IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

A SMALL WHITE HAND DARTED OVER HIS SHOULDER
Page [174]

IN THE
DEAD OF NIGHT

BY
JOHN T. McINTYRE
Author of “With Fighting Jack Barry,” etc.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
FRANCES ROGERS

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1908

Copyright, 1908
By J. B. Lippincott Company
Published April, 1908
Electrotyped and printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A.

TO
ALICE MUMFORD ROBERTS

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

In the Dead of Night

I
THE GIRL IN THE HANSOM CAB

“Mysteries, my boy, are always things of the night.”
—A Saying of Garry Webster.

Kenyon ate the good little German dinner which the Berlin always served, and looked amusedly out upon Broadway.

“Apparently it’s the same old town,” said he. “A little more light, a few more people; but the same cocksureness, the same air of being the goal of all human effort.”

With a smile, he lay back in his chair and watched the tide ebbing along. It was a November night and the pulse of Broadway beat heavily: the stream of life that flowed through the great artery was as flippant and as garish as a vaudeville. An orchestra was drooning behind some palms in the Berlin; it played one of those Indian things, filled with the throb of tom-toms and unusual combinations of tone.

But Kenyon listened inattentively. He ate the last morsel of his dessert with satisfaction, and drained the last drop of wine with appreciation; then he turned once more and watched the crowds. It was the first time he had been in New York in ten years; yet the glare and effrontery of its big highway was waking the fever of the city in his blood.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” asked the precise German who had served him.

“Only the check,” answered Kenyon. He felt for his card-case, after the waiter had turned away; it held a single ten-dollar bill, and this he regarded ruefully.

“It is not much of a defence against the aggressions of the world,” said he. “And I fancy that this little dinner will put a rather large-sized breach in it.” He turned the check over gingerly. “Seven-fifty! Whew! Why, that would have kept me half a lifetime in Rio.”

Then he stood up to be helped on with his long top-coat. His dress clothes had been made in Montevideo, but a good English tailor had done the work, and they looked well even under the searching eyes and lights of the Berlin. But almost anything would have looked well on Kenyon; he was of the tall, wide-shouldered type that wear even shapeless things with distinction.

“Danke schön,” said the waiter as he slipped the coin handed him into his waistcoat pocket, and gravely bowed his patron out.

Drawing on his gloves Kenyon leisurely walked up Broadway. People turned and glanced after him with curious eyes, for there was always a sort of elegance in Kenyon’s manner of dress that commanded attention. But it was not alone the hang of a smoothly fitting coat over the shapely, powerful figure; there was the good-humored, good-looking face, also an air of quiet distinction and breeding; and then, stamped all over him, so to speak, was the resolution that makes victors of desperately circumstanced men.

No one, to look at him as he walked slowly along, would have dreamed that this immaculate creature had stood, only seven hours before, stripped to the waist in the stoke-hole of the British ship Blenheim. Yet it was so. He had boarded her at Rio when she touched there two weeks before; and though the fire-room was no inviting prospect, still it was better than Rio. A Latin-American city is never a place for a penniless Gringo.

The section called the “Great White Way” lay before Kenyon like a shimmering vortex.

“It screams like a phonograph,” pronounced the young man, critically. “And it’s just as ceaseless, as senseless, and as raucous. This is the spot, I think, that old Colonel Ainsleigh at West Point used to call a phosphorescent ulcer. And it looks it. It’s the pride spot of the habitual New Yorker from the small town—the money dump—the place of cakes and ale.”

Then he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“I really think the Berlin’s dinner does not set well on me,” he told himself. “I once liked New York very well. But it may be that thirty is a great deal more than ten years older than twenty. My taste for many things has slackened in those ten years, and who knows but what the big town has suffered along with the other old likings.”

Hard-worked hansoms and goblin-eyed motor-cars spun along the smooth asphalt; jeweled women and carefully attired men streamed in at the light-flooded lobbies of the theatres. Electric cars loaded with pleasure seekers flashed clanging up and down.

At Herald Square Kenyon paused. The miraculous presses, turning out the pink-tinted Telegram, held him fascinated. As he stood there, the sharp staccato of a newsboy began to reach him. At first he paid no attention to the high-pitched, complaining cry; but above the grind of cab wheels and the thousand sounds of Broadway, it gradually began to take shape in his mind.

“Extree! Eight o’clock!”

The thin voice pierced the air like a thing with a point; and without actually being aware of the burden of the cry, Kenyon began to be annoyed by its abrupt dissonances.

“Full account! Great fortune! Extree!”

A great fortune! Kenyon was irritated by the idea. One does not contemplate another’s calm possession of a vast sum of money with any great degree of equanimity when one has but a few dingy dollars in the world.

“And suppose this gold-fat fool has his millions,” muttered the young man, as he turned away from the windows. “That is no reason why he should shatter the eardrums of people as they pass about their business.”

“Extree! Eight o’clock! Great fortune!”

Kenyon beckoned the boy, and in a moment he had a paper. Somehow, as he turned and walked toward Thirty-sixth Street, the realization suddenly came to him of how badly off he was; and he scowled at the shadowy future, a sudden, sobering fear at his heart. But this was only for a moment. The man who had stood at the side of Nunez on that last dreadful night in Montevideo was not one to allow a little ill-luck to cast him down; so with chin up and shoulders squared, Kenyon threw the thing from him with a laugh.

At the corner of Thirty-sixth Street he paused and opened the paper. In great, black type the following stared at him:

WHO IS THE HEIR?
$200,000,000!
COLOSSAL FORTUNE OF STEPHEN AUSTIN
HANGS IN THE BALANCE.

Kenyon did not read farther, but folded the paper and stood tapping it thoughtfully in his open palm.

“The human mind,” he muttered, “can scarcely grasp the meaning of such a sum. And for one man to possess it all makes me suspect that something is out of kelter with our system of doing things. Here I am broke, and with the prospect of a succession of dinnerless days before me; and then here is another fellow with tons of money and no one to give it to. If I had the running of things I’d take down the bars on some of the fat pasture-land and let the lean cattle do a little private grazing.”

Upon the opposite side of Broadway a hansom was drawn up at the curb. Kenyon’s eyes rested absently upon the veiled woman who sat within it. He saw her speak a few hasty words to the driver; then he noted the man’s quick glance in his direction, and the smart swish of the long whip over the roof of the vehicle. The hansom rattled across the street and drew up beside him; the woman leaned forward.

“I was beginning to think that you had failed us,” she said.

A whimsical look came into Kenyon’s eyes; then he smiled good-naturedly.

“I beg your pardon,” he began; but she interrupted him.

“It is quite unnecessary,” she said. He noted that the tone and the gesture that accompanied the words were rather cold and imperious. “I suppose,” she continued, “that you did not know that he was ill; but, even so, you should not have delayed. However, it is not yet too late. The physicians have assured us that he will live until morning—that he may even get well.”

The whimsical look left Kenyon’s eyes and with it went the smile.

“Has there not been a mistake?” he asked, gravely. But she gestured impatiently.

“The physicians are the best in New York.”

Notwithstanding the coldness of the tone, there was a certain sweetness in the voice that attracted Kenyon; that she was a woman of gentle breeding was very evident. And then she was young!

Regretfully, he was about to inform her that he was not the person she thought him to be—that he was a stranger in New York—that he did not know a soul among its four millions. But she stopped him once more.

“The others are already there.” She made room for him beside her, as she spoke. “Will you get in? The matter must be adjusted quickly if at all.”

He noticed a quick flash of something like indignation in this last sentence, and smiled. She caught this and instantly her head went up like that of an offended queen.

“I will take this occasion to say,” she said, freezingly, “that I have considered his safety, alone, from the beginning. My own feelings do not enter into the matter.”

“I ask your pardon, again,” began the young man. “But the fact is—”

The small white hand went up once more and waved back the words.

“I repeat,” she said, “that you are still in time. However, it would have been much better if you had come earlier. The ship reached port some seven or eight hours ago; and there could have been nothing to detain you.”

Kenyon bent his brows, and looked puzzled.

“What ship do you refer to?” he asked.

“The Blenheim,” came the prompt answer. Her eyes were searching his face intently; even the thick veil could not hide the fact that they were big, dark, and lustrous. “That was the ship, was it not?”

“It was,” answered Kenyon, and the puzzled look grew deeper.

“He is very low,” the girl continued, “and he is very anxious to see you.”

A number of people stood about. Those who overheard were beginning to stare; and as this could not be endured, Kenyon entered the hansom. Instantly the driver called to his horse; the vehicle went rattling along Thirty-sixth Street, heading east, and Kenyon settled back by the girl’s side, smiling his astonishment into the darkness.

II
THE DARK HOUSE IN SELDEN’S SQUARE

“When strange eyes peer through the veiling dark,

Take care, my friend, take care!”

—From the Doggerels of Balmacenso.

It was Kenyon’s idea, upon entering the cab, to afford himself an opportunity, out of earshot of the idlers, of bringing this bizarre situation to an end. But as before the girl gave him no chance.

“When you left Rio,” she began, in a rather hesitating way, “you had but little money, I understand.”

“That,” smiled Kenyon, “is very true.” And, for all the smile, he gazed at her searchingly. For it was a very odd thing that she should know so much about him. Within fifteen minutes she had told him that he had arrived on the Blenheim, that he had sailed from Rio, and that he had been hard put for money when he left there. But the thick veil hid her face from him, and he turned his gaze away, baffled.

In a few moments she spoke again; and once more he detected the slight note of hesitancy in her voice.

“Have you seen Moritze & Co.?”

“Moritze & Co.?” he repeated wonderingly.

“Oh!” suddenly. “I had forgotten. Of course you have not yet heard of them in connection with this matter.”

Kenyon laughed.

“Why, no,” he admitted; “I must confess that I have not heard of them in connection with this matter; nor of anyone or anything else having to do with it. It’s all a mystery to me.”

“Could you expect anything more, under the circumstances?” She was fumbling in a small handbag as she spoke. He watched her, amazed at how the thing drifted on.

“It does not do to speak freely of some things before all is ready,” she continued, with a return of the cold manner of a few moments before. “You should have learned that while you were with Nunez.”

He caught his breath.

Nunez! She knew about that! And he had not thought that any person north of Panama knew of the part that he had played in that ill-fated expedition in Uruguay. He was still confusedly groping amid the mental haze which her words had produced, when she spoke again.

“I was entrusted with this and asked to give it to you.”

She placed a slip of crackling paper in his hand; the cab lamps were too dim for him to discern the figures, but a glance showed the young man that it was a check.

“No, no,” he cried, hastily. “I cannot accept this!”

“Why not? It is the exact sum that you demanded.”

If there had been scorn in her voice before, it now seemed to have increased a hundredfold; and the undisguised contempt in her manner showed her disbelief in him. This was very evident to Kenyon; he was too young to be indifferent to a woman’s scorn, and a hot flush arose to his face. When he spoke his voice was sharp and had a ring that she had not heard before.

“The reason why I cannot take this is very plain to myself, at least,” said he. “There has been some mistake made. I am not the man you take me to be!”

He saw her start at this, and peer at him through the changing light. The veil seemed to obstruct her vision and she flung it aside; for the first time he saw her face.

“Dark,” he muttered, “and beautiful. And her eyes! Heavens! I never saw anything like them before.”

And her head had a proud, youthful lift to it that caught his attention instantly. It was the sort of thing that he had always admired, but had never seen so completely possessed before.

“I am afraid,” she said, coldly, “that I do not quite understand. There can be no mistake. You are the person for whom I was sent.”

“I think not.”

“Yet you admit that you are just from Rio?”

“Yes.”

“And that you came in the Blenheim?”

“I did.”

“And you served with General Nunez in Uruguay, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then there is nothing wanting. You are the man. But,” and the dark eyes flashed as she spoke, “I hardly think, were the choice of my making, that I should have fixed upon you.”

The continued scorn of her manner piqued him. He was not accustomed to it.

“No?” he questioned.

“No. You resort to odd and useless evasions. You do not speak straightforwardly. You dodge the point at issue. You seem uncertain as to whether you shall go on, or go back. I expected, at least, to find a man of firmness and decision.”

This aroused Kenyon. Youth, as a rule, desires to show to good advantage before a pretty woman. And to this he was no exception.

“You do me an injustice,” he said. He spoke calmly, slowly, and evenly enough, but there was heat behind the words. “If I have shown any lack of decision it is because of my natural reluctance to proceed farther in this, to me, incomprehensible affair. I desire to be honest, and have no wish to penetrate deeper into a matter which cannot in the least concern me.” He leaned toward her and continued. “Once again I tell you that I am not the man you take me to be.”

She drew back from him as far as the limited space of the cab would permit, but said nothing. He crackled the check paper in his fingers, as he held it up and proceeded.

“This money is not for me. I cannot accept it. I think you had better assure yourself that all is right before going any farther.”

Sudden anger filled her eyes, even in the dimness he could see it glinting in amber points. But her voice, when she spoke, showed no trace of it.

“What more can I do?” she asked. “You have satisfactorily answered every question that I have asked.”

“You might ask one more,” suggested Kenyon, coolly.

“And what is that?”

“My name.”

He could feel her searching his face with those beautiful eyes once more. But there was no doubt in them now; neither was there any abatement of the anger that glowed in them.

“Why should I ask your name?” she asked. “I know it already.”

“I question that,” said Kenyon, confidently.

“It is written upon the check which you hold in your hand.”

As they passed a street lamp, Kenyon held up the check so that the light would fall upon it.

She had spoken the truth! In a cramped, quavering hand he saw that it was drawn to the order of Steele Kenyon!

Once more he settled heavily back against the cushions of the cab. He was lost in astonishment. But almost at the same instant the vehicle pulled up and the apron was flung open.

“And now,” remarked the girl, evenly, “if you have made up your mind that everything is right we will get out.”

He sprang down and helped her to alight. It was an instinct that prompted him to do so, however, for his mind was groping in a maze of wonderment. The strangeness of the whole incident was beating sluggishly in his brain; and try as he would he could make nothing of it.

She knew his name! She knew of Nunez, of Rio, of everything. And, now, incredible as it seemed, there was little doubt but what he was actually the person wanted. He could not intelligently grasp any part of it, and with military abruptness ceased trying.

“Let it work itself out as it will,” he muttered, “I’ll not say another word in protest.”

So when the girl opened a heavy door with a pass-key, he asked no questions; and when she closed the door softly behind them, he followed her down the wide, dimly lit hall without a word.

The house was soundless. The girl opened the door of a room off the hall; a single gas jet burned lowly within; she motioned for him to go in.

“Please sit down,” she said. “You will not be kept waiting long.”

Even in the uncertain flicker of the low-turned light, her way of carrying herself pleased him. She was tall and straight, her outlines were soft and womanly; and then there was the proud lift of the head which he had noticed before. There was a suppleness in her movements that one could not help observing; but her air of youthful distinction was what impressed Kenyon most of all.

But there was no lessening of the scorn in her manner; and as she made a movement as though to leave the room, a sort of quick regret flashed over him.

“Somehow,” he murmured, after she had gone, “I wish she had stayed. I’d like to be better acquainted with her; I’d like to have a chance to convince her that I don’t deserve such treatment as she’s been giving me.”

He sat down and stared at the door which had closed upon her a moment before.

“An armor of ice, that’s what it is,” he thought. “And it doesn’t belong to her. I could see a charm beneath it that she could not hide. It showed itself when she spoke of the person who is ill. And she’s beautiful. Heavens, yes! She’s beautiful.”

He sat broodingly for a moment or two; then his thoughts reverted to the comedy in which he was playing so odd a part, and his humorous brown eyes twinkled.

“They will ring in the second act before long, I suppose,” he muttered, with a little yawn. “And I have no doubt but what it will bring the denouement as well.”

Some little time passed and Kenyon sat patiently awaiting the outcome of his adventure. But nothing occurred. The house remained soundless.

In his thirty years of life he had gone through many strange experiences, but for sheer uniqueness this present adventure surpassed them all. As he sat there in the semi-darkness he began to marshal the facts together.

After Nunez had been killed in that last desperate stand in Montevideo, Kenyon had fled north through Uruguay with Balmacenso, and crossed the frontier into Rio Grande du Sol. Then they made their way to Rio.

“And Balmacenso,” silently argued Kenyon, “was the only man in Rio who knew my identity; and Balmacenso died of a fever a good two weeks before the Blenheim entered port. He could not have sent word north that I was going to sail in her; for at the time of his death I had no intention of doing so—in fact I had never heard of the ship before she steamed up the harbor.

“And yet here is this girl, and some others whom I’m perhaps shortly to see, expecting me, on that very ship. And apparently they know of my connection with the revolt in Uruguay; of my being flat broke in that God-deserted hole, Rio; of my—but what’s the use of rehearsing all their surprising knowledge. I must go deeper into the affair before I can understand any of it.”

He waited patiently. The flickering point of almost blue flame of the gas jet threw an uncertain light in a confined radius about where he sat; the remainder of the room was shadowy and obscure. But his eyes gradually became accustomed to the dimness of the far corners; and little by little the consciousness stole upon him that he was not alone.

