encounter. He held up his huge hand, widely open.
“Not a chance,” he declared, proudly, “with that over his mug.” To avoid possible interruption of his movements in an emergency, he removed the chair Garson had placed and set it to one side, out of the way.
“Now, let's get to work,” Garson continued eagerly. Mary spoke with the bitterness of defeat.
“Listen, Joe! If you do this, I'm through with you. I quit.”
Garson was undismayed by the threat.
“If this goes through,” he countered, “we'll all quit. That's why I'm doing it. I'm sick of the game.”
He turned to the work in hand with increased energy.
“Come, you, Griggs and Red, and push that desk down a bit so that I can stand on it.” The two men bent to the task, heedless of Mary's frantic protest.
“No! no! no! no! no, Joe!”
Red, however, suddenly straightened from the desk and stood motionless, listening. He made a slight hissing noise that arrested the attention of the others and held them in moveless silence.
“I hear something,” he whispered. He went to the keyhole of the door leading into the passage. Then he whispered again, “And it's coming this way.”
At the words, Garson snapped his fingers. The room was plunged in darkness.
There was absolute silence in the library after the turning of the switch that brought the pall of darkness. Long seconds passed, then a little noise—the knob of the passage door turning. As the door swung open, there came a gasping breath from Mary, for she saw framed in the faint light that came from the single burner in the corridor the slender form of her husband, Dick Gilder. In the next instant he had stepped within the room and pulled to the door behind him. And in that same instant Chicago Red had pounced on his victim, the huge hand clapped tight over the young man's mouth. Even as his powerful arm held the newcomer in an inescapable embrace, there came a sound of scuffling feet and that was all. Finally the big man's voice came triumphantly.
“I've got him.”
“It's Dick!” The cry came as a wail of despair from the girl.
At the same moment, Garson flashed his torch, and the light fell swiftly on young Gilder, bowed to a kneeling posture before the couch, half-throttled by the strength of Chicago Red. Close beside him, Mary looked down in wordless despair over this final disaster of the night. There was silence among the men, all of whom save the captor himself were gathered near the fireplace.
Garson retired a step farther before he spoke his command, so that, though he held the torch still, he like the others was in shadow. Only Mary was revealed clearly as she bent in alarm toward the man she had married. It was borne in on the forger's consciousness that the face of the woman leaning over the intruder was stronger to hold the prisoner and to prevent any outcry than the might of Chicago Red himself, and so he gave the order.
“Get away, Red.”
The fellow let go his grip obediently enough, though with a trifle of regret, since he gloried in his physical prowess.
Thus freed of that strangling embrace, Dick stumbled blindly to his feet. Then, mechanically, his hand went to the lamp on the table back of the couch. In the same moment Garson snapped his torch to darkness. When, after a little futile searching, Dick finally found the catch, and the mellow streamed forth, he uttered an ejaculation of stark amazement, for his gaze was riveted on the face of the woman he loved.
“Good God!” It was a cry of torture wrung from his soul of souls.
Mary swayed toward him a little, palpitant with fear—fear for herself, for all of them, most of all for him.
“Hush! hush!” she panted warningly. “Oh, Dick, you don't understand.”
Dick's hand was at his throat. It was not easy for him to speak yet. He had suffered severely in the process of being throttled, and, too, he was in the clutch of a frightful emotion. To find her, his wife, in this place, in such company—her, the woman whom he loved, whom, in spite of everything, he had honored, the woman to whom he had given his name! Mary here! And thus!
“I understand this,” he said brokenly at last. “Whether you ever did it before or not, this time you have broken the law.” A sudden inspiration on his own behalf came to him. For his love's sake, he must seize on this opportunity given of fate to him for mastery. He went on with a new vehemence of boldness that became him well.
“You're in my hands now. So are these men as well. Unless you do as I say, Mary, I'll jail every one of them.”
Mary's usual quickness was not lacking even now, in this period of extremity. Her retort was given without a particle of hesitation.
“You can't,” she objected with conviction. “I'm the only one you've seen.”
“That's soon remedied,” Dick declared. He turned toward the hall door as if with the intention of lighting the chandelier.
But Mary caught his arm pleadingly.
“Don't, Dick,” she begged. “It's—it's not safe.”
“I'm not afraid,” was his indignant answer. He would have gone on, but she clung the closer. He was reluctant to use over-much force against the one whom he cherished so fondly.
