The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Crevice, by William John Burns and Isabel Ostrander, Illustrated by Will Grefe This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Crevice Author: William John Burns and Isabel Ostrander Release Date: July 6, 2009 [eBook #29331] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CREVICE*** E-text prepared by Roger Frank, Darleen Dove, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) “I supposed that father was working late over some papers and I knew that I must not disturb him.” THE CREVICE BY WILLIAM J. BURNS AND ISABEL OSTRANDER ILLUSTRATIONS BY WILL GREFÉ N E W Y O R K G R O S S E T & D U N L A P P U B L I S H E R S Copyright, 1915, by W. J. WATT & COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Pennington Lawton and the Grim Reaper 1 II Revelations 16 III Henry Blaine Takes a Hand 29 IV The Search 38 V The Will 53 VI The First Counter-move 66 VII The Letter 78 VIII Guy Morrow Faces a Problem 98 IX Gone! 104 X Margaret Hefferman’s Failure 116 XI The Confidence of Emily 134 XII The Cipher 154 XIII The Empty House 171 XIV In the Open 192 H XV Checkmate! 207 XVI The Library Chair 224 XVII The Rescue 240 XVIII The Trap 255 XIX The Unseen Listener 272 XX The Crevice 290 XXI Cleared Skies 308 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE “I supposed that father was working late over some papers and I knew that I must not disturb him.” Frontispiece With the cunning of a Jimmy Valentine he manipulated the tumblers. Ramon Hamilton, his discomfiture forgotten, watched with breathless interest. 94 Her head was thrown back, her eyes blazing: and as she faced him, she slowly raised her arm and pointed a steady finger at the recoiling figure. 262 THE CREVICE CHAPTER I PENNINGTON LAWTON AND THE GRIM REAPER AD New Illington been part of an empire instead of one of the most important cities in the greatest republic in the world, the cry “The King is dead! Long live the King!” might well have resounded through its streets on that bleak November morning when Pennington Lawton was found dead, seated quietly in his arm-chair by the hearth in the library, where so many vast deals of national import had been first conceived, and the details arranged which had carried them on and on to brilliant consummation. Lawton, the magnate, the supreme power in the financial world of the whole country, had been suddenly cut down in his prime. The news of his passing traveled more quickly than the extras which rolled damp from the presses could convey it through the avenues and alleys of the city, whose wealthiest citizen he had been, and through the highways and byways of the country, which his marvelous mentality and finesse had so manifestly strengthened in its position as a world power. At the banks and trust companies there were hurriedly-called directors’ meetings, where men sat about long mahogany tables, and talked constrainedly about the immediate future and the vast changes which the death of this great man would necessarily bring. In the political clubs, his passing was discussed with bated breath. At the hospitals and charitable institutions which he had so generously helped to maintain, in the art clubs and museums, in the Cosmopolitan Opera House––in the founding of which he had been leading spirit and unfailingly thereafter, its most generous contributor––he was mourned with a sincerity no less deep because of its admixture of self-interest. In aristocratic drawing-rooms, there were whispers over the tea-cups; the luck of Ramon Hamilton, the rising young lawyer, whose engagement to Anita Lawton, daughter and sole heiress of the dead financier, had just been announced, was remarked upon with the frankness of envy, left momentarily unguarded by the sudden shock. For three days Pennington Lawton lay in simple, but veritable state. Telegrams poured in from the highest representatives of State, clergy and finance. Then, while the banks and charitable institutions momentarily closed their doors, and flags throughout the city were lowered in respect to the man who had gone, the funeral procession wound its solemn way from the aristocratic church of St. James, to the graveyard. The last extras were issued, detailing the service; the last obituaries printed, the final pæans of praise were sung, and the world went on its way. During the two days thereafter, multitudinous affairs of more imperative public import were brought to light; a 1 2 celebrated murder was committed; a notorious band of criminals was rounded up; a political boss toppled and fell from his self-made pedestal; a diplomatic scandal of far-reaching effect was unearthed, and in the press of passing events, the fact that Lawton had been eliminated from the