Directly opposite, at a point where the struggling light rays failed entirely to dispel the shadows, he began to discern the outlines of two human figures, indistinct, vague, but constantly assuming more definite form as his eyes searched them out.

Kenyon’s steady courage had been proven a thousand times in the campaigns of Nunez in South America; no matter what the stress of the moment, or the unexpected nature of the danger his brain always worked coolly and smoothly. And now, though he began to fear that he had been led into a trap, he remained perfectly still. The two shapes in the shadow sat with their backs to the wall their faces turned toward him; he could now and then catch the shifting glint of their eyes, but they made no other movement.

For some little time Kenyon silently and coolly observed them. The house was as soundless as before; nothing occurred that gave him the least idea as to what to expect.

But, as no movement of any sort was made, the thing became tiresome. As the girl did not return, and as the two silent men in the shadow made no sign, Kenyon resolved to take the initiative himself. The gas jet was within easy arm’s length; rising suddenly he turned it on, full head.

“Gentlemen,” he remarked, bowing with a graceful and easy politeness that was natural to him, “a trifle more light, I think, would make us better acquainted.”

III
IN THE FACE OF STRANGE DANGERS

“When the method of attack is not fully understood, go slowly and warily.”

—Kenyon’s “Art of the Sabre.”

In spite of Kenyon’s nonchalant ease and smiling face, his muscles were flexed for a swift rush. But this never came; both men arose and silently saluted him; then they resumed their seats once more.

The puzzled expression that had come into Kenyon’s eyes in the cab, returned. But in that way only did he show it. His manner was as easy as before; he leaned negligently against a heavy table and smiled engagingly. All the time, however, his keen glances and rapid brain were gauging the quality of the men with whom he had to deal.

With mild surprise he noted that the elder of the two was a Chinaman, a tall, emaciated man, with sunken, slanting eyes, hollowed temples, and shaven crown. The straight, thin, bloodless lips were drawn back, showing the teeth; the wasted hands rested, claw-like, upon the arms of his chair. As Kenyon looked, the man coughed hollowly and raised a handkerchief furtively to his lips.

“Phthisis,” was Kenyon’s mental judgment. “And about the most advanced stage I should say.”

The second was a huge, boyish, fresh-looking youth, with an eager, smiling look, and attired much after the fashion affected by collegians of the younger sort.

“If he is a college man, he’s a guard on the eleven, throws weights or does some other equally hefty stunt,” Kenyon decided. “He’s put together like a horse.”

For a moment the two retained their silence; they bent forward in their chairs and carefully examined the graceful, immaculate figure by the table. Then the Chinaman spoke.

“Be seated, Mr. Kenyon,” he said in a husky, unpleasant voice. “Do not disturb yourself in the least. We are quite delighted to see you.”

Once more Kenyon bowed, laughingly.

“If it is all the same to you, I prefer to stand,” said he. “And I think, gentlemen, you may trust me to keep myself in a fairly calm state of mind. As to your pleasure at sight of me,” and his eyes twinkled humorously, “permit me to say that you did not appear in any great hurry to display it.”

The Celestial’s lips drew back from his prominent teeth in what was meant for a smile; Kenyon, in spite of his self-control, could not help a slight shudder. The almost fleshless face, the shaven crown, and sunken eyes made the man look like a death’s-head.

“I trust you will pardon our silence,” said he, in slowly spoken, perfect English.

“Pray don’t speak of it,” returned Kenyon. “Strangers sometimes find it extremely difficult to pick material for conversation; and I never take offence at any man’s shrinking from the conversational idiocies of such occasions.”

Again the yellow man smiled his ghastly smile; but his companion laughed outright.

“I say,” said he, in the big-boyish way that his looks had made Kenyon expect, “you’ve got it right, Kenyon. I hate all that sort of rot myself. When I talk, I like it straight from the shoulder—I want it to mean something, you know.”

There was a hearty, engaging sort of candor in his voice and manner common to the big-bodied, out-door man. But still there was an undercurrent of some inexplicable sort that focussed Kenyon’s attention instantly upon him. The frank smile was there, the genial look that one would expect was in his eye; the eager, boyish spirit seemed to fill him.

“But he’s off-shade somewhere,” Kenyon told himself. “I don’t know just where; but if I talk to him long enough I’ll get him located and classed.”

The Chinaman leaned forward, motioning his companion to be silent. Instantly the young man seemed to withdraw into himself.

“The yellow one is the intellect,” was Kenyon’s thought as his alert glance took this in. “And I shouldn’t wonder but what we were now coming to business.”

The eyes of the Chinaman fixed themselves upon Kenyon’s face. Sunken and slanted as they were usually, they presented a strange, uncanny appearance; but now their lids were puckered over them; and through each slit a burning, rat-like eye looked forth.

“In this Western world, Mr. Kenyon,” said he, “it is the conventional thing for strangers, I understand, to discuss the weather.” He bent forward and the burning slits of eyes seemed to be boring the young man through. “This being so,” he continued, “might I ask what sort of weather you were having in Butte when you left there?”

The question was quietly asked; but Kenyon instantly felt the weight of their intense expectancy as though by telepathic messages. Both the faces before him were now as expressionless as plaster masks; with semi-fascinated eyes he watched the twitching of one claw-like, yellow hand as it lay upon the Chinaman’s knee. Nevertheless he did not lose his poise for a moment.

“It was raining heavily when I left Butte,” said he.

Instantly the claw glided into the breast of the yellow man’s coat; the boyish giant half arose from his chair.

“But,” continued Kenyon, with never a trace of haste in his voice, “that was several years ago, and I’m sure is of no interest now.”

Slowly the claw crept into view once more and lay empty upon the arm of the chair; slowly the big form of the younger man sank back. Everything was as still as death. The single gas jet threw quavering shadows about the three. Kenyon still leaned easily against the table, watching the others with speculative eye.

Quick footsteps were heard to ring upon the flags without. The room was at the front of the house and street noises could be plainly heard. The footsteps suddenly paused, then ascended the stone steps. The hand of the Chinaman instantly went up; a glance of intelligence passed between him and his companion; then both turned and nodded apologetically to Kenyon.

“That,” and the Celestial jerked a thumb toward the street, “is the person from Butte. Listen!”

As he spoke there came a swift rush of feet from without, a sharp, quick cry and the dull beat of blows. Kenyon sprang toward the door leading to the hall; but he found the hands of the young white man against his chest, and saw the fresh, good-humored face looking into his own.

“Steady, old fellow. Wait for the word.” The speaker forced a smile. “There is no cause for you to go off like this. Take my word for it, whatever little matter is going on outside there is for the good of everybody concerned.”

While he spoke the sounds of the struggle had ceased; the patter of softly running feet was heard, then all was still again.

Kenyon stepped back and carefully arranged his tie and the hang of his coat; for the young giant had stopped him rather suddenly.

“Whoever you are,” remarked he, gently, as he fastidiously smoothed off the traces of their contact, “you appear to have a way with you.” Then with a sudden sharpness in his voice and an altered look in his face, he went on, addressing both. “It seems to be taken for granted that I am concerned in what is happening here. Now, let me disabuse your minds upon that point. I’ve seen my share of the broken points of life and have known what it is to fight hard for small profits; but my interests have never yet reached the stage where I deemed it expedient to garrotte a man in the darkness to serve them. Don’t forget that fact, as we go along!”

It was the Chinaman who replied.

“We will try not to,” said he in his husky tones. He coughed hollowly and the handkerchief went to his lips; that he had difficulty in breathing was evident, but for all that, a look of marked satisfaction was upon his face. “We have made no mistake, my son,” addressing his companion, “in selecting Mr. Kenyon, it seems. He pleases me. It is not often that one meets with a person quite so much to one’s liking.”

The other man smiled cheerfully. “I never saw the time, Hong, that you were not right,” said he. “It takes you to pick the winners.” There was unquestioned admiration in his eyes as he turned to Kenyon. “You are the man for the job. You seem to have a real talent for this sort of thing. Good stuff! I like your work.”

“Thank you,” returned Kenyon, dryly. “You are very good.”

“Now that I’m sure it’s you, I’m glad to know you,” said the big young man. He shook hands with Kenyon in a hearty, whole-souled fashion; there was honesty and good intent in every line of his face. Kenyon’s searching eyes were bent upon him; but if ever there was candid, wide-open geniality it was before him.

“This fellow,” he mentally admitted, “has me winging. He seems right, but—”

The Chinaman began to speak.

“It is well, I think,” said he to Kenyon, “for you and Forrester to become well acquainted.”

“Forrester?” Kenyon turned a questioning look upon him.

“Of course—Forrester,” said the young giant, rather impatiently. He looked the ex-lieutenant of Nunez over very carefully for a moment and then added: “Do you know, I think that if you have any fault at all, Kenyon, it is that you play the game too strong. I am Forrester. You must have known that.”

Kenyon gestured gracefully.

“My dear sir,” said he, “there are a great many things that I should know; nevertheless a dense darkness seems to hedge them around. If any light is to be thrown upon this matter, I beg of you to turn it on now.”

“You are right,” said the Chinaman, approvingly. “There is nothing in the world like being positive—of knowing just with what you have to do. But as things rest we can tell you nothing. We know nothing, save that I am Hong Yo, and that this,” pointing to the other, “is Forrester.”

Kenyon acknowledged this latter information easily.

“I am delighted,” he said, “and I have no doubt but what our acquaintance will lead to some small matter of considerable interest.”

“Oh,” said the Chinaman, with another of his hideous smiles, “it is sure to do that. But we must be patient; we must wait. The next step is yours to take; whatever the result, it will be of your making.”

He coughed once more, with ominous hollowness; then he seemed to settle down into his chair and fall into a deep train of thought. Kenyon felt Forrester quietly touch his sleeve and turning found the young man at his elbow.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” said Forrester, nodding toward Hong Yo. “He gets into those moods now and then. And, do you know, it doesn’t pay to break into them. He has rather a nasty temper; and then, too he can think up the damnedest things you ever heard of when he gets deep into it, that way. You see,” guardedly, “he doesn’t stand very well, and that sort of tells on him. He’s the kind of a chap that likes to run things all by himself. He didn’t care about letting me into this, at all. But when it came to you, he acted real nasty.” There was speculation in his eye as he regarded the brooding Hong Yo, and he continued: “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he hasn’t been a sudden sort of a customer in his day. He certainly has the look of it.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Kenyon. “Then,” without a change of tone, “you have not known him long?”

“Not very,” with noticeable briefness.

There came a rustling of a gown outside the door; then it opened and the girl re-entered. For a moment as she looked at the three occupants of the room there was appeal in her eyes, a piteousness that made Kenyon’s heart melt in his breast. And there were red rims about the beautiful eyes.

“She’s been crying,” thought the young man, and a fury seized him that anyone or anything should cause her to do so.

“Mr. Forrester,” she said, “will you come with me?”

Her voice was sweet and soft with that tremulous gentleness that so stirs a man. But when she turned to Kenyon all this vanished; the old hostile look returned.

“And you, also, sir,” she said.

IV
KENYON IS DRAWN DEEPER INTO THE MAZE

“A man should always strive to be at his best. He should
never permit a girl to think meanly of him.”

—A Remark of Garry Webster.

As the ex-lieutenant of Nunez followed the girl and Forrester from the room, he was both pleased and resentful. The pleasure came from the fact that he had judged correctly as to the charming reality under the icy veneer.

“It’s all assumed,” he told himself. “The rôle of the haughty, suspicious woman is but a rôle. Beneath it is a nature as sweet as one could desire; I had a glimpse of it as she came in; it was only a glimpse but it was enough.”

But why she wore this mask, and apparently for his special benefit, he could not understand. It was this that caused the resentment.

“I haven’t done anything to merit it,” muttered he. “It’s the first time she ever saw me, and it’s not quite the right sort of thing to take snap judgments that way.”

Hong Yo was left in the room below, still seated in the chair by the wall and still deep in thought. Indeed, he had scarcely raised his head upon the girl’s entrance; however, as Kenyon was closing the door behind him, he fancied that he caught a glimpse of the sunken, slanting eyes.

“Pah!” muttered the young adventurer, shudderingly. “He’s more like a death’s-head than ever! I don’t want to do anyone an injustice, for I really do dislike snap judgments, but if there is anything wrong here, which there decidedly seems to be, why, our friend Hong Yo is most intimately concerned in it.”

Both young men followed the girl up the staircase and into a dimly lighted room upon the second floor. An aged, white-bearded man lay upon a bed; in a chair beside him sat a tall girl with a great crown of golden hair; she was pale-faced and anxious; her attitude was watchful.

As they entered, the sick man struggled up; the girl bent and whispered something to him, and a look of joy came into his face.

“You are welcome, my friends,” he said, weakly. “And I thank you.”

Both men bowed gravely, and then the old man turned peeringly to Kenyon.

“And so, you have come at last! Welcome. But pardon; I cannot see you very well. My eyes are growing dim.”

He held out a shaking hand, and Kenyon took it in his strong clasp.

“It’s a sort of obsession,” Kenyon told himself, as he alternately looked at the sick man and those at his bedside. “I don’t know these people. I’ve never seen any of them before to-night, and they can’t possibly know me.”

And yet the supreme confidence of them all seemed to assure him that he was wrong. It was as though, in some odd way, a page had been torn from the book of his life—a page in which these characters had played a part, and which he had completely forgotten.

The weak old man exercised the same effect upon him as the check. He felt that he could not undertake another step in the matter until all had been made clear to him. To go groping forward in this way was distasteful, dishonest, criminal! Turning an irresolute look upon the others, he caught the dark, steadfast eyes of the girl of the hansom cab. His face flushed hotly.

“What a hesitating idiot she must think me,” he muttered, angrily. “She expects me to go ahead. So go ahead I will!”

The touch of his hand seemed somehow to give the old man strength.

“What a pity,” he said, waveringly, “that Nunez should not have lived. Ah, his was the brain to plan; his was the daring spirit to lead.” Then, eagerly, “Tell me of his end.”

“He died like a soldier,” answered Kenyon, gravely. “He held Montevideo as long as courage and skill could hold it; and when he went down, it was in the center of the plaza, with his face to the enemy.”

With difficulty the old man struggled to an upright position.

“In an hour,” said he, whisperingly, “I too, shall be dead.”

With a sharp cry the golden-haired girl sank upon her knees beside the bed; the other bent over the old man, whispering soothingly, her eyes full of unshed tears.

“It is true,” continued the sick man, gently. “Dear hearts, you might as well know it now as later.” He placed a hand upon each of their heads, a world of tenderness in the caress. “And the bitterest thing about it all is that I may leave you both unprotected—perhaps in as great danger as he will be.”

Kenyon noted the emphasis and wondered who it was that was referred to. No one spoke for a moment; a small clock in another room ticked high and sharply; the noises from the street seemed strangely muffled. It was Forrester who spoke first; hesitatingly he moved nearer to the bed; there was the subdued, boyish eagerness in his manner that Kenyon had observed before.

“Anna at least shall not be left unprotected,” said he. “All here know my love for her. I want her for my wife.”

The golden-haired girl raised her face and her eyes spoke eloquently to him. Kenyon drew in a great, satisfied breath and felt a glow of interest flush him from head to foot.

Then they were lovers, these two! That was excellent! He was pleased. Indeed, he doubted if he had ever seen a better matched couple before. The strongest desire in his mind was to reach over, take Forrester by the hand, and wish him success—heartily, earnestly, fully. For, somehow, the gentle greeting which the other girl had given Forrester in the room below, had excited a sort of disapproval in Kenyon’s mind; and it was something strikingly like relief that now went shocking and beating in his blood.

“Yes,” said the sick man to Forrester. “You love her; but whether she shall ever be your wife depends upon yourself.”

“I am ready to prove myself worthy of her—ready to do anything that a man may do,” said Forrester.

“Anything?”

A shadow settled upon the young man’s eager face.

“I said anything that a man may do,” said he, and there was a catch of indecision in his voice.

“This matter needs a man that is not only strong and brave, but one that has a ready wit. For the service that I desire, rendered fully and unquestioningly, a man may command anything that is in my power to give.”

The shadow upon Forrester’s face grew deeper; the eyes that he turned upon Anna were dumbly piteous, like those of a dog. Then he spoke.

“You require violence,” said he, “and to me that is a thing of fear; it seems to draw a red curtain before my eyes; the very thought of it brings to me the thick scent of blood. It is a horror that I have had from birth. But outside all this, I am opposed to force. I could not lift my hand against the life of a fellow man.”

“No matter what the cause?”

“No matter what the cause. The sacred law says: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ And the law of my physical nature tells me that I must obey.”

Silence followed this, save only for Anna’s sobbing. Kenyon looked at the speaker in keen surprise. He was thinking of the sharp cry and muffled blows of a half hour before and of Forrester’s preventing him from leaping to the rescue of the person attacked.