There came a diversion from the man who had made the capture, who was mightily wondering over the course of events, which was wholly unlike anything in the whole of his own rather extensive housebreaking experience.
“Who's this, anyhow?” Chicago Red demanded.
There was a primitive petulance in his drawling tones.
Dick answered with conciseness enough.
“I'm her husband. Who are you?”
Mary called a soft admonition.
“Don't speak, any of you,” she directed. “You mustn't let him hear your voices.”
Dick was exasperated by this persistent identification of herself with these criminals in his father's house.
“You're fighting me like a coward,” he said hotly. His voice was bitter. The eyes that had always been warm in their glances on her were chill now. He turned a little way from her, as if in instinctive repugnance. “You are taking advantage of my love. You think that because of it I can't make a move against these men. Now, listen to me, I——”
“I won't!” Mary cried. Her words were shrill with mingled emotions. “There's nothing to talk about,” she went on wildly. “There never can be between you and me.”
The young man's voice came with a sonorous firmness that was new to it. In these moments, the strength of him, nourished by suffering, was putting forth its flower. His manner was masterful.
“There can be and there will be,” he contradicted. He raised his voice a little, speaking into the shadows where was the group of silent men.
“You men back there!” he cried. “If I give you my word to let every one of you go free and pledge myself never to recognize one of you again, will you make Mary here listen to me? That's all I ask. I want a few minutes to state my case. Give me that. Whether I win or lose, you men go free, and I'll forget everything that has happened here to-night.” There came a muffled guffaw of laughter from the big chest of Chicago Red at this extraordinarily ingenuous proposal, while Dacey chuckled more quietly.
Dick made a gesture of impatience at this open derision.
“Tell them I can be trusted,” he bade Mary curtly.
It was Garson who answered.
“I know that you can be trusted,” he said, “because I know you lo——” He checked himself with a shiver, and out of the darkness his face showed white.
“You must listen,” Dick went on, facing again toward the girl, who was trembling before him, her eyes by turns searching his expression or downcast in unfamiliar confusion, which she herself could hardly understand.
“Your safety depends on me,” the young man warned. “Suppose I should call for help?”
Garson stepped forward threateningly.
“You would only call once,” he said very gently, yet most grimly. His hand went to the noiseless weapon in his coat-pocket.
But the young man's answer revealed the fact that he, too, was determined to the utmost, that he understood perfectly the situation.
“Once would be quite enough,” he said simply.
Garson nodded in acceptance of the defeat. It may be, too, that in some subtle fashion he admired this youth suddenly grown resolute, competent to control a dangerous event. There was even the possibility that some instinct of tenderness toward Mary herself made him desire that this opportunity should be given for wiping out the effects of misfortune which fate hitherto had brought into her life.
“You win,” Garson said, with a half-laugh. He turned to the other men and spoke a command.
“You get over by the hall door, Red. And keep your ears open every second. Give us the office if you hear anything. If we're rushed, and have to make a quick get-away, see that Mary has the first chance. Get that, all of you?”
As Chicago Red took up his appointed station, Garson turned to Dick.
“Make it quick, remember.”
He touched the other two and moved back to the wall by the fireplace, as far as possible from the husband and wife by the couch.
Dick spoke at once, with a hesitancy that betrayed the depth of his emotion.
“Don't you care for me at all?” he asked wistfully.
The girl's answer was uttered with nervous eagerness which revealed her own stress of fear.
“No, no, no!” she exclaimed, rebelliously.
Now, however, the young man had regained some measure of reassurance.
“I know you do, Mary,” he asserted, confidently; “a little, anyway. Why, Mary,” he went on reproachfully, “can't you see that you're throwing away everything that makes life worth while? Don't you see that?”
There was no word from the girl. Her breast was moving convulsively. She held her face steadfastly averted from the face of her husband.
“Why don't you answer me?” he insisted.
Mary's reply came with all the coldness she could command.
“That was not in the bargain,” Mary said, indifferently.
The man's voice grew tenderly winning, persuasive with the longing of a lover, persuasive with the pity of the righteous for the sinner.
“Mary, Mary!” he cried. “You've got to change. Don't be so hard. Give the woman in you a chance.”
The girl's form became rigid as she fought for self-control. The plea touched to the bottom of her heart, but she could not, would not yield. Her words rushed forth with a bitterness that was the cover of her distress.
“I am what I am,” she said sharply. “I can't change. Keep your promise, now, and let's get out of this.”
Her assertion was disregarded as to the inability to change.