“And unless my recollection is badly at fault,” thought Kenyon, “this same young gentleman was settling himself to do for me when our friend Hong Yo asked me the question about Butte, and the first half of my answer led them to think that I was lately from there. His present highly moral attitude hardly agrees with all that, I fancy.”

After a long silence, during which the sick man labored painfully for breath, he spoke again.

“I feel convinced,” he murmured, “that you are sincere. But that is not the point. To win this girl for your wife you must stand a friend to him. His designs must be your designs. You must stand or fall with him.”

Forrester’s face was one of agony, but he shook his head; there was no sign of wavering in his manner. The dark-eyed girl was regarding him with wondering, puzzled eyes; but it was Anna who spoke.

“Griscom,” she said, and the piteous little tremble in her voice would have shaken a man of granite, “you are breaking my heart. Will you not surrender one mite of principle for my sake?”

But Forrester was proof even against this; and though he turned away his face, apparently unable to look into her eyes, his voice was still decided.

“No; not even for you.”

And then the girl’s head sank once more and the great sobs shook her young body like a storm. Forrester’s determination seemed to have its effect upon the old man also. It was clear that he had staked much upon the young giant, and had not expected this tenacious grip upon an idea that he, more than likely, did not altogether understand. And the disappointment told heavily upon the dregs of vitality left him; his chest seemed to sink, his face grew grayer. When he spoke his voice was lower than before.

“You, Mr. Kenyon, have seen stern work, and have no such childish prejudices against force.”

Kenyon felt the dark eyes upon him, though he did not turn to see, and he answered promptly:

“I have not. Indeed, I have seen much good result from it—at times.”

“Excellent! If you are half the man Nunez told me you were, long ago, you will serve me well. I thank you.”

Then turning to the girls he said, weakly:

“My children, arise!”

Both girls arose to their feet obediently and the old man continued.

“I have always loved you both. That you know well. But many times I have regretted that you were not young men, that you might take upon yourselves the struggle that is to come. But I see now that it is all for the best. I am glad that you are what you are; for in you I see the triumph of my desire.”

In the faces of Forrester and Anna, Kenyon read amazement at these words. But the face of the other girl did not change.

“Here is a man,” and the old man indicated Forrester, “who knows every step I would have taken to safeguard him of whom you all know. And here,” indicating Kenyon, “is one of unquestioned courage, of ready resource, of coolness in the face of danger. Combined they will form a defence which even the most secret and deadly machinations would find difficult in breaking down. You, Griscom, have asked Anna of me in marriage; and you,” to Kenyon, “have asked for her.”

His hand, as he spoke, rested upon that of the girl of the hansom cab. Kenyon gasped and stood staring in wonder. This was the most astonishing of a series of astonishing things; and his amazement was so great that he could not have protested had his desire to do so been ever so great.

And, to speak the plain truth, the desire to do so did not even exist. There was a magic for him in that brilliant, proud face and imperiously uplifted head. Why, if he could—but he halted the idea instantly, crushing it down without ruth. No, no. That sort of thing would not do. He must not allow such fancies to get possession of him. Soldiering in South America is not very profitable employment, but it, at least, teaches a man to avoid ways that are perilous; and in the way to this beautiful unknown’s love lay pain and heart-burning. He could read that in each glance of her eye and each movement of her supple, exquisite figure.

These thoughts occupied but a few seconds’ time, and Kenyon was about following where they led when he was arrested by a gesture which the old man made to the two girls. They seemed to understand, and each raised her right hand; the fair-haired one was choked with sobs; the other proud and cold-eyed and looking unflinchingly into Kenyon’s face. Then the sick man spoke in the panting, broken way of a man who had run a long race; and the girls repeated the words after him without hesitation.

“I solemnly swear that I will willingly become the wife of,” here one spoke Forrester’s name and the other Kenyon’s, “but not until he has performed the service of which he knows.”

As they finished the old man reached the end of his strength. A deep purple ring showed about his mouth, his head hung limply to one side. His iron will was still unbroken, for he managed to gasp out:

“My friends, it is for you to—”

But death killed the speech in his mouth. And as the two girls sank sobbing beside him, Forrester took two quick strides to Kenyon’s side.

“Quick, now,” he whispered. “Everything is ready. Your share of this work will stand no delay.”

And with that he all but forced the adventurer from the room and down the stairs. In another moment Kenyon found himself upon the outer steps with the door closed behind him, and all about him the clustering shadows of the night.

V
GARRY WEBSTER, OF CHICAGO

“It’s always best to have a pal; you can frame things up
with him, you know.”

—The Advice of Big Slim.

Steele Kenyon placed his stick under his arm, and proceeded to draw on his gloves.

“Quite an interesting night,” he said, coolly. “I had no idea that there was so much gratis entertainment in New York. It is really hospitable. Here a lonely stranger arrives in town; and immediately he is taken in hand and provided with diversion of an absolutely unique character. The thing is an inspiration.”

He walked down the steps, and stood by the railing that ran along the front, gazing up at the building.

“At some future time,” he murmured, “I might have a desire to know just where to find this abode of marvels. The number is ninety-eight, and the street,” looking across the way at a corner light, “is Selden’s Square.”

He made a note of both. The arc lamps hissed and clicked in the silence; from away to the west came the throb of Broadway; the badly blended voices of some belated roisterers rose in quavering dissonance; the strip of sky that showed between the roof tops was black and starless.

“It was just about the top step, I fancy,” said Kenyon, “that the man from Butte was received so warmly.”

As he spoke a man appeared, apparently, from the shadows at his feet. With a sharp side-drive of the elbow Kenyon landed him heavily against the railing; then he stood calmly posed before him ready for the next move.

The man pulled himself together and chuckled.

“You’ve got the punch with you, all right, pal,” remarked he. “But don’t cut it loose on my account. I’m not dealing with you on those lines.”

“Then you should change your style of dawning on the scene,” observed Kenyon, dryly. “It’s the sort of thing that’s calculated to get you into several varieties of trouble; for from a short distance it has rather a rugged look. But now that you are here, what do you want?”

“I want to make my get-away in a hurry,” returned the man. “But first I’d like to say that it’s the ‘Far East’ for a guy like you. Do you get me?”

And with that he turned and made softly away, clinging to the shadows, and at last disappearing around a corner.

“The motions of a panther and the manners of a yeggman,” spoke Kenyon. “A most undesirable person to come upon, unprepared, I should say.”

He turned and made his way westward, deep in thought. He walked with bent head, and did not notice a patrolman well along in the block who looked at him searchingly and suspiciously; but he was allowed to pass without interference.

A bell from a neighboring tower solemnly boomed two as he turned into Fifth Avenue and made his way down town. The night had turned chill and damp; he turned up the collar of his overcoat with a shiver and plunged his hands into the wide pockets. As he strode along he drew deeply at the cigar which he had lighted, until the end glowed redly.

When Kenyon smoked hard it was a positive indication of mental unrest. Against the high-colored background of surprise, suspicion and possible crime with which the night had daubed his thoughts, was thrown a brilliant face and a pair of flashing, scornful eyes.

Who was she? Who were they? And what was the mysterious thing which so held and so moved them all? But more than anything else, how, in the name of all that was bizarre and astonishing, did he come to be mixed up in it? No matter what side of the matter he set himself to consider, he always came back to this particular one. It was a thing absolutely beyond his comprehension.

For a good two hours he tramped the streets smoking and thinking. If the girl had not figured in the affair it would have had but little effect upon him; he was quite well accustomed to startling occurrences, but her participation troubled him. Otherwise he could have gone comfortably to bed and forgotten it all.

“There is something decidedly wrong in Selden’s Square,” muttered he, “something that’s off color and underhand. But what is it? And how does a girl like that—but she can have nothing to do with anything that’s not correct. I am positive of that. There is something fine and high about her.”

Just how he ever came to be walking along the North River front he never knew. He was so deep in conjecture that he had given no heed to where his steps had been leading him, and about four o’clock he found himself in the neighborhood of the Twenty-third Street ferry. Even this he would not have known had he not suddenly collided with a stoutly built young man, with fiery red hair, who was just about entering a railroad cab.

“Hello,” cried this person, sharply. “Have the goodness to look where you are going, will you? It’s all right and proper, my friend, to carry as much excess as you can comfortably handle. But don’t try to shoulder any of it upon a man who has traveled much and is very tired.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Kenyon, stiffly.

The countenance of the other, in the ruddy flare of the cab lamps, suddenly expanded into a delighted grin.

“Why, dog-bust it, it’s Kenyon!” he almost shouted. “Shake!”

“Garry Webster!” Kenyon gripped the extended hand, equally delighted. “Why, old boy, this is a surprise.”

Webster shook Kenyon’s hand with the utmost vigor.

“Well, who would ever have thought to meet you here,” cried he. “It’s been all of ten years since I saw you last, Ken, and a good five since I heard from you; and here you all but knock the breath out of me before I’m in New York ten minutes. But I thought you were doing stunts in South America with a machine gun and a backing of barefooted patriots.”

“So I was, until a few weeks ago, but—”

“Hold on, tell me about it later. Pile in here,” drawing him toward the cab door; “kick those bags and things out of the way. I’m for the Waldorf, and the biggest breakfast they’ve got in the place.”

A feeling of faintness in the stomach told Kenyon that breakfast was a thing that he stood rather in need of himself. So he got into the cab with Webster and they bore down upon the hotel.

“I’m just in from Chicago,” the red-haired young man told Kenyon, “going to look into the windings of the hardware business here, and see if we can’t corral some of the trade that has been lately taken from us.”

“Still traveling for Webster & Seybold, eh?”

“Bless you, no!” laughed Garry. “The governor took me into the firm three years ago. This is my first business trip since, and I wouldn’t be making it, only it’s something special. You see, a rival concern has been cutting into our eastern trade like sixty, and something had to be done about it. And as I am the only one in the shop that is sufficiently acquainted with this market, why, it was me to get busy with my trunks. Back there somewhere, in a freight shed, I’ve got about a dozen sample cases filled with the finest steel implements and sundries ever seen east of Pittsburg. They are the limit, and no mistake. Webster & Seybold are out after the business of this section; and, as I block things out, when I’ve covered the ground, the entire harvest will be reaped and bound. I don’t intend to leave those other fellows opening enough to put in a pound of wire nails.”

Webster so laughed and choked and shook over this ideal if exaggerated prospect, that Kenyon, also laughing, was forced to pound him upon the back.

“You haven’t changed much, Garry,” remarked Kenyon. “You still like to slap your own choice of color on the future.”

“Well, there is no use in letting them put up some other shade for me, you know. They’d only turn out a job that wouldn’t suit. Paint the future in a good, cheerful hue, Ken, and she’ll never come to you in mourning. I made that discovery years ago, and have always stuck to the bright shades. No browns or grays for me.”

“But sometimes they get on of themselves.”

“Go ’long! It couldn’t happen, no matter how you take it. A man is always master of his future.”

“Not always. Sometimes things happen over which he has no control—for example the things which happened to me last night.”

“I can see a story in your eye. You have had an adventure.” Webster laughed and cocked up his feet. “Let’s have it, Ken, for your stories are always sure to have lots of go in them. But, hold on. Wait till we get to the hotel and start in on the breakfast. I’ll enjoy it better.”

At the Waldorf-Astoria, Garry engaged a magnificent suite.

“Webster & Seybold are going to do the thing right,” remarked he, as he walked about and approvingly surveyed the very evident elegance of the apartments. “Hardware men like to eat costly food and absorb colored drinks. Here is where they can do both; they can dine and sup and luncheon and breakfast to slow music and rapid propositions. And always will your humble servant be directly in the focus of the spot-light, reaching them the talk. Right off the dining-room is the sample-room. Do you get the effect? When they are feeling pleasant and comfortable and ‘old chappy,’ I’ll pilot them in there and they will buy as they never bought before. A man in good humor cannot possibly resist the line I will show him. And it will be instant delivery and ninety days’ time.”

“You have no thought of failure in your campaign, Garry,” remarked Kenyon, rather soberly.

“Failure! No! No man with the goods ever fails. It’s only the poor devils who try to win out with high prices, hard terms, and empty hands. Proper equipment is the thing that gains commercial battles as well as military ones.”

“I suppose that’s true. And other sorts as well, don’t you think?”

“Without a doubt.” Garry gazed at his friend curiously for a moment; then he said: “Somehow, Ken, you give me the impression of being in deep water. Has it anything to do with the night’s adventure?”

“It has all to do with it.”

“Oh! The experiences of these modern Babylons! I have had my own share of them; but as a rule I sort of slough them off before many hours have passed. It’s quite the best way. But here’s the breakfast.”

They ate in a small room, overlooking Fifth Avenue; and during the progress of the meal, Kenyon related his experiences of the preceding night. Webster listened with the utmost attention and many exclamations. When Kenyon had finished he lay back in his chair and fairly rocked with delight.

“Adventures to the adventurous!” cried he. “Why, old chap, it’s like a night of our ancient friend, Haroun Al Raschid.” He bent forward and continued with great interest, “And so the dark-eyed girl was beautiful, was she?”

“Charming! Superb! I never saw anything just like her before.”

“And the indications are,” said Webster, carefully inspecting his friend, “that you never will again. It’s the sort of thing that only hits one once in a lifetime.”

“Oh, pshaw!”

“By all means. But that’s not going to alter anything. And you say she was cold, scornful, imperious, and all that?”

“Yes, but only to me. To everyone else she spoke gently; and it was at such moments that I got a glimpse of her true charm. Why, even this fellow Forrester came in for a share of it.”

“Why not? According to your account of him, he must be rather an attractive kind of a chap, just the sort that is apt to be strong with women.”

Garry witnessed with unholy joy the resentment that flushed Kenyon’s face.

“But don’t I tell you that he’s in love with this other girl, and she with him. And then he’s not at all the sort of fellow that such a girl would admire.”

Webster shrugged his shoulders.

“You never can tell,” said he. He lit a cigarette and lay back in his chair, smoking thoughtfully. At last he said: “But, aside from her, this is a peculiar experience. It’s a great deal like a dream. There is something so absolutely lawless about it.”

“I can make neither head nor tail of it,” said Kenyon. “However, to tell the candid truth, I have examined but one side of the matter.”

“I understand,” said Webster, with a nod. “You’re confiding in an old pal, Ken, so don’t be backward. It’s the girl.” Kenyon was silent, so the young man from Chicago proceeded. “Of course it is. You have been kept so busy trying to free her of any possible blame that you have been unable to see anything else.”

“I think you are right,” replied the other, quietly. “She impressed me as being strangely out of place in such an atmosphere. There was courage and goodness and high purpose in her every look and movement.”

“Exactly.” Webster instantly dropped his bantering manner at Kenyon’s quiet, unembarrassed tone. His experience with the other told him that anything which his friend took seriously was not to be treated lightly. Throwing away his cigarette end, he lighted a fresh one. “I can’t think properly unless I’m continually firing up,” explained he.

He drew quickly and deeply, and the thick blue smoke formed a veil between him and Kenyon. Then, waving it away with his hand, he proceeded:

“Now let us take this little affair from the very start. I suppose you have been doing that ever since it happened; but if we are to get at anything tangible in the way of a solution we must do it once more. Let me play the grand inquisitor; I probably see the entire adventure from a different angle than you, and will, perhaps, set your mind to working upon points that all but escaped you.”

“All right,” said Kenyon, lighting a cigarette also. “Go ahead, Garry; and I hope you make a better fist of it than I have.”

“Now, to start with: Did you get no whisper, in any way, of the name of the old man that died last night in Selden’s Square?”

“Not the faintest. Nor that of the girl I have specially spoken of. The other’s name was Anna. Then, of course, there was Forrester and Hong Yo.”

“But the old man knew Nunez, your old commander in Uruguay. There is a possible clue. Did you never hear Nunez speak of any friends who lived here in the North?”

“Never.”

“Humph!” Webster pursed up his lips and blew a long, thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “That seems conclusive enough. We’ll never get at anything from that direction, that’s sure. But let us come to yourself now. You’ll know more about that subject.”

Kenyon smiled.

“I’ll be sure to,” said he.

“Who were your intimates while in Montevideo?”

“I knew no one intimately save Nunez and his secretary, Balmacenso.”

“And Nunez was killed at the taking of the town by the forces of the dictator.”

“He was.”

“And Balmacenso? What sort of a fellow was he?”

“Not a bad sort of a chap. I think he was a Spaniard. He saved my life after the fight, packed me on a mule, I being unable to walk because of a wrenched leg. If you fancy he had anything to do with this thing you are on the wrong scent. These people expected me on the Blenheim. Balmacenso died weeks before the Blenheim entered port and at a time when I had no notion of coming North in her. I’ve gone over all that, but there is no explanation of the mystery in it.”

Webster looked baffled.

“Now, look here,” complained he, “don’t throw cold water upon my investigation like this. It’s discouraging. Here I’m sweating like a sheep, trying to get to the bottom of this thing, and you take a sort of delight in stumping me. It’s not friendly and it’s not right.”

“I beg your pardon,” laughed Kenyon. “I’m only tickled to see how similar your own point of view is to my own, that’s all.”

“They don’t seem as widely separated as I expected them to be, that’s a fact,” admitted Garry. “It proves to me that it is possible for a man, newly impressed by a most beautiful woman, to see as clearly as the most cold-blooded of his friends. And that is a thing worth knowing.”

He smiled genially across the table at Kenyon and smoked his cigarette contentedly.

“There remains only one other thing which I can think of,” said he. “And that is the possibility of there being persons who knew you in New York.”

“There is no one,” said Kenyon, positively. “I never knew but a few people here, and them only slightly—so slightly as not even to recall their names. And no one in the North knew of my movements in recent years—not even you. And that I was coming to New York was not known to myself more than two hours before I started.”

“It is deeply and blackly mysterious,” conceded Webster. “It would require an acute intellect of the highest type to do anything with it. One thing I can see very plainly, and that is that hardware is my line, and not conundrums.”

“I fancied that you would give it up,” said Kenyon, smilingly.

“Only temporarily. I’ll grapple with it again.”

“Apart from the oddness of the matter where I am personally concerned,” said Kenyon, seriously, “is the matter where it concerns others. What are these people, and what object have they in view?”

“Hong Yo, now, did not impress you?”

“He was like a bloodless snake. I chilled at the very sight of him.”

“But the other—the hammer-throwing chap—sort of puzzled you?”

“Candidly, yes. He was boyish frankness personified, but still—”

“You have your doubts. Exactly. We are all more or less strong believers in the adage that birds of a feather flock together. But the old man? What of him?”

“I cannot make up my mind. He spoke of a mysterious purpose of which I was supposed to be acquainted, as I told you, and of a mysterious person who was to be safeguarded. And he was intensely and passionately in earnest. Whatever it is, it was of tremendous moment to him.”

“Then there is Forrester’s whispered injunction to you at the end; also the garrotting of the stranger from Butte outside the door. I tell you, Ken, you have had a night of it, and no mistake.”

For a moment both were silent. They smoked thoughtfully and the corners of their eyes were gathered in tight little lines. Suddenly the cigarette dropped from Kenyon’s hand, and he uttered a cry.

“What is it?” asked Webster, in surprise.

“Only the check,” answered the other, ironically. “What confounded stupidity! I never thought to look whose signature was attached to it.”

“Holy Smoke!” ejaculated Webster. And he sat regarding his friend with bulging eyes.

Kenyon drew the check from his pocket and opened it; he gave it a single glance, and then sank back in his chair, disappointment in every line of his face.

“It is signed by Hong Yo,” he said.

VI
KENYON HAS ANOTHER ODD EXPERIENCE

“And when darkness fell, he stopped at a caravansary
where there were other travelers also.”

—The Amazing Adventures of Mansour Bi.

The two young men sat regarding one another, vexedly.

“Now was there ever such an aggravating thing before,” cried Webster, at last. “I felt sure that it would contain the old man’s name, and that our guessing was at an end.”

He took the check from Kenyon’s hand and inspected it closely.

“Whew!” he whistled. “Your services are placed at a pretty high figure, Kenyon. This calls for as many as ten thousand dollars. Apparently the parties whom you visited last night are not at all stinted for money.”

“It looks that way, to be sure,” answered Kenyon, dryly. “And upon second thought we may glean some information from the check, after all. The bank will surely know something of Hong Yo.”

“Unquestionably. But will they tell it to you?”

“Very likely not. Banks are rather disposed to be noncommittal, I have found. But I can call there and inquire, at any rate.”

“Moritze & Co.,” read Webster thoughtfully, still examining the check. “Somehow it seems to me that I’ve heard of that house before.” He pondered awhile, then suddenly said:

“Ah, I have it. It’s a Seattle concern, and is much favored by the Pacific trade—steamship companies, exporters, and the like. Webster & Seybold have done business through them; they have branches in Hong Kong and Tokio, and the Orientals seem to rely greatly upon them.” He handed the slip of paper back to Kenyon and inquired: “But what are you going to do with this!”

“It’s a puzzle,” returned Kenyon. “Of course the thing’s not mine. Perhaps the best thing for me to do would be to pay another visit to 98 Selden’s Square, make a brief, vigorous statement of facts, and wash my hands of the whole affair.”

“Do you really want to do that last?” asked Webster, with a shrewd look.

Kenyon colored; but his embarrassment was only of a moment’s duration.

“I’m not quite sure that I do,” he answered, quietly. “The adventure is not without its interest. And then there is the girl. I rather fancy that the desire to see her once more will begin to grow upon me shortly; and I’m also of the opinion that I shall not put up much of a fight against it.”

“Spoken like a courageous and candid soul,” laughed Webster. “Stick to it; don’t be beaten. If she’s anything like your limning of her, she’s worth some sort of an effort.”

In a little while Kenyon arose.

“I must get some sleep,” said he. “I begin to feel a bit tired.”

“Where are you stopping? Why not make a shift here, where we can keep in touch with each other.”

“I’m putting up at a clean little German place down town; in fact it’s very much down town. I can see the trees of Battery Park from my window.”

“You’re broke,” stated Webster, firmly.

Kenyon gestured his admission of the charge.

“Otherwise, why the job in the stoke-hole of the Blenheim on my way up?” said he.

Webster assumed the countenance of delight.

“Now, by all that’s providential,” he cried, “I’ve got you, at last. When we were at college and I’d go down the line, scattering my change, you’d lend me yours in a fatherly, patronizing way that was peculiarly aggravating. And this is my first chance to get back; I’ve never caught you broke before.”

He lit a third cigarette and grinned widely.

“How much do you want?” asked he.

“How strong a jolt can you stand?”

“Since I entered the firm of Webster & Seybold, I’ve planted something like fifty thousand dollars. What part of it do you want, Ken? I’ll cut it anywhere you say.”

“Good boy, Garry!” Kenyon looked at his friend with smiling eyes; but the corners of his mouth, usually so firm, twitched a little. “A couple of hundred will do.”

Webster regarded him disgustedly.

“Oh, behave,” said he. “This isn’t a dime-saving fund. If you want to hit the institution at all, you must do it big.”

“No, no.”

“He’s down and out,” thought the young man from Chicago, “and a man in that shape needs a fair-sized dose if it’s to do him any good at all.” Then he said aloud. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do in the way of a compromise. We’ll make it two thousand, and not a damned cent less.”

Kenyon protested, but the other was firm. “It’s just like this,” continued the latter, “I’ve got a reputation to uphold; and I can’t afford, for business reasons, to have my friends live over German beer saloons in the neighborhood of the Battery. Webster & Seybold are above such things.”

Kenyon slept deeply all that day. Darkness was already thickening above the city when he climbed out of bed and began to douse himself with a huge sponge dipped in a pail of cold water.

“A dollar a day hotel doesn’t offer many conveniences,” said he, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “But, then, I’ve seen more limited accommodations for the morning—or evening—bath, in more pretentious places. It was always a dreadful question with me whether my fellow strugglers for liberty in Uruguay ever bathed or no.”

He donned his dress clothes and took a cab to the Waldorf, where he had engaged to dine with Webster.

“We’ll do the thing with all proper ceremony to-night,” said the latter, “for it is probably our last chance. I’ve made arrangements for the first hardware dinner; it’s to come off to-morrow night and is to be followed by a long succession of others. They all fall for it, Ken; there is something about free food and champagne that men past middle age just can’t resist.”

“Are the samples all ready?” asked Kenyon, as they made their way among the tables in the glittering restaurant.

“They came this afternoon; and I’ve had two men unpacking at top speed ever since. You never saw such a brave display of useful goods in your life. There will be a riot when the trade gets its first look.”

The restaurant was fairly well filled; and as the two passed along on their way to a secluded nook, Kenyon’s air of elegant distinction as usual attracted much attention.

“A short fellow with red hair could never do it,” mused Webster, as he became aware of this. “How Providence does dump its gifts at the feet of some people.”

A low exclamation drew his attention swiftly to a table quite near the one they had selected; he saw a woman in a sombre motoring dress draw a thick, dark veil about her face; a man who sat at the table with her was regarding her with obvious surprise.

“What is it?” asked the man as Webster passed.

But the woman placed her hand upon his arm in a gesture that asked for silence; and all the time her gaze was fixed upon the two, who were by this time some yards away.

ALL THE TIME HER GAZE WAS FIXED UPON THE TWO

“You can order for me, too,” said Webster. “I have the utmost confidence in your taste. Meantime, I’ll watch a small comedy which is going on behind you. No, no,” hastily, “don’t look around, because it has struck me as being just a little queer, and I want to see the finish.”

Kenyon laughed and said, “Well, if it’s a matter of interest, I depend upon you to keep me posted.”

With that he gave his attention to the selection of the dinner, while Webster, with a great assumption of carelessness, watched the couple to whom his attention had been drawn a few moments before.

They had the appearance of having stopped during a motoring journey, for dinner; for the man, too, wore the costume affected by that cult. But they, apparently, had lost all interest in the meal; they bent toward each other and conversed in low, eager tones.

“She’s telling him something, and it’s about us,” thought Garry. “And, by George, doesn’t he seem pleased to hear it, though. I never saw a man’s face light up so much before.”

He continued to give the couple his attention while Kenyon gave his orders to the waiter; after the man had gone he said:

“I say, Kenyon, do you know that we seemed to startle that young woman as we came in. Now, don’t look around, I tell you,” sharply. “They are not yet aware that I’ve noticed them, and I’d rather they wouldn’t be.”

“Startled her, did you say?” Kenyon leaned toward the other, and his eyes narrowed expectantly. “What does she look like?”

“I did not have a chance to see. She drew her veil instantly upon sight of us; and it’s really the most competent veil I ever saw. It hides her completely.”

“And the man!”

“He is elderly. His head is half bald and he has craggy, prominent features. I wouldn’t like to be positive, but from this distance he seems to have the coldest and most vulture-like eye I ever saw.”

“A most interesting person, indeed,” smiled Kenyon.

“Interested, you mean. If you don’t feel his eyes boring through your back, you are absolutely without that sense. He seems upon the point of devouring you. I can’t make out just how the girl is taking it, not being able to see her face; but it’s what she is saying that’s exciting her companion and causing him to radiate so. They must be people who know you.”

“I told you this morning, that I knew no one in New York.”

“You made some acquaintances last night,” said Webster, meaningly.

“The man is not one of them.”

“How about the woman.”

Again Kenyon’s eyes narrowed; there were little puckers about their corners.

“About her I cannot say.” He paused for a moment, and then asked, eagerly: “What is the color of her hair. Is she light or dark?”

“The veil conceals everything, and she holds it in place in a way that plainly shows that she intends it to go on doing so.”

When their dinner began to arrive Webster took his eyes from the pair for a few moments; and when he looked up again they had gone.

“Why, I really thought they were good for an hour,” said the young Chicagoan. “It does not seem possible that their interest could slacken enough in that time to permit of their going away.”

Kenyon did not reply, but sat staring moodily before him. He had maintained this attitude for some time before Webster noticed it; and then the latter grew suddenly silent.

“It’s the girl,” he told himself. “Poor chap! She’s got him, whoever she is. He’ll never see a woman in the distance again without thinking it’s she; nor he’ll never see another sun arise without thinking that it’s going to witness his meeting with her. That is, not for a while. It’s comforting to think that such things don’t last long.”

He had reached this stage in his reflection when a boy approached.

“Mr. Kenyon?” inquired he.

“Yes,” replied Webster. “Here, wake up, old chap; there’s a message for you.”

“From a man who just left in an automobile,” the boy informed Kenyon, as he handed him the message. “He said there was no answer.”

Kenyon tore open the envelope. The note was written upon a sheet of hotel stationery, and contained but two lines of writing. A glance took this in, and with a laugh he tossed it over to Webster. The message read:

“Your progress is wonderful! But don’t forget that boldness can be carried too far.”

And underneath this was the signature: “Farbush.”

VII
THE BELLEVUE HOSPITAL PUZZLE

“Do you know, old chap, there are many features in this
case that I do not understand.”

—A Frequent Remark of Garry Webster.

“Mr. Farbush,” remarked Garry Webster, speculatively, “is more than likely the gentleman with the half-bald head and the vulture eyes. But just where does he enter in this thing, I wonder?”

“There is no telling,” answered Kenyon. “It is not well to introduce all one’s characters in the first act, as every practical dramatist knows. Farbush has been held in reserve for the opening of act second, apparently; which reservation shows the hand of a craftsman of more or less skill.”

There was something in the speaker’s voice that caught Webster’s attention, and he gave him a quick, inquiring glance. It seemed to hold a certain resolution that was not altogether clear.

“If the appearance of Mr. Farbush has any connection with your adventure of last night, it is more like the climax of an old, rather than the opening of a new, act,” said Garry, slowly. “Where is your dramatist going to get his material to go on with his work? Surely not from the actions of a man eating his dinner.”

“I do not intend to continue eating indefinitely,” smiled Kenyon. He looked at his watch and continued: “An hour from now will find me in Selden’s Square and ringing the bell at 98.”

“Oh,” said Webster, “I see. You intend to return the check.”

“Not only that, but I intend to put a stop to the whole matter. Why, the thing has grown absurd. I’m not accustomed to this sort of dealing; and the quicker it’s over and done the more comfortable I shall feel.”

When they had finished, Webster said: “A cab will take us there in less than a half hour.”

“Us?” repeated Kenyon.

“Us. Why, to be sure. You don’t suppose I intend to let you go alone, do you? Well, hardly! Another thing. Come up to my rooms for a moment before we start.”

An elevator whirled them upward; and in a few moments the young man from Chicago was opening a revolver case in his sample room.

“It’s a Colt,” said he, calmly, holding the weapon up for his friend’s inspection. “Dull metal, forty-five calibre; has a barrel that assures accuracy and a grip that is a real grip. It’ll make quite a bulge in your pocket, but then it will also shoot a hole through a safe.”

“For a humdrum man of trade, Garry, you have lots of romance left in you,” said Kenyon. He took the revolver and spun it around, a forefinger through the trigger guard. “You intend that an armed force shall move on Selden’s Square, I see. But where is your ammunition?”

“Here,” and Webster handed him a dozen or more long cartridges.

Two revolvers were loaded and shoved deep into overcoat pockets; then the two descended to the street, got into a cab and were driven to Selden’s Square.

“Not a very live street, for so early an hour,” remarked Webster, as they alighted at the corner and walked slowly along.

“I noticed that last night,” returned Kenyon, somewhat grimly. “The thugs who attacked the man outside of 98 did not seem to have any fear of interruption.”

“By the way, you did not see anything of the attacked one when you came out, did you!”

“No; those who committed the assault either carried him away, or the police found him before I came out.”

They had reached 98 by this time and halted. It was gloomy and deserted looking; not a glimmer of light was to be seen at any of the windows. They ascended the steps and Kenyon pulled the old-fashioned bell-handle.

“Speaking of policemen,” remarked Webster, in a low tone, “that looks like one across the way.”

The gleam of the helmet plate and shield were unmistakable; but their owner made no move toward them, though he seemed to be watching them narrowly. Just then there came a sound at the basement door and a shuffling of feet up the steps. In a moment a sharp, wrinkled old face appeared above the rail and a quavering, high-pitched voice demanded:

“What is it, please? What is it?”

Kenyon looked down at the bent old woman who was peering up at him in a dim-eyed, uncertain sort of way.

“I desire to speak to”—he hesitated a moment, then proceeded—“to the master or mistress of the house.”

“Have I not told you a dozen times that the house is empty? Are the police paid to annoy people? I know nothing of those who were here; I know nothing of the dead man who was carried out in the night; I know nothing except that the agent placed me in charge this afternoon, and that the rent is fifty dollars a week, furnished. For anything else you must not ask me; I am old, and I must have my sleep.”

And with that she went slowly and complainingly down the steps, and they heard the door close abruptly behind her.

“They have gone,” said Kenyon.

“And apparently the attention of the police has been called to some features of the case.” Webster looked at his friend for a moment and then added. “What are you going to do now?”

“Perhaps to see Moritze & Co.’s local representative, in the morning, would do some good. But, first, I think we may get a little information from our friend across the way.”

They descended the steps and crossed the street toward the policeman. The man regarded them with attention, his thumbs in his belt and his legs very wide apart.

“How do you do?” spoke Kenyon, in a fraternal tone.

“How are you?” answered the man.

“Is this street part of your beat?”

“It is all of it, just now.”

“Ah, indeed.”

By this time the policeman seemed to have made up his mind about them.

“Reporters?” asked he.

“Something like that. I understand that you had quite an exciting time of it hereabouts last night.”

“Yes; but say, how did the papers get it? The captain said the matter was to be kept quiet.”

Kenyon laughed carelessly.

“Oh, the papers have many surprising little ways of getting information. Now, the body that was carried out of 98, for instance. Nothing has been heard of it?”