“You can change,” Dick went on impetuously. “Mary, haven't you ever wanted the things that other women have, shelter, and care, and the big things of life, the things worth while? They're all ready for you, now, Mary.... And what about me?” Reproach leaped in his tone. “After all, you've married me. Now it's up to you to give me my chance to make good. I've never amounted to much. I've never tried much. I shall, now, if you will have it so, Mary; if you'll help me. I will come out all right, I know that—so do you, Mary. Only, you must help me.”
“I help you!” The exclamation came from the girl in a note of incredulous astonishment.
“Yes,” Dick said, simply. “I need you, and you need me. Come away with me.”
“No, no!” was the broken refusal. There was a great grief clutching at the soul of this woman who had brought vengeance to its full flower. She was gasping. “No, no! I married you, not because I loved you, but to repay your father the wrong he had done me. I wouldn't let myself even think of you, and then—I realized that I had spoiled your life.”
“No, not spoiled it, Mary! Blessed it! We must prove that yet.”
“Yes, spoiled it,” the wife went on passionately. “If I had understood, if I could have dreamed that I could ever care—— Oh, Dick, I would never have married you for anything in the world.”
“But now you do realize,” the young man said quietly. “The thing is done. If we made a mistake, it is for us to bring happiness out of that error.”
“Oh, can't you see?” came the stricken lament. “I'm a jail-bird!”
“But you love me—you do love me, I know!” The young man spoke with joyous certainty, for some inflection of her voice had told the truth to his heart. Nothing else mattered. “But now, to come back to this hole we're in here. Don't you understand, at last, that you can't beat the law? If you're caught here to-night, where would you get off—caught here with a gang of burglars? Tell me, dear, why did you do it? Why didn't you protect yourself? Why didn't you go to Chicago as you planned?”
“What?” There was a new quality in Mary's voice. A sudden throb of shock masked in the surface indifference of intonation.
Dick repeated his question, unobservant of its first effect.
“Why didn't you go to Chicago as you had planned?”
“Planned? With whom?” The interrogation came with an abrupt force that cried of new suspicions.
“Why, with Burke.” The young man tried to be patient over her density in this time of crisis.
“Who told you that I had arranged any such thing?” Mary asked. Now the tenseness in her manner got the husband's attention, and he replied with a sudden gravity, apprehensive of he knew not what.
“Burke himself did.”
“When?” Mary was standing rigid now, and the rare color flamed in her cheeks. Her eyes were blazing.
“Less than an hour ago.” He had caught the contagion of her mood and vague alarm swept him.
“Where?” came the next question, still with that vital insistence.
“In this room.”
“Burke was here?” Mary's voice was suddenly cold, very dangerous. “What was he doing here?”
“Talking to my father.”
The seemingly simple answer appeared the last straw to the girl's burden of frenzied suspicion. Her voice cut fiercely into the quiet of the room, imperious, savage.
“Joe, turn on that light! I want to see the face of every man in this room.”
Something fatally significant in her voice set Garson a-leap to the switch, and, in the same second, the blaze of the chandelier flamed brilliantly over all. The others stood motionless, blinking in the sudden radiance—all save Griggs, who moved stealthily in that same moment, a little nearer the door into the passage, which was nearest to him.
But Mary's next words came wholly as a surprise, seemingly totally irrelevant to this instant of crisis. Yet they rang a-throb with an hysterical anxiety.
“Dick,” she cried, “what are those tapestries worth?” With the question, she pointed toward the draperies that shrouded the great octagonal window.
The young man was plainly astonished, disconcerted as well by the obtrusion of a sordid detail into the tragedy of the time.
“Why in the world do you——?” he began, impatiently.
Mary stamped her foot angrily in protest against the delay.
“Tell me—quick!” she commanded. The authority in her voice and manner was not to be gainsaid.
Dick yielded sullenly.
“Oh, two or three hundred dollars, I suppose,” he answered. “Why?”
“Never mind that!” Mary exclaimed, violently. And now the girl's voice came stinging like a whiplash. In Garson's face, too, was growing fury, for in an instant of illumination he guessed something of the truth. Mary's next question confirmed his raging suspicion.
“How long have you had them, Dick?”
By now, the young man himself sensed the fact that something mysteriously baneful lay behind the frantic questioning on this seemingly trivial theme.
“Ever since I can remember,” he replied, promptly.
Mary's voice came then with an intonation that brought enlightenment not only to Garson's shrewd perceptions, but also to the heavier intelligences of Dacey and of Chicago Red.