“No; and it has a nasty look. It’s the kind of thing that we police don’t like. The detective department has it now.”

“Nothing is known of the people who occupied the house, then?”

“Not a thing. They rented it furnished for a term and paid the money down. They gave the name of Farbush.”

The two young men exchanged swift glances; the policeman noticed the looks:

“Do you know anyone of that name?”

“I fancy I have heard it before,” replied Kenyon.

“Well, I suppose you are not giving anything away,” grumbled the man. “The afternoon papers will be driving the police out of business for good if they keep on the way they are going.”

“Don’t be discouraged,” said Kenyon, with a laugh. “You see, they don’t know so much after all. They only appear to. For example now, we don’t know where the man was sent who was knocked out just about here last night.”

The policeman laughed, shortly.

“The man?” repeated he.

Kenyon caught the inflection.

“Why, it wasn’t a woman, surely,” said he.

“I guess you’re right about the papers not being on to so much,” grinned the policeman. “But you’ll have to call up Bellevue if you want any information. As I said to start with, this thing is supposed to be kept rather quiet; and I think I’ve done too much talking as it is.”

As they walked down the street Webster said thoughtfully:

“The complications seem to pile up, don’t they?”

“Amazingly. And with every lap the track gets heavier. I think the best thing that we can do is to pay a visit to Bellevue and have a talk with someone there who can give us definite information.”

There was something in the speaker’s tone that made his friend look at him quickly.

“Don’t let the matter get on your nerves, old boy,” warned Webster. “You’ll only put yourself in a daze; and then you’ll never get to the bottom of it.”

“I know it; but then there is—”

He paused abruptly and gestured the rest.

“You mean the girl?” Webster frowned. All along he had feared this phase of the affair; the girl had struck him from the very first as looming altogether too large in Kenyon’s account of it.

“If it wasn’t for her,” said Kenyon, “the entire matter would be a sort of joke to me. But she changes the face of everything. I can’t stop thinking of her.”

“Well, you had better get into the habit of trying,” growled Garry Webster. “You know it doesn’t do to go about falling in love with girls like this. Now don’t try to shut me off! You are in love with her; if you don’t know it, I do. I’m experienced. I’ve been in love a half-dozen times myself.”

He paused for a moment; and his tone changed, as he continued:

“You see, Ken, you don’t know anything about her. As the thing stands it doesn’t look even near right. It’s a police matter, and she is unquestionably mixed up in it.”

Kenyon winced at this and his face seemed to lose a little of its color. But he said nothing.

“I know that my remarks hurt some,” proceeded Garry. “But it’s a fact, and fact is a thing that I’m strong on—it’s a thing that a man doesn’t do well to brush carelessly by. If he does he’s making a mistake.”

Kenyon put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Don’t think me an ass, old fellow; I see all these things you speak of—and perhaps more, for I’m deeper in the maze than you think. But in spite of it all, I can’t drive the image of that unknown girl from my mind; and I cannot help believing that no matter what manner of things the others may be guilty of, she is innocent.”

“All right,” returned Webster, with a sigh. “Look at it as you see fit. I only hope you prove to be right. There is a great deal in a person’s characteristics, I know; and of course I haven’t seen the girl. Perhaps, if I had, I might feel just as confident of her as you do.”

“I’m sure you would,” said Kenyon, fervently. “No one to look at her could feel otherwise. I know that I’m talking like a moonstruck sophomore, Garry, but just the same I mean every word of it.”

At that moment Webster sighted a cab and signaled it. In a very short space of time they had been set down at Bellevue Hospital, and a nurse had summoned a white-clad, pleasant-faced young surgeon. When he heard their errand he looked interested.

“Oh, yes,” said he. “The rather queer matter of last night. Sit down.”

The two young men sat down and the surgeon occupied the corner of a desk. Apparently he made the same mistake as the policeman had, for his opening words were:

“You are the first reporters that have called in reference to this thing; and there is, I think, a most interesting story in it.” He touched a bell, and a pretty girl in a nurse’s uniform made her appearance. “Miss Dickson, get me histories 906-7-8.” When the girl had gone, the man of medicine resumed. “It’s not often that we meet with such a remarkable series of coincidences; but the night has strange kinks in a big city, and the accident ward of a hospital is the best place to see them that I know of.”

The girl re-appeared, handed the speaker three sheets of paper, and vanished.

“I’ll read you these in regular order,” promised the surgeon. “Then you’ll get about the same effect that I did. And before I begin I’d like to say that these are not the regular histories demanded by the institution, but private ones of my own. You see,” with a smile, “these cases were so odd that I did not mind going to a little extra trouble.”

Selecting one of the sheets he began to read:

“Thursday night, November 12th. About 9.30 the patrol of the 40th Precinct brought in a case of assault. It was a man of about thirty years of age and weighing about one hundred and sixty pounds. He was of dark complexion. He had been picked up by the police upon the sidewalk in front of 98 Selden’s Square. The injuries are three incised wounds in the back, probably made by a knife, and two contused wounds of the head. The skull is most likely fractured.”

“Since that was written we have discovered that there is no fracture. The man recovered consciousness and told how he came in his present predicament. Afterwards, during the absence of the nurse, he left the hospital. Just why I don’t know, for he was badly hurt and required attention and nursing.”

Turning to the second sheet he read as follows:

“Thursday night, November 12th. At 10.18 the ambulance was called out. It brought a second man, suffering the same injuries, and who had been picked up in exactly the same place as the first. This man, however, was conscious and able to make a statement immediately.”

“Selden’s Square is a much more abrupt place than I would have thought,” remarked Webster.

“So it would seem. But listen to this other.” The doctor read as follows from the third sheet:

“Same night. About 12.05 I was called down to receive a new case. It was brought in by a cab-driver and a mail-carrier. The latter, while on his last round of collection, found the man lying in the middle of the street in front of 98 Selden’s Square, and at the next corner summoned the cab-driver to his assistance. In this case, as in the other two, the bludgeon and knife had played their parts. This man was smeared with blood and his clothing was torn into shreds. Apparently he had given his assailants a desperate battle.”

The physician laid down the last of the sheets and looked at his visitors with a smile.

“Well, what do you think of that?” asked he.

“Remarkable!” answered Kenyon, briefly.

“Astonishing!” said Webster.

“I think so, too. But this is only the mildest and most conventional side of the thing. What I have yet to tell will make you despair of finding adjectives to express yourselves. But I can only give you the outline, as that is all that I have as yet. The first of these men is from Butte, Montana. He is an engineer in the employ of the Anaconda mine, and apparently a thoroughgoing fellow, indeed. The second is from the town of West Point, and is a sort of private coach for backward students at the Academy there. He is a rather frail young man, with near-sighted eyes and an impediment in his speech. The third is from Saginaw, Michigan. He is a small, compactly-built fellow, of about twenty-three, and with the constitution of a young bull. By profession he is a pugilist. His first words when he recovered consciousness were to inquire about the persons who assaulted him. And when he learned that none of them were in the ward, as badly used up as himself, he was the most crestfallen person I ever saw.”

“Quite a variety of types and temperaments,” remarked Kenyon. “But what had they to say for themselves?” eagerly.

“I don’t know that I am altogether at liberty to tell you that,” answered the young surgeon, slowly; “It’s a sort of police matter, you see. But if you’ll agree not to publish until the authorities release us, I’ll give it to you.”

“We’ll keep it to ourselves,” promised Kenyon.

“Very well then. But as I said before, I can only give you the outline of their statements, at that. Each of these three men is an absolute stranger to the others; yet each was summoned to New York upon the same errand, by the same man, and at the same time. Upon the night of November 12th each arrived in town, one from Butte, one from West Point, and the other from South Bend, Ind.; and each of them immediately made his way to the place of appointment—98 Selden’s Square. And as they arrived there, they were attacked murderously and left for dead. All this is strange; it only requires one more touch to complete the mystery. And we have that in the fact that the three men’s names are alike.”

“And what is the name?” asked Webster.

“Kenyon,” answered the young surgeon; “and a rather unusual one it is, don’t you think?”

VIII
THE NIGHT GROWS THICK WITH WONDER

Dom Migual: Hush! Walk softly. This night is filled with astonishments.

—From an Unacted Melodrama.

At the surgeon’s words Webster fairly gasped his astonishment. But Kenyon’s face was unreadable.

“A remarkable state of affairs, indeed,” said the young adventurer. “And without a doubt it has some equally surprising meaning if we could learn all the facts. But you said that you do not feel at liberty to tell us more, did you not?”

“I do not know a very great deal more,” answered the surgeon.

“These men are not yet able to be seen, I suppose—that is, the remaining two?”

“No; and will not be for some days to come.”

“That is too bad. I should have liked to ask them a few questions.” Kenyon arose and said: “Is it permissible for you to tell me the name of the person who summoned them to New York?”

“It is not. That is a point upon which the police left special instructions.”

“Ah, pardon me! And thank you for what you have already told us. Good-night.”

Once again they were upon the street, walking along in silence, hands stuffed into overcoat pockets and heads bent in deep thought. After a space Kenyon said:

“Well, Garry, my son, we don’t seem to have come at anything of value, as yet, eh?”

“Rather, we have gone deeper into the tangle,” answered Webster. Then he laughed in a sudden fit of boyish glee and continued: “But, I say, it’s more fun than going a-fishing, isn’t it? I’d like to work at a thing like this as a regular job. It’s got it all over hardware for real interest.”

“It seems to me that it’s going to be my occupation, for a time, at least,” said Kenyon, a certain grimness in his tone. “The matter concerns me, and if it’s possible to get to the bottom of it, I’m going to do it.”

“Right,” agreed Webster. “It’s your place to do that very thing.”

They walked back to Webster’s hotel, in silence for the most part; when they arrived Kenyon immediately took up a telephone directory and began fluttering over its leaves.

“It’s just possible that the manager of Moritze & Co.’s New York branch may have a ’phone connection at his home and I may catch him there,” explained he to Webster. “Oh, yes, here it is. His name is Leventhal. I trust he is a snugly married man and is at home just now.”

After a few moments waiting he got the number asked for.

“I want to speak to Mr. Leventhal,” said Kenyon.

“This is Mr. Leventhal.”

“Manager for Moritze & Co.?”

“The same.”

“I have just received a check upon your house for a considerable sum, and I’d like to make some inquiries about the person who drew it.”

“I never transact business after business hours,” said Leventhal, decidedly.

“But this is a matter of importance. I’d like you to tell me what you can about Hong Yo, who I think is known to you.”

There was a sharp exclamation at the other end of the wire; after a short pause there came the answer in the same cold tone.

“We never discuss our depositors with strangers—or anyone else, for that matter. If you have a check signed by Hong Yo it will be honored instantly, no matter what the sum. Good-night.”

“One moment,” cried Kenyon, hastily. But it was too late; the other had already rung off.

“I expected that,” remarked Webster. “Bank people are rather close mouthed as a rule. I don’t think you’ll learn much from that source.”

“It would seem not.”

Kenyon sat down and lit a cigarette. Under the light bulbs his face had a drawn, harassed look and the usually good-humored eyes had a baffled, eager glow in them. But in spite of this very evident mental unrest, the elegant distinction of his manner was unimpaired; and he brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with solicitude.

“Your two thousand dollars is going to come in rather handy,” remarked he thoughtfully. “It looks like a long hunt, and that sort of thing takes money.”

“There is more where the two came from,” said Webster. “Don’t hesitate to call again.”

“Thanks.” Kenyon puffed at the cigarette frowningly for a moment. “It means a waste of both money and time,” grumbled he, “and I suppose I’m next door to a fool for bothering with it. But it’s got on my nerves and I can’t drop it.”

“The girl again,” mused Webster, regarding his friend with brooding glance. “He doesn’t know it himself, half the time; but it’s that confounded girl that’s doing it all.”

They discussed the different phases of the case for some hours, and then Kenyon took his departure. It was a long way to his little hotel near the Battery, but he was in no humor for riding, and turning into Broadway he swung rapidly along down town. Lower Broadway is almost deserted after business hours, and when a man loomed up alongside of him at Canal Street and fell into step, Kenyon turned sharply.

“Forrester!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“I say, Kenyon, do you know you are a great fellow to set the pace,” complained the bulky youth. “I’ve been trying to overtake you ever since you crossed Fourteenth Street.”

“I’m very sorry,” replied Kenyon, recovering his presence of mind instantly. “But I did not expect to see you.”

The other looked at him in frank astonishment.

“Why, what did you suppose had happened?” asked he, wonderingly.

Kenyon laughed.

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised at anything happening,” said he. “But I had specified nothing.”

The other regarded him curiously.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose everyone has his own way of doing things; but do you know, you rather puzzle me sometimes?”

“I have no doubt of it,” Kenyon smiled.

“You see it’s not just the way to which I’m accustomed. I go at things in a more direct fashion.”

“As a rule I do myself. But this matter is different from most—so you must expect altered methods.”

“No doubt you are right. But you do so keep me on the jump. And you don’t keep me posted. You leave me to discover things for myself. Now I had not the faintest notion that you had succeeded in the big matter until Farbush told me, about an hour ago.”

“Things should work in their natural course,” replied the adventurer, coolly; “I don’t believe much in pæans of victory until the thing is thoroughly clinched.”

Again the curious look came into Forrester’s eyes. Kenyon noticed it, and for a moment feared that he had blundered. He had come to the conclusion, finally, that to get at the true inwardness of the matter in hand he must float with the current, that he must assume to be what they supposed him to be—and so he did not desire to excite the other’s suspicions. But the youth’s next words reassured him.

“There is truth in what you say,” said Forrester, slowly. “Somehow you keep showing me that, right along; and,” with a quick heave of his great shoulders, “I don’t mind saying that I sometimes find it aggravating.”

“Personal feelings should never tinge matters of business. That’s a useful rule.”

“I realize its value. But, then, human nature is human nature. A man is bound to grouch more or less when he finds himself displaced. However, you’ve done more in twenty-four hours than all the rest of us combined.”

“Thanks. You are very good.”

“I must say that I don’t quite understand it all; but the results are what counts and are what I want to see. Farbush is quite carried away by your success; but your, as he calls it, boldness, has about taken his breath. He would prefer less spectacular effects. You see, these old money-squeezing fellows are like moles; they get their victories by digging underground; and to do things as openly as you have done, frightens them.”

“He’ll have to steady his nerves. There is no telling what sort of moves are on their way, you know.”

“You can’t frighten me,” replied Forrester. “As the matter stands it can’t progress too rapidly to please me. I’m in a hurry to get it over.”

They had stopped upon the corner of Canal Street; it was late and a haze clung about the roof tops. From the North River came the constant shriek of fog-whistles and now and then the boom of a bell; the numerous night sounds from the river front came faintly to them, for already the farm wagons were coming in, and the great markets on the lower west side were beginning to make ready for the coming dawn.

Kenyon was silent. He cautiously determined to follow the other’s lead. But Forrester did not hesitate; he went steadily on.

“We waited for you at the ‘Far East,’” continued he. “The Stalker reported that he had given you Farbush’s instructions.”

“The Stalker?” Kenyon looked at the other inquiringly.

“Of course. Didn’t he meet you as you left Selden’s Square last night?”

Kenyon’s mind went quickly back to the night before, and immediately the stealthy figure that had arisen out of the shadows recurred to him.

“Ah, yes, I remember. But his words did not impress themselves upon my memory, for he sort of mumbled them over quickly and vanished. He seemed to be rather in a hurry.” Kenyon paused a moment and then added: “Was there any urgent reason for his haste, I wonder.”

Forrester made a gesture that showed distaste.

“Perhaps there was,” said he shortly.

“He formed, I think, a committee of one, to receive the man from Butte.”

“You are not lacking in observation.”

“It is part of my stock in trade. And it’s a faculty the possession of which depends upon one’s constant exercise of it.”

“No doubt. But when we found that you did not keep the supposed appointment, Yo suggested that I meet you at Union Square, according to the general understanding, as there might be reasons why you would not want to be seen at the ‘East.’ I had waited more than an hour when you came along; and when you did not stop, I thought you might be followed.”

“Would there be any use in our going to the Far East now?” asked Kenyon.

“Of course,” eagerly. “They are anxious to see you, for there are many points that they desire to make clear.”

“That is just what I’m after,” replied Kenyon. And for an instant he feared the result of his words; for he had allowed, unconsciously, a great deal of significance to creep into them. But Forrester did not catch this; apparently he was too much engaged with his own purposes.

“It’s no great distance from here,” he said, “and we might as well walk.”

“That suits me,” returned Kenyon, promptly.

And so they struck eastward along Canal and turned down an ill-lit street which was strange to the ex-lieutenant of Nunez. A maze of alleys and narrow ways were traversed, Forrester leading the way. And as they hurried on, Kenyon gradually became obsessed with the notion that a dark figure was lurking in their track. Several times he was upon the point of mentioning the matter to Forrester; but each time he thought better of it.

“It might be a little private arrangement of his own,” reasoned Kenyon, silently. “This would be a most excellent neighborhood for an artistic piece of assassination, and I shouldn’t wonder if that was his friend the Stalker back there. But,” and he gave a quick, puzzled look over his shoulder, “somehow I can’t get quite rid of the impression that it’s a woman.”

At any rate he quietly drew off his right-hand glove; and there was much comfort in the feel of the long, heavy Colt buried so deeply in his overcoat pocket.

IX
KENYON GOES BLINDLY ON

“Mott Street is as safe as Fifth Avenue—but you must keep your eyes open.”

—The Lieutenant in Chinatown.

Through the dim, chasm-like streets Kenyon followed Forrester; and always there clung to him the feeling that there was lurking along, in the thicker shadows behind them, a soft-footed someone whose intentions were as unknown as him- or her-self.

The section was strange to Kenyon. Overhead the mist seemed to cling stickily to a wilderness of fire-escapes, and by degrees the air became impregnated with a peculiar odor.

“It’s decidedly Asiatic,” commented Kenyon, as he sniffed this. “Unless I am very much mistaken we are approaching New York’s Chinatown.”

“You are right,” answered Forrester. “We’ll be in the midst of it in a moment.”

True to his word they suddenly turned a corner, and a little way ahead saw the glare of incandescent lights, the strange, oriental-looking shops and filthy doorways of the Yellow Quarter. The slant-eyed Celestials thronged the streets, some lank and wolf-like, others fat and placid, but all members of murderous Tongs, and for the most part carrying deadly weapons concealed in their loose blouses. Here and there was a blue-coated policeman; now and then a white woman with painted cheeks and sunken eyes could be seen staring through the dirty panes of an upper window. Suddenly a great, illuminated sign flared into view which bore the name in letters formed of hideous green light:

THE FAR EAST

“This, I suppose, is the place you spoke of,” said Kenyon.

Forrester nodded.

“This way,” he directed. They did not enter by the wide, glaring door of the place, in which stood some drunken marines, a Chinaman or two, and a clump of women of the street. Instead they used a small, dark, side door, and after descending a narrow passage found themselves in a room in which a fat old Chinese woman sat crouched upon a mat before what looked like an iron pot full of red coals. Immediately upon their entrance she began a muttering in her own sing-song tongue, but never once lifted her eyes. Before going to South America to join Nunez in his expedition against Uruguay, Kenyon had served the Chinese Government in the brief war with Japan. So he was more or less familiar with the language.

“Curse-laden beast of a white devil!” crooned the hag. “And have you come back, once more? May there be no dawn in your days, forever; and may the gates of sorrow close you in!”

“A very gentle-dispositioned old lady,” was Kenyon’s amused thought. “Apparently Forrester is not very popular with her.”

But Forrester did not understand the old woman’s words, nor did he pay the slightest attention to her.

“I’ll have to ask you to remain here for a few moments,” said he to Kenyon, in an apologetic tone. “You see, it’s necessary for me to locate the people we want; and these places are regular rabbit warrens when you get into them right.”

He left the room by another door. Kenyon sat upon the edge of a table and listened to the mutterings of the hag, for she had continued in her reviling, still keeping her eyes bent downward.

“Fatherless worm!” she proclaimed. “Your pale eyes are like the fish, and your soul is as narrow as my thumb-nail.”

From somewhere in the distance came a fit of coughing, weak, ominous, rattling.

“Yo has the mind of an infant to trust to the white devils. The more he coughs the more he trusts.” She held her fat, lumpy hands over the coals and spat contemptuously upon the floor. “He should keep his eyes and his knife sharp. The ghosts of his holy ancestors watch from the past and expect much.”

“One of the unassimilated,” thought Kenyon.

As the woman paid no heed to him he approached a curtained space from beyond which came the sound of many voices. Drawing the curtain he saw a huge, low-ceilinged room with walls painted with gaudy dragons, scenes from the Chinese mythology, and glaring with electric lights. It was crowded with people, gathered about small tables, drinking tea from tiny cups, and eating of the many and curious Chinese dishes which the place supplied. The hard-faced youth from the lower east side was there, in plenty, with his “girl”; a slumming party of scared-looking women and embarrassed young men occupied a far corner; meek, hollow-chested celestials of the cooley class smoked cheap cigarettes over their pots of tea, while those of the dominant type, attired in loud American dress, discussed their many trades and filthy incomes in the unknowable slang of their kind.

“The regular thing, as far as I can see,” thought Kenyon. “I suppose Mr. Hong Yo is the head of the company and a thrifty man of business. But I’ll do well not to be taken in by appearances, however. These yellow fellows have the ingenuity of the devil for blinds of different sorts. While the ‘Far East,’ as they call it, may be a very pretty business proposition, still it may serve to cloak a less conventional trade than restaurant keeping.”

He still stood with the curtain in his hand, peering through into the main room of the place, when the door from the street swung open and a man and woman entered the restaurant. At sight of the latter Kenyon grew suddenly rigid and his breath hissed through his teeth. Not that he could see her face, for a heavy veil concealed that, nor her form, for she was wrapped in a long, loose cloak. But there was something about her, in her way of holding herself, in her supple walk, in the proud uplift of her head, that brought back to him the girl of the hansom cab.

“It’s she,” he whispered. “It is she. But what under heaven is she doing here, and in the company of a man like that?”

Her escort was indeed a most remarkable-looking person. He was a well-built, determined-looking man; but his face was death-like in its pallor and his head was swathed in bandages. As he walked toward a corner table, he swayed weakly and the girl kept him upon his feet. But the frequenters of the “Far East” were accustomed to strange night sights and the newcomers got scarcely a glance save from the slumming party.

They had barely got seated when Kenyon heard a step behind him, and, turning, found Forrester just closing the door.

“Ah, you’ve been surveying the outer circle,” smiled the giant, good-naturedly. “You have nothing quite like it in South America, I think.”

“Not exactly. But there are strange sights there, also. The low coffee houses at Rio are as picturesque; and even the Chinese have little the advantage of the Latin when it comes to vice.”

“No doubt you are right. But Hong Yo and Farbush are awaiting you in Hong’s place.” He looked inquiringly at Kenyon, and after a pause of some length asked: “I say, what is your candid opinion of Farbush?”

Kenyon shrugged his shoulders.

“How can I form an opinion of a person of whom I know so very little,” he replied, cautiously.

“Well, you have heard how he has conducted his share of the game. Surely you must have arrived at some sort of a conclusion, from that.”

Kenyon shook his head slowly; his assumption of calm neutrality was perfect.

“You will pardon me, I know,” he said, suavely. “But I’d rather not express myself upon so, to me, vague a point.”

“I would like to know, and Hong would like to know, just how you stand, right there.” There was a serious note in the young man’s voice that at once caught Kenyon’s attention. “I don’t want to give you the notion, though, that we have split into factions, or are even inclined to do so,” he added, hastily.

“I should hope not,” added Kenyon, gravely.

“But we should like some sort of an expression from you, just the same,” persisted Forrester.

“At a later time I shall be only too glad to express myself fully and completely.” There was a finality in Kenyon’s tone that was unmistakable. “Until that time comes, I prefer not to go upon record.”

“Very well, then,” replied Forrester, sulkily. “Of course it is no great matter either way. But I, for one, prefer to have a good clear light upon my path and not to leave anything to the future.” Then he crossed to the old hag, and bending over her began whispering.

“Not leave anything to the future!” was Kenyon’s mental exclamation. “Great Cæsar! What would he do in my shoes, I wonder? I am banking upon the future, entirely, for my light; the present seems only to intensify the darkness.”

Forrester continued his whispering to the woman; so Kenyon once more drew aside the curtain and looked into the large room where sat the people of the night. His first rapid glance was directed toward the corner where he had last seen the girl and the man with the bandaged head; but they were not there, and his keen eyes ran over the room eagerly.

“They have gone!” he breathed. “And where?” But he had little time to think about it, for Forrester spoke to him, and he had to give him his attention.

“Faing Sen, here, will lead you to those whom you are to meet,” said Forrester, indicating the hag. “Follow her, and don’t wonder at the road or anything you might see. As I remarked before, this is a regular rabbit warren.”

The fat old woman arose.

“May seven times seven hundred evils beset your path,” she wished, in her confidence that she was not understood. “And may the gods look darkly upon your children’s birth.”

That he understood what the old woman said Kenyon kept to himself. But he remarked to Forrester, with a laugh, “Faing Sen does not seem to be in a good temper to-night.”

“No. But then that is her normal condition. She hates the white devil, I understand. I know nothing of her lingo, and she pretends to know scarcely any English. But I succeed in getting along, somehow, when I’m here.”

“Will the tall devil follow Faing Sen?” inquired the old woman, beckoning Kenyon. She had lighted a candle and stood awaiting him in the doorway which Forrester had used. “Has he no manners that he should keep her waiting. Much fine-smelling wood shall she burn to the four-handed joss to-morrow, that the white devil’s eyes turn to water in his head.”

She passed through the doorway and Kenyon followed; as he turned, about to close the door after him, he caught a glimpse of Forrester as he stealthily drew aside the curtains and looked into the public room. Then Kenyon saw the curtains fall back in place, and saw Forrester turn with an anxious look; hurry through the other door, and disappear.

X
HONG YO STRIKES A BLOW

“Let the knife be sharp. Then strike swiftly, and linger not.”

—The Creed of the Tongman.

Kenyon, following Faing Sen, found himself in a long passage similar to the one which led from the street, only more dim and evil-smelling. At the end of this, with much groaning and panting and showering of evil wishes upon the young man, the hag raised a trap-door and bid him go down. But he shook his head and motioned for her to go first. Her little eyes gleamed wickedly in the candle-light; but she went down into the cellar obediently, Kenyon following close behind.

The place was damp and foul; the yellow flame flickered dimly upon the slimy walls and threw grotesque dancing shadows before them.

“Beautiful!” muttered Kenyon, as he peered through the darkness. “A perfectly lovely place to meet a man with a grudge against one.”

But Faing Sen waddled stumpily along, with never a look to the right or the left. Once the light was extinguished suddenly, and the long Colt came out like a flash, while Kenyon pressed with tight-shut lips against the wall. But in a moment a match scratched crackingly, and he saw Faing Sen calmly rekindling the wick.

Then they moved forward once more. Kenyon counted four times that they passed through openings cut in the foundation walls; then they came to a low, heavy door, upon which the hag knocked.

After some whispering, this was opened and they found themselves in a small, square chamber with plastered walls, some mats upon a cemented floor, and a large oil lamp which hung from the ceiling. It was a shriveled old man who had admitted them. His face was small, bony, and wrinkled like an ape’s; he wore a pair of huge, horn-rimmed Chinese spectacles, and his toothless jaws were in constant motion. He and the hag consulted.

“Who, O daughter of Faing Lo, is this whom you have brought to the place of quietness?”

“A strange white devil whom Hong Yo much wants to see. And he is sharp like the wolf and does not trust women.”

She cackled with laughter and stole a quick look at the young American. The old man bared his purple gums in a horrid grin and nodded his shaven head many times.

“Sometimes men are that way,” mumbled he. “It is wisdom to be so. When a youth I had seven wives.”

They chuckled and grinned like a couple of gleeful ghouls; then the old woman took up the candle and made her way back by the way she had come. The old man turned to Kenyon and motioned for him to be seated upon a mat under the lamp. He bowed and smiled in what was meant for an affable manner, while he said in his native tongue:

“Dog of an unbeliever, thou who art too mean to excite the anger of even the least of the gods, sit there.” Then in English he added: “Velly nice ‘Melican’ young man! Hong Yo will come in glate hully up. Me Sing Wang; velly old and velly nice.”

He tottered out of the room through a curtained doorway, leaving Kenyon looking after him, a smile upon his face.

“You old rat,” muttered the American amusedly. “Yes, you are very nice, indeed; I’ll venture to say that that shrunken arm of yours has in its day driven many a knife home into some poor devil’s back.” He looked curiously about, his keen eyes missing nothing. “Hong Yo takes many precautions when he receives visitors. I wonder why?”

He waited for some time, but Sing Wang did not return. Then he became aware of the murmur of voices engaged in altercation, some deep toned and angry; others shrill and wickedly pitched. Then in the midst of it came a woman’s scream. His heart, for a second or two, stopped beating; he recalled the girl who had entered the “Far East,” and the impressions that she had awakened came back to him like a flash. Without an instant’s hesitation he tore aside the curtains and leaped with long, soft-footed, pantherish bounds up a narrow stairway in the direction of the sounds.

At the head of the stairs was a door which stood partly open; thrusting this wide, Kenyon found himself in a sort of square hall from which opened many other doors. They were all closed, but from over one a bright light shone through an open transom. It was from behind this door that the voices came; Kenyon softly grasped the knob and gave it a turn; but the door was fastened. Pausing a moment, wondering what he had better do, he heard a single high-pitched, but wavering, voice, demanding.

“Forrester! I want Forrester! He is the man that brought me here first. I don’t know the rest of you in this matter. He wrote to me at Butte to come to New York; I had a good thing there, but he said that he had a better one. And when he got me into that damned hole, Selden’s Square, he done me up.”

“By heaven, it’s the man from Butte!” was Kenyon’s mental exclamation.

“If you want this person, Forrester, why do you come here?” came the voice of Hong Yo. There was no mistaking the hollow tone, and the slow, precise English. “We have told you that there is no such man here, and that we know nothing of him.”

“Don’t take me for a fool,” spoke the voice of the man from the mines, “I know what he wrote me. I know the game and the players. You say you don’t know Forrester, eh? Well, let the girl speak; her eyes tell me that she knows different.”

There was a broken-backed chair in the hall; Kenyon placed it at the door; when he stood upon it his eyes were on a level with the transom.

In a large chair directly opposite sat Hong Yo. His emaciated figure was almost lost in the folds of a flowing, flowered robe; his yellow claws were clasped before him; more than ever his fleshless face and shaven crown made him look like a death’s-head; his rat-like eyes still shone from their narrowed, puckered slits. Near the Chinaman sat the man whom Kenyon at once recognized as the one Webster had described to him at the Waldorf. Before them, leaning weakly against the edge of a table, stood the one whom the ex-lieutenant of Nunez had seen in the public room of the Far East; despite his bandaged head and the evident pain he was suffering, his front was a bold one. But what riveted Kenyon’s attention was the girl who was being held in a chair at one side. Sing Wang and two hard-faced coolies guarded her; and a handkerchief was tied about her mouth.

And it was the girl! The girl of the hansom cab! The young man’s heart leaped. Then a fierce anger swept over him, and his hand went swiftly to the long, smooth-barreled revolver.

“You don’t dare to let her speak,” proceeded the man from Butte, defiantly. “Because you know you lie. You’ve double crossed me for some reason, and I’m going to get square. I’ll fix you all; you, you dying devil,” pointing to Hong Yo, “and you, my respectable Mr. Farbush; for all your pull and high pretensions, I’m on to your game, and I’ll open it wide for this whole town of New York to see.”

Kenyon saw Hong Yo rise. It cost him a great effort, but he stood straight up. A fit of coughing racked him; then he drew a handkerchief from his blouse and touched his lips, while he took several steps toward the Westerner.

“You must not do this,” spoke he. He returned the handkerchief to the bosom of his blouse; and the hand lingered there.

“Must not,” cried the other. “It’s easy to see that you don’t know me. I’m going to get all your hides for this, and there is nothing that you can say or do that will stop me.”

As the last words were spoken Kenyon saw the yellow, skeleton-like hand flash out, and caught the light as it played for a second upon the side of a knife-blade. Then he leaped down and threw himself like a catapult against the door. As luck would have it, it opened inward, and his weight and power told at the very first plunge. The door fell in with a splintering crash, just as a wild scream broke from the lips of the girl.

HE STOOD FOR A MOMENT IN THE DOORWAY

At moments like these Steele Kenyon was like ice. Small things might shake or annoy him, but sudden perils seemed to steady his nerves and clarify his thoughts. With one hand plunged into his pocket grasping the Colt, he stood for a moment in the doorway. Upon the floor before him lay the man with the bandaged head; Hong Yo had fallen back into his chair, his breath whistling in his throat, the knife, now dripping with blood, still held in his hand. Farbush was upon his feet, while the girl had broken away from those who held her and was gazing with horror at the stricken man.

“Oh, you cowards,” she whispered, “you have murdered him. He was helpless and in your power, and you have murdered him.”

Her eyes accusingly sought the face of Hong Yo, then that of Farbush and lastly Kenyon’s. And the burning scorn that was in them was a thing to see.

“I did not see you, at first, of course,” she said to Kenyon, and there was a bitterness in her tone that made him wince. “But I might have known that you would be present when such work was going forward.”

She gave way a step or two, her eyes filled with horror as he reached out one hand impulsively toward her. He drew in a sharp breath, like a man who is suddenly drenched with cold water; but it steadied him and brought the fact suddenly before him that he was not there to set himself right in her eyes, but to have an accounting with the others.