“And they're not famous masterpieces which your father bought recently, from some dealer who smuggled them into this country?” So simple were the words of her inquiry, but under them beat something evil, deadly.
The young man laughed contemptuously.
“I should say not!” he declared indignantly, for he resented the implication against his father's honesty.
“It's a trick! Burke's done it!” Mary's words came with accusing vehemence.
There was another single step made by Griggs toward the door into the passage.
Mary's eye caught the movement, and her lips soundlessly formed the name:
“Griggs!”
The man strove to carry off the situation, though he knew well that he stood in mortal peril. He came a little toward the girl who had accused him of treachery. He was very dapper in his evening clothes, with his rather handsome, well-groomed face set in lines of innocence.
“He's lying to you!” he cried forcibly, with a scornful gesture toward Dick Gilder. “I tell you, those tapestries are worth a million cold.”
Mary's answer was virulent in its sudden burst of hate. For once, the music of her voice was lost in a discordant cry of detestation.
“You stool-pigeon! You did this for Burke!”
Griggs sought still to maintain his air of innocence, and he strove well, since he knew that he fought for his life against those whom he had outraged. As he spoke again, his tones were tremulous with sincerity—perhaps that tremulousness was born chiefly of fear, yet to the ear his words came stoutly enough for truth:
“I swear I didn't! I swear it!”
Mary regarded the protesting man with abhorrence. The perjured wretch shrank before the loathing in her eyes.
“You came to me yesterday,” she said, with more of restraint in her voice now, but still with inexorable rancor. “You came to me to explain this plan. And you came from him—from Burke!”
“I swear I was on the level. I was tipped off to the story by a pal,” Griggs declared, but at last the assurance was gone out of his voice. He felt the hostility of those about him.
Garson broke in ferociously.
“It's a frame-up!” he said. His tones came in a deadened roar of wrath.
On the instant, aware that further subterfuge could be of no avail, Griggs swaggered defiance.
“And what if it is true?” he drawled, with a resumption of his aristocratic manner, while his eyes swept the group balefully. He plucked the police whistle from his waistcoat-pocket, and raised it to his lips.
He moved too slowly. In the same moment of his action, Garson had pulled the pistol from his pocket, had pressed the trigger. There came no spurt of flame. There was no sound—save perhaps a faint clicking noise. But the man with the whistle at his lips suddenly ceased movement, stood absolutely still for the space of a breath. Then, he trembled horribly, and in the next instant crashed to the floor, where he lay rigid, dead.
“Damn you—I've got you!” Garson sneered through clenched teeth. His eyes were like balls of fire. There was a frightful grin of triumph twisting his mouth in this minute of punishment.
In the first second of the tragedy, Dick had not understood. Indeed, he was still dazed by the suddenness of it all. But the falling of Griggs before the leveled weapon of the other man, there to lie in that ghastly immobility, made him to understand. He leaped toward Garson—would have wrenched the pistol from the other's grasp. In the struggle, it fell to the floor.
Before either could pick it up, there came an interruption. Even in the stress of this scene, Chicago Red had never relaxed his professional caution. A slight noise had caught his ear, he had stooped, listening. Now, he straightened, and called his warning.
“Somebody's opening the front door!”
Garson forgot his weapon in this new alarm. He sprang to the octagonal window, even as Dick took possession of the pistol.
“The street's empty! We must jump for it!” His hate was forgotten now in an emotion still deeper, and he turned to Mary. His face was all gentleness again, where just before it had been evil incarnate, aflame with the lust to destroy. “Come on, Mary,” he cried.
Already Chicago Red had snapped off the lights of the chandelier, had sprung to the window, thrown open a panel of it, and had vanished into the night, with Dacey at his heels. As Garson would have called out to the girl again in mad anxiety for haste, he was interrupted by Dick:
“She couldn't make it, Garson,” he declared coolly and resolutely. “You go. It'll be all right, you know. I'll take care of her!”
“If she's caught——!” There was an indescribable menace in the forger's half-uttered threat.
“She won't be.” The quality of sincerity in Dick's voice was more convincing than any vow might have been.
“If she is, I'll get you, that's all,” Garson said gravely, as one stating a simple fact that could not be disputed.
Then he glanced down at the body of the man whom he had done to death.
“And you can tell that to Burke!” he said viciously to the dead. “You damned squealer!” There was a supremely malevolent content in his sneer.