From the instant of his entrance the eyes of Hong Yo and Farbush had never left his face; the three other Chinaman stood stolidly to one side, apparently awaiting orders. Now Hong Yo spoke, breathlessly, but his frail body seemed to sway with fury:

“You did not wait then, Mr. Kenyon?”

“How could you expect it?” asked the latter coolly. “So much of interest was being transacted here that I could not contain myself. You cannot expect to monopolize all the thrills in this affair while I am concerned in it.”

At this there came a short, harsh laugh from Farbush; the man had reseated himself and was gazing at Kenyon with evident admiration.

“I think Mr. Kenyon is right,” said he. “As he is partly in for any consequences that might have to be borne, it is only just that he should have a voice in directing things.”

“Just so,” said Kenyon, evenly. “And let me remark that I don’t altogether approve of such work as I see. It is coarse.” He looked down at the body with distaste, and then lifted his eyes to the men, once more. “Not that Hong Yo does not do a neat and effectual job,” continued he, in his even tone. “His present performance speaks for itself and plainly shows past experience. But I dislike this smeary sort of business. It is not,” and his white, well-kept hand gestured fastidiously, “a desirable method at all.”

There was a slight movement behind him in the hall; the impulse was still forming in his mind to wheel and face what might be a grave danger, when a voice—the voice of Forrester—whispered:

“Stand as you are! Don’t move.”

Then Kenyon felt the girl brush by him through the doorway. Farbush sprang up, as he caught the movement, shouting:

“Stop her!”

Hong Yo came weakly to his feet, his fleshless hands clawing the air; Farbush and the coolies leaped forward, but Kenyon’s stalwart form blocked their way.

“I think,” said the young adventurer, quietly, “that it is best that she should go. I have something to say to you, gentlemen, that it would be as well to go over in private.”

They halted, glaring at him, as he stood leaning nonchalantly against the door-frame. His top-coat had fallen open, showing his immaculate evening dress, his level eyes were fixed steadfastly upon them; his right hand secretly caressed the grip of the long revolver. And from somewhere in the building came the sound of racing feet which constantly grew fainter and fainter.

XI
THE SECOND NIGHT ENDS

“Keep cool, and always hold your guard high.”

—Kenyon’s “Art of the Sabre.”

At last the receding footsteps of the girl and Forrester died away altogether; Kenyon, in spite of his icy exterior, had been filled with a nameless dread, but now experienced a quick sense of relief. Hong Yo and Farbush stood looking at him, mingled wonder and rage in their faces.

“Now,” spoke Kenyon, in a business-like tone, “if you will get rid of the worthy Sing Wang and his friends, I will come to the matter in hand.”

“One moment.” It was Hong Yo that spoke and his slit-like eyes seemed even more narrow than ever. “There is but one way of explaining this,” indicating the gaping doorway in a way that showed that he referred to the part Kenyon had just played in the girl’s departure. “Only one way!”

Kenyon smiled enigmatically.

“And is that one way not sufficient?” he demanded.

For a moment Hong Yo stood looking at him in silence, and Kenyon noticed that the grim mouth of Farbush grew straighter and harder. Then the Chinaman motioned to Sing Wang and the two coolies, and pointed silently toward the body. Then he led Kenyon and Farbush into another room.

“Sit down,” said Hong Yo, huskily.

All three seated themselves at a table. Kenyon was careful to select a chair facing the door, for he had not forgotten the creepy feeling that Forrester had given him when that personage had crept up behind him a few moments before. Then Hong Yo seemed to recollect something.

“Pardon me,” said he, “I had forgotten that you two had not met before. Mr. Kenyon—Mr. Farbush.”

The two nodded an acknowledgment, examining each other closely.

“And so you found it necessary to tell him,” then said Hong Yo, incredulously.

Kenyon nodded. He had not the faintest notion what was meant, but followed the plan of indirection in his answers which had so far served him so well. When he broke into the room a short time before he had had but two objects in his mind, to rescue the girl and force a “show down” from the murderers at the point of his revolver.

But, somehow, he now felt that the girl was, for the time being, safe under the care of Forrester; and the temptation to let the adventure take its own course was once again irresistible. There was a peculiar fascination in his position; these men, for some reason, regarded him as being of vast importance in a mysterious and far-reaching game. That they would halt at nothing was amply proven; but Kenyon had always felt a certain zest for danger; and then there was the girl, whose brilliant face had so attracted him. She was concerned in some strange way; she stood in peril, perhaps, of her life.

So he resolved once more to stick, no matter where the current took him, and until the end of it all was reached.

“I did not think it possible that he even knew of her existence,” remarked Farbush, after a long silence, during which he and Hong Yo had been exchanging looks.

“This must be the mysterious ‘he’ of whom the old man spoke last night in Selden’s Square,” thought Kenyon. “It’s delicate ground, and I must be careful.”

He rested his chin in the palm of one hand and his elbow upon the table.

“He knows a great deal more than you’d think,” he replied.

“Handle him carefully,” implored Farbush. “Don’t let him suspect you. Above all, don’t tell him more than you must.”

“There is no great danger of that,” smiled Kenyon. “You forget that I don’t know any too much, myself.”

There came a sudden grin upon the gaunt face of Hong Yo; his wasted fingers pattered upon the table’s edge as though in applause. He bent toward Kenyon.

“If there is one thing that I like more than another about you,” he said in his slow, distinct English, “it is that continual guard which you hold up. In my experience I have found that the man who consistently denies having special knowledge never betrays himself.”

Kenyon was suddenly called upon to struggle against an almost irresistible desire to laugh; it was a difficult task, but he succeeded in retaining his gravity. The thing was really absurd!

“Has he said anything about what his plans are, now that the old man is dead?” inquired Farbush, eagerly.

Kenyon never quite understood what prompted him to do it, but under a sudden impulse, he answered:

“He does not know that the old man is dead.”

Had a thunderbolt split the roof and dashed everything in the room into splinters it could not have had a more startling effect upon the two men who sat facing him. Instantly they were upon their feet, their hands wildly gesticulating, their lips babbling in amazement.

“Why,” almost shouted Farbush, beating the table, “I never dreamed of such luck. It’s like a miracle.”

Their sudden outbreak had dismayed Kenyon; for a moment he feared that he had somehow betrayed himself. But at the words of Farbush, he drew a breath of relief.

“Luck’s with me!” he thought. “But in the future I’ll refrain from taking chances.”

“I would have thought that your very appearance would have told him all,” spoke Hong Yo.

“But as it happens it didn’t. He is a practical sort of a person, and takes very little for granted.”

“And the old man thought him a dreamer!” cried Farbush, opening his eyes.

“Did the old man really know him very well?” asked Kenyon, meaningly.

Farbush seemed struck by this.

“Well, no, perhaps not. But outside all else, yours is a splendid piece of news. It gives us so much more time; and time was the one thing which we sadly lacked.”

“What did you and he talk about?” asked Hong Yo.

“About many things, but nothing of much importance. I was satisfied to hold him safe.”

“Did he ask questions?”

“At the beginning he did little else. But I told him nothing.”

A hollow chuckle came from the Chinaman.

“I can well believe that,” he said, grimly.

Kenyon was silent for a space, and the two watched him with interest; there could be no question but that, whatever their enterprise, it was expected of Kenyon to make the move that would bring things to a crisis. So far he had been kept dodging their questions; Forrester had told him that they had tidings of importance for him, and he was anxious to hear what it was. So he asked, carelessly:

“What have you been doing in the meantime?” looking from one to the other. “Anything that might interest me?”

“The girl, as you see, suspects something,” said Hong Yo. “There is no telling how deeply she was in the old man’s confidence. He loved her as he loved no one else; and trusted her in many things, as we now find.”

“That,” put in Farbush, “has always been an uncertain point to me. If he trusted her so, how much did he tell her?”

Kenyon found the eyes of both fixed steadily upon him; and the expectancy in their gaze gave him his cue.

“I’m supposed to have inside information right here,” he thought. “But then the sphinx-like attitude, I think, is the safest: and it seems to tickle Hong Yo. So I had better maintain it.”

So he smiled enigmatically and shook his head.

“She knows less than you think,” said he.

There was a deep frown upon Farbush’s face, and he rapped out sharply:

“Perhaps of the things you mean—yes. But what of the others?”

Kenyon gestured indifferently; he drew a case from his pocket and lighted a cigarette.

“Do I understand that you are blaming me for this state of affairs?” he asked, evenly.

“He is right,” said Hong Yo, quickly interrupting Farbush, as he was about to reply to this. “Mr. Kenyon has had nothing to do with the side of the matter to which you refer. That is, and has been, entirely in our own hands from the beginning.”

Kenyon was delighted to hear this; but he concealed any facial manifestation of it by throwing up a dense cloud of smoke between them. But Farbush seemed impatient.

“I am not trying to fix responsibility, but merely making a statement of facts,” declared he. “We are all together in this, and each, I hope, is eager for success. So it is well, if anything slips, to make it known.”

“I quite approve of that,” said Kenyon, with candor. “But just what is it that the girl has discovered, or been told?”

Farbush nodded toward the room which they had left a short time before.

“She came here with him, for one thing; and she knows that my private safe contains matter of consequence.”

“Oh!”

“I cannot imagine how she ever became acquainted with that man.” He hesitated and then darted a quick look at Hong Yo; a new idea seeming to have entered his mind. “Can it be possible that Forrester has told her?”

“He is not a fool,” replied the Chinaman.

The other laughed.

“There are times when I am not altogether sure of that,” returned he. “Witness his work,” with a gesture. “It is not the sort of thing to be proud of.”

That there was a decided feeling between Farbush and Forrester seemed certain. From what the latter had said in the rear room of the “Far East,” Kenyon had begun to suspect this state of affairs; now he felt sure of it.

“It’s a situation that may prove exceedingly useful in the future;” he told himself. “And I think I’ll do well to make a note of it.”

“I warned you not to trust too much to him in the first place,” said Hong Yo. He coughed weakly, and applied his handkerchief to his lips. “He is young and without experience.”

“The first of these I will grant you. But the last I must question. Was it not his manipulations that brought matters to a state where we could take hold? Is not that experience? Did it not apparently show talent?”

There was a trace of anger in the man’s voice. But as the direction of the talk did not please Kenyon, he interposed, quietly:

“Don’t forget that I have not a great deal of time. We were speaking of the girl, and of some information that she had gained. I’d like to be fully informed upon this point.”

“Oh, yes. After all, that is the real kernel at the moment. You see, she came to me this morning and without any preamble asked me to turn over everything having to do with the case to her for examination.”

“Humph! And did she state why?”

“She volunteered nothing, save that it was her duty and her right to have a complete understanding of the affair. It is possible that she only suspected that I was possessed of what she desired to know, and assumed her air of positiveness to deceive me. When I refused she said that she would see Hong Yo—and, if she must—yourself!”

Kenyon went on smoking quietly; if there was any surprise in this statement for him he did not show it.

“She must be most anxious to obtain facts if she would go the length of asking Kenyon for them.” And Hong Yo laughed, his teeth showing hideously, as he did so.

Farbush echoed the laugh.

“That’s so,” said he. “She would be most anxious, indeed. For somehow, Kenyon, she doesn’t seem to have taken a fancy to you—that is, not the sort of fancy a girl should take to the man whom her friends have selected as her husband.”

“It is not news to me,” replied Kenyon, without a trace of feeling in his voice or manner. “She dislikes me, in fact, and is at no pains to conceal it.”

Hong Yo bent forward across the table, his narrow eyes fixed upon the young adventurer.

“I thought last night that you seemed struck by her appearance,” spoke he.

“Perhaps so.” Kenyon’s voice was cold and repellent; the Chinaman noticed it and drew slightly back.

“I merely wished to warn you, that is all. This is a matter of business. It will not do to introduce any entanglements or impediments. We have had enough of them.”

Kenyon nodded.

“I understand,” replied he. “But there is no need to warn me, as you call it. My eyes are clear enough to see what I must avoid.”

Farbush smiled grimly and nodded his head.

“I think we may safely trust you for that,” remarked he.

Kenyon looked at his watch.

“Is there anything else?” he asked, in a bored sort of way. “I really have very little time.”

“Nothing,” and Farbush laughed a little, “except that the girl threatened to proceed on her own account and in her own way, if she were not dealt with considerately.”

Kenyon fancied that he detected a shade of anxiety in the man’s laughing words; but he said nothing, allowing him to proceed.

“And her coming here to-night shows that she might have some notion of keeping her word. She came to see Hong Yo, as she said she would—and with her came an astounding companion. I had laughed at her up to that point; but now,” with a shrug, “I don’t know what to think.”

“It has a queer look,” admitted Kenyon. “But perhaps it is not as serious as it seems. At the worst, she can know but little of consequence. And that little she cannot use.”

“Let her attempt it,” cried Hong Yo, with that deadly creeping gesture of the hand toward his breast, “and I’ll—”

“I think,” interrupted Kenyon, “that you left that plaything of yours inside there. So there is no use in your feeling for it.” He arose to his feet, and slowly began drawing on his gloves. His face was cold and hard, and the look in his eyes was unmistakable. “And I think it as well,” he continued, “to warn you against anything of that sort. My short acquaintance with you, Hong Yo, has shown me that you have the temper of a half-dozen devils; and, also, that you are not given to controlling it. But this girl must not be harmed! Do you understand? No matter what she does or says, she must not be harmed. She can injure us but little, if she does her worst. But, as I have told you, he knows about her, and from that you must draw your line of policy.”

“I understand,” answered Hong Yo, sullenly.

“Good. And now if you will have the worthy Sing Wang or someone else show me the way, I’ll be going.”

XII
AND THE THIRD NIGHT BEGINS

“Men go quietly upon the missions which they think will bring them much.”

—A Maxim of Hong Yo.

The next day Kenyon had his belongings, which he had now generously added to, removed to a hotel some distance up town.

“It has not the flare of the Waldorf,” he told himself, as he sat down to dinner, “and it’s not nearly so expensive. But it will do.”

He was still pondering over the menu when who should enter the café but Webster.

“Oh, I say, but this is luck,” exclaimed that young person, dumping himself into a chair at the opposite side of the table. “I got your notice of removal about an hour ago, while I was deep in the selecting of a menu for a tight old wax that I hoped to land for a good order. But right on top of your message came a ’phone call from him saying that he couldn’t keep the dinner appointment after all. So I dressed and hurried over here for a bite.”

“It couldn’t have happened better,” said Kenyon. “Because I want to discuss a few things with you, rather badly.”

He gave the man, who stood at his side, a carefully selected and rather elaborate list of dishes; then he turned to his friend once more.

“Last night,” said he, slowly, “I was a witness to what Captain Marryat once fascinatingly called ‘a most desperate and bloody murder.’”

“Heavens!” ejaculated Webster, staring at him. “Where?”

“In a Chinese den on the lower East Side.”

“After you left me?”

“Of course.”

Webster leaned back in his chair and wagged his head from side to side.

“What you need,” stated he, impressively, “is to have someone legally appointed to look after you. The first thing you know, you’ll be given an acting part in one of these little dramas that you appear to have grown so fond of; and then we’ll have to gather you up carefully with a rake.”

Kenyon nodded, humorously.

“Do you know,” said he, “I’d been thinking along that line. It’s one of the logical resultants, I suppose; but then we all must take our chances, you see.”

“Is there another story?” asked Webster.

“Not exactly. Rather, a continuation of the same one.”

“All the better. If there are no restrictions such as the surgeon labored under last night, I’d like to hear it.”

In a low voice and in as few words as possible Kenyon related his experiences of the preceding night, while Garry listened in silence. When he had finished, the young man from Chicago murmured, helplessly.

“Well, this is a wonderful world, to be sure! And there are astonishing things happening in it. It would have been a great deal better for the unknown from Butte if he had remained comfortably in his cot at Bellevue and allowed them to doctor at him. Do you know,” after a pause, “I should like to get a peep at your friend Hong Yo. He must be an exceedingly interesting person.”

“He is,” replied Kenyon. “But he is nothing like as interesting as some of the others.”

“The girl, for example.” Webster pursed up his lips disapprovingly. “Well,” reluctantly, “I must admit that later information seems to indicate that she is not sitting in this game as a partner.”

“She’s more likely to be a victim of some sort. And they are afraid of her.”

“A nasty state of affairs. For people like those to be in fear of anyone is for that person to make a quick exit. But the supposed knowledge of the great unknown as to her existence seems to be a most effectual barrier in this case. I wonder why?”

“I wonder.” By this time the dinner was well under way and both young men were doing justice to it. “But,” continued Kenyon, “I can’t for the life of me make out Forrester’s position. He talked of me supplanting him. He seems to have been, at one time, in almost complete control of the game they are engaged in. And yet, as I told you, he is one of the most frankly honest men in appearance that I have ever set eyes on. I can’t help classing him with the others; but still—”

“His coming to the rescue of the girl, so to speak,” said Webster, “is a point in his favor. And her going with him so readily is another. I think it is also to his credit that this man Farbush does not approve of him.”

“But Hong Yo does; what do you make of that?”

“I’m stumped. The whole thing is as puzzling as it was at the first.”

“There is one small matter that has a peculiar fascination for me,” stated Kenyon, as he trifled with his dessert. “And that is the private safe of Farbush.”

“That’s so!” exclaimed Webster. “That little point slipped me. But what do you suppose is in it?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. But Farbush seemed startled at the girl’s having any knowledge of it. I’m inclined to think that if we had the contents of that safe on this table between us for a half hour we would have little guessing to do afterwards.”

“By Jove, Ken,” laughed Webster, “do you know I’d almost expect you to venture a burglary if you knew exactly where to head the enterprise. You’ve got it in your eye.”

Kenyon looked at his friend with a sudden smile.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “But, now that you mention it, I’ll give it consideration.”

“Well, if you take on the job,” said Webster, tickled with the conceit, “let me know, will you, I’d like to go with you.”

Webster had a theatre party on for the night, and as the time drew near for his departure he urged Kenyon to go along. But the latter refused.

“I’ve got some thinking to do,” said he, “and I’m going to take a half-dozen cigars out with me for a walk. So trot along, old fellow; I’ll see you to-morrow night, perhaps.”

Madison Square is not much frequented during the chilly nights of late November, so Kenyon, muffled up in his overcoat, tramped up and down, drawing hard at a strong cigar and thinking deeply. At the end of the cigar he suddenly paused as though his mind had been made up to something.

“Perhaps they’ll know at the hotel,” he muttered. “It will do no harm to inquire, at any rate.”

He strode along up Fifth Avenue and turned into the Waldorf-Astoria. One of the hotel’s private policemen saluted him in the lobby, and Kenyon called him aside.

“I’m looking for information,” said he. “There is a man I know slightly who comes here, I think, at times. His name is Farbush.” Here Kenyon described the man. “Can you tell me where he lives?”

“Farbush? I don’t know the name, but there is a man that comes here occasionally, and who answers to that description. Is your man a ship-owner?”

“I couldn’t say. As I mentioned, my acquaintance with him is slight.”

“I’ll see the head-waiter. If he’s a regular customer, he’ll know something about him, sure. Waiters always do.”

The man was gone but a very few minutes.

“Yes,” said he upon his return. “I think it’s the same party. He is interested in shipping. Head-waiter knows him well. Lives on Fifth Avenue, up near the park. Initials are J. F. Don’t know his number, but you’ll find it in the directory.”

Kenyon acted upon this suggestion and secured the desired address. Then he caught an uptown bus, and in a little while was standing before the house named, but upon the opposite side of the avenue.

“Mr. Farbush appears to be a person of some consequence,” he muttered. “And that only makes him a more dangerous man to contend with. But before I take any steps I’ll have to be sure that this is the same man. It would hardly do to disturb a disinterested party,” dryly.

As luck would have it, a cab drew up at that moment before the house, and a man and woman alighted. The woman Kenyon could not make out; but the man he recognized at once as he turned in the glare of the cab lamp to pay the driver. It was Farbush. Kenyon watched both up the steps and saw the door close behind them. Then he hailed the same cab.

“The Bowery and Houston Street,” directed he, as he slammed the door. Down Fifth Avenue rolled the cab, over the smooth asphalt, then into Broadway and finally Houston Street. When they pulled up at the Bowery, Kenyon got out. Handing the cabby his fare, he said:

“You look like an old New York boy.”

“Born and raised in the Sixth Ward,” answered the man, proudly.

“Good! Maybe you can tell me what I want to know. There used to be a place somewhere on the Bowery near here kept by a man named Brady—Gypsy Brady.”

“Oh, the cops put Brady out of business long ago. You see, New York grew out of those places where they had bad whiskey and bad music. Either one of them must be good now,” with a grin. “But if you want the Gypsy, he’s easy found. Lives over Schmelzer’s place in Pell Street. It’s a pool-room. Anybody will tell you where it is.”

A little later found Kenyon making his way among the human drift that thickens such slack water as Pell Street. The stench of the low Chinese dens was almost unbearable; now and then he met the large-pupiled gaze of a gray-faced wretch begging money with which to purchase his dearly loved drug. But Kenyon paid little attention to anything save his hunt for Schmelzer’s place. At the corner of a foul-looking alley he encountered a short, large-bodied youth in a striped sweater and a cap.

“I’m looking for a pool-room kept by a man named Schmelzer,” said Kenyon. “Can you tell me where to find it?”

The short youth looked him over carefully and then said:

“I’ll spot you three, and take you on at a dollar a game.”

Kenyon shook his head and smiled.

“I’m not playing to-night,” said he. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who I’ve been told lives over Schmelzer’s.”

The other looked disappointed; but he pointed down the street, and said:

“See the big blue blaze at the second story. That’s the hut. There is a Chink bean foundry on the first floor, and Schmelzer is on the next. On top of that you’ll find the hay-piles. Break in by the side door.”

“Thanks,” said Kenyon.

The place indicated was but a short distance away. Passing the entrance to a strong-smelling Chinese restaurant, Kenyon found a narrow, dirty-looking doorway. He passed up a flight of stairs, and at the first landing came upon Schmelzer’s in full blast. Men in pronounced clothes and with hats slanted at different angles played expert cues at the tables; about the ends of the room groups were formed discussing subjects of professional interest.

“Pickpockets, second-story operators and pikers,” commented Kenyon, as he went on up the next flight. “It looks like a cosey corner of Chicago when that good old town was a howling wilderness.”

On the next landing he found himself confronted by a small, dirty-faced girl, with tangled yellow hair.

“Who do you want?” demanded she.

“Mr. Brady,” answered Kenyon. “Does he live here?”

“What do you want with him?” inquired the child.

The adventurer looked down into the sharp little face, so smutted and old looking.

“He’s an old friend of mine, kidsy,” answered he. “Here’s a dime.”

A grimy little hand shot out for the coin. Then she said:

“He lives back there, in the last room. Knock hard on the door. Maybe he’s drunk.”

Kenyon picked his way along the dirty hall, and rapped at the door at the end.

“Who’s there?” growled a rough voice.

“How are you, Brady?” responded Kenyon. “Can I come in?”

XIII
KENYON MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

“The deeds of one’s youth are long remembered.”

—The Strategy of Nunez.

The voice growled something in an undertone that Kenyon could not understand. But he promptly took it as an invitation to enter, and so pushed open the door. A thick-shouldered man with a dark, bloated face was stretched upon a broken-springed sofa; and as Kenyon entered he lifted himself to a sitting position.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled.

Kenyon smiled.

“There was a time, Gypsy, when you prided yourself upon your memory. It must have gone back on you of late years, if you don’t recognize old friends.”

“Old friends!” The man glowered at the speaker. “I haven’t got any old friends. No man that is down and out has. When me coin run out, it was the side street and the far-away look for mine.”

Kenyon drew a stool toward him and sat down, first throwing his top-coat and crush-hat aside. The man regarded his immaculateness with frowning wonder.

“How long has it been, Brady,” inquired the caller, “since you saw my old acquaintance the ‘Steamhammer’?”

Brady stared for a moment, then a grin gradually stole over his face.

“Say,” said he. “I’ve got you now. You are that young guy from West Point.” He arose and shook hands with Kenyon. “I’m glad to see you. You were once the handy boy, all right,” admiringly. “You had a shot in either hand that would have made you champion of America if you had been in that line.”

“Thanks.”

“Just wait a minute,” continued the Gypsy, with a wink. “I’ve got a friend here that’s sort of backward-like, when people call.” He went to a closet at one side, pulled back the catch and threw open the door.

“All right, Slim,” said he. “You can come out. It’s a friend of mine.”

A tall, angular, huge-boned fellow stepped silently out of the closet. He had a hawk-like face and a pair of small, shifty green eyes.

“I’m glad to know the gent,” said he. He sat coolly down upon a trunk and began to roll a cigarette. His fingers were supple and discolored. “You see,” by way of explanation, “when a guy is in demand, why it’s him for the deep, dense shade. Do you get me? There is no sense in lingering around in places where you might get sunburned.”

“I think I understand,” said Kenyon.

The Gypsy waved the subject away, as being without special interest. He seemed in a reminiscent mood.

“The night that you came into the ‘Paradise Garden’ is one that will always stick to me,” said he, with a chuckle. “Ah, that was a time when I could rope up the yellowbacks in bundles thick enough to keep back the cops. But New York’s changed since then. It’s full of Chinks, Yiddishers, Guinnies, and people with money.”

“I’ve heard of that old place of yours, often,” spoke the shady one, lighting his cigarette. “But I never saw it.”

“You see,” said the Gypsy to Kenyon. “Big Slim here is from St. Louis. He only struck New York a few years back. They’d never mugged him here, and he was looking for a new field.”

“It should have been ’Frisco or old K. C. for me,” complained Big Slim. “The guns have gone all over this island and there’s not a thing on it, except in Wall Street, that’s not chained short.”

“Well, if you’d drifted in in the old days you’d have found it different. A guy could accumulate a pull then, if he had the change,” stated Brady. “And he could go as far as he liked.”

He paused a moment, then resumed:

“Now the ‘Paradise Garden’ was a mint; money came in by the ton, and I only had to stop this side of murder. And it was the place to go,” with great pride. “Anybody that blew into New York had to take a flyer at my place to be in the running. It cost them something; but it was worth the money. The show I gave them was the real goods; and the drinks were fine—if the buyer was sober. What’s the use of wasting good liquor on a guy that’s stewed to the eyes. He can’t appreciate it.”

“Your reasoning is highly modern,” said Kenyon, dryly.

“You managed mit-pushers then, didn’t you?” asked Big Slim, rolling a second cigarette.

“I did. Local champs, you know, with followings of friends. The friends were always good shots over a bar. They could hit the cash register with a silver dollar every time they’d try. It was a pleasing performance.”

The Gypsy had lost his scowl, and his eyes glistened at the thought of his more prosperous days.

“But,” he resumed, “of all the chamois artists I ever managed, the ‘Steamhammer’ was the biggest winner. You see, he worked in Washington Market, and all the marketmen and longshore people would be on hand whenever he’d engage. And they were a thirsty lot. I’d have to sit on the safe all night with a gun after they’d been on the job.

“I had the Hammer for almost a year. Twice a week I’d advertise him as open to meet all comers at the middleweight limit; and he’d gone right along the line putting them away without missing once. At last the bugs began to whisper to me that I had the wonder of the age; and that it was my correct move to put him in front of the big mixer himself. But our friend here,” indicating Kenyon, “saved me the trouble.”

“Is that so?” inquired Big Slim, interestedly. “Tell us how.”

“He came into the Gardens one night with a lot of them West Point fellows. I think it had been a football day, and they were wild to pull something off. They had heard about the Hammer, and when I made the regular offer from the stage about him being willing to exchange wallops, one of them was on in a minute and the rest of them were howling with joy.”

“It’s that sort of thing that boys do,” apologized Kenyon. “And I was very young then, you know.”

“You were fifteen pounds lighter than the Hammer, I know that,” grinned Gypsy Brady. “And when you put up your guard I thought he had you sure.”

“But he didn’t?” interrogated Big Slim.

“He didn’t even come near doing it. You see the Hammer’s regular stunt was to rush his man up to the wall—I only had ropes on three sides—pin him against it with his left hand and pour it into him with his right. When he thought he’d handed over enough he’d pull out the pin, and the guy would generally drop. But this time the game didn’t work. The boy from the army school met the rush with a body stab that brought the Hammer up short; then he feinted him into a tangle and shot one over on his baggage truck that put him away.”

Big Slim nodded admiringly; he liked a neatly executed job.

“It was not nearly so difficult a proposition as you might think,” said Kenyon. “I’m not in good training for that sort of thing just now; but,” and he looked at the Gypsy attentively, “I’d rather tackle another job like it, than the one I have in mind.”

“I thought there was something that brought you here,” returned the ex-divekeeper. There was an eager look upon his dark, swollen face, at the prospect of profit of some sort. “Is it anything that you’d like to see me in private about?”

“I think not,” answered Kenyon. He turned and regarded Big Slim keenly. “I rather fancy that our friend here will be of assistance.”

“I’m only open for engagements of an indoor nature at the present time,” volunteered the man from St. Louis, seriously. “But if there is anything that I can do for a friend of the Gypsy’s, why, I’ll be glad to take it on.”

“I want a complete burglar’s outfit,” said Kenyon to Brady. “And I also want a full line of instructions as to how to break into a house, and how to force a safe when I get in.”

Big Slim cracked the joints of his huge fingers and only appeared mildly surprised.

“You’re not going to take up house-breaking, are you?” inquired the astonished Gypsy, when he had recovered his speech.

“Not as a regular thing,” answered Kenyon, easily. “But it happens that there is a house in town that I want to see the inside of, and don’t care to wait for an invitation. Now if you can put me in the way of getting what I want, I’ll pay you your own price.”

“As you have guessed,” said the Gypsy, “Slim is a cracksman; and if he has a mind he can fix you up.” He turned to the other, inquiringly, “What do you say?”

“I’ll do it,” answered Big Slim promptly. “But the stuff comes high,” to Kenyon. “I’ve got the finest kit in New York; it took me years to get it together. Every tool will do its work, and is strictly up to date.” He looked at the adventurer with calculating eye. “You could carry enough in your pockets to let you into anything but a money-fort. And I’ll hand it on to you, together with a full day’s instructions in the use of the stuff, at five hundred dollars.”

“Wrap them up,” replied Kenyon, quietly. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’ll have the lessons begin right now.”

XIV
THE UNINVITED GUEST

“’Twas in the garden of Beaucaire;

I met her on a secret stair.

The night was centuries ago.”

—Old Ballad

The thick, sticky mist that sometimes blows uptown from the bay veiled Fifth Avenue; and a thin rain fell steadily. The lamps shot their pale rays mysteriously through the fog; cabs and busses rolled drippingly by; and soggy pedestrians hurried along under streaming umbrellas.

The theatre crowds were on their way home, after their hour in the White Light restaurants; but in a little while their time had passed, and the avenue was silent and deserted save for a policeman who would now and then appear, and almost as quickly vanish.

Most of the houses were gloom-fronted; a few scattering windows in the section just below the park showed night lights; but one house was brilliantly illuminated, and a long line of carriages was drawn up at the curb.

It was past midnight when Kenyon came along, enveloped in a rain-coat and with an umbrella held over his head.

“By George!” muttered he, “it is really at Farbush’s! What luck! To get inside now should be comparatively easy. What a fortunate thing it is that he should be giving this thing, whatever it is.”

He stood in the drip of a roof across the street and watched the gaily lighted house. At length a party came out, protected by umbrellas held by footmen; these latter immediately returned and several other parties came out at once and scurried for their vehicles.

“Now is my chance,” said Kenyon. He swiftly crossed the street, passed behind a carriage into which several exclaiming women were being helped, then up the wide steps and into the hall.

“Shall I return your things to the coat-room, sir?” asked a servant.

“Thanks—yes,” answered the adventurer, quietly.

He handed his coat, hat, and umbrella to the man, who received the latter surprisedly. Its folds streamed with water, and he was clearly wondering if the rain were not heavier than he had thought it. However, he took the things away without any comment, and Kenyon, with a light breath of relief, walked into a room in which he could see a number of men smoking.

His entrance being quiet and matter of fact, of course attracted no attention whatsoever. This was what he had calculated upon; he wore the conventional evening clothes; at a glance he looked exactly like the other males present, and no one could say that he was an intruder.

“That is, no one but Farbush,” mused Kenyon, as he took a cigarette from a box upon a stand. “And if he should happen upon me, no doubt I can find a few things to say to him that would sufficiently account for my presence.”

He was lounging calmly in a big chair when a voice at his side remarked:

“It’s a fair cigarette that Farbush keeps, isn’t it. If his champagne were as good I should have nothing to complain of.”

Kenyon turned. A pale-eyed young man with a budding mustache had drawn a chair up close to him, and was in the act of lighting a cigarette. There was a friendly, inconsequential look upon his chubby face, and the adventurer’s eyes snapped.

“Yes, they are rather a good sort,” replied Kenyon, inspecting his cigarette critically. “But I haven’t tried the champagne.”

The other made a wry face.

“Then you may consider yourself lucky,” said he. “These old fellows like Farbush should really leave their cellars for someone else to select. They do make a most dreadful mess of it sometimes. Now, Farbush possibly knows all about tea, and about ships and Chinese stuff and all that, but he’s a baby on the vintage subject. I had about fifteen dozen of that ’93 some time ago which I tried to induce him to buy; but he actually scoffed at it. And then he springs a thing like this to-night upon his unsuspecting friends.”

“Then you sell wines?” said Kenyon, with a show of interest.

“Not in the usual sense,” returned the young man, hastily. “No, no! I sometimes have a small quantity of a few select brands to dispose of to my friends—more to give them the benefit of my experience than anything else. That is all.”