scheme of things faded into comparative insignificance, from the point of view of the general public. In the great house on Belleair Avenue, which the man who was gone had called home, a tall, slender young girl sat listlessly conversing with a pompous little man, whose clerical garb proclaimed the reason for his coming. The girl’s sable garments pathetically betrayed her youth, and in her soft eyes was the pained and wounded look of a child face to face with its first comprehended sorrow. The Rev. Dr. Franklin laid an obsequious hand upon her arm. “The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” Anita Lawton shivered slightly, and raised a trembling, protesting hand. “Please,” she said, softly, “I know––I heard you say that at St. James’ two days ago. I try to believe, to think, that in some inscrutable way, God meant it for the best when he took my father so ruthlessly from me, with no premonition, no sign of warning. It is hard, Dr. Franklin. I cannot coordinate my thoughts just yet. You must give me a little time.” The minister bent his short body still lower before her. “My dear child, do you remember, also, a later prayer in the same service?”––unconsciously he assumed the full rich, rounded, pulpit tones, which were habitual with him. “‘Lord, Thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another; before the mountains were brought forth or ever the earth and world were made––’” A low knocking upon the door interrupted him, and the butler appeared. “Mr. Rockamore and Mr. Mallowe,” Anita Lawton read aloud from the cards he presented. “Oh, I can’t see them now. Tell them, Wilkes, that my minister is with me, and they must forgive me for denying myself to them.” The butler retired, and the Rev. Dr. Franklin, at the mention of two of the most prominent and influential men in the city since the death of Lawton, turned bulging, inquiring eyes upon the girl. “My dear child, is it wise for you to refuse to see two of your father’s best friends? You will need their help, their kindness––a woman alone in the world, no matter how exalted her position, needs friends. Mr. Mallowe is not one of my parishioners, but I understand that as president of the Street Railways, he was closely associated with your dear father in many affairs of finance. Mr. Rockamore I know to be a man of almost unlimited power in the world in which Mr. Lawton moved. Should you not see them? Remember that you are under my protection in every way, of course, but since our Heavenly Father has seen fit to take unto Himself your dear one, I feel that it would be advisable for you to place yourself under the temporal guidance of those whom he trusted, at any rate for the time being.” “Oh, I feel that they were my father’s friends, but not mine. Since mother and my little sister and brother were lost at sea, so many years ago, I have learned to depend wholly upon my father, who was more comrade than parent. Then, as you know, I met Ramon––Mr. Hamilton, and of course I trust him as implicitly as I must trust you. But although, on many occasions, I assisted my father to receive his financial confrères on a social basis, I cannot feel at a time like this that I care to talk with any except those who are nearest and dearest to me.” “But suppose they have come, not wholly to offer you consolation, but to confer with you upon some business matters upon which it would be advantageous for you to inform yourself? Your grief and desire for seclusion are most natural, under the circumstances, but one must sometimes consider earthly things also.” The minister’s evidently eager desire to be present at an interview with the great men and to place himself on a more familiar footing with them was so obvious that Anita’s gesture of dissent held also something of repugnance. “I could not, Dr. Franklin. Perhaps later, when the first shock has passed, but not yet. You understand that I like them both most cordially. Those whom father trusted must be men of sterling worth, but just now I feel as must an animal which has been beaten. I want to creep off into a dark and silent place until my misery dulls a little.” “You have borne up wonderfully well, dear child, under the severe shock of this tragedy. Mrs. Franklin and I have remarked upon it. You have exhibited the same self-mastery and strength of character which made your father the man he was.” Dr. Franklin arose from his chair with a sigh which was not altogether perfunctory. “Think well over what I have said. Try to realize that your only consolation and strength in this hour of your deepest sorrow come from on High, and believe that if you take your poor, crushed heart to the Throne of Grace it shall be healed. That has been promised us. Think, also, of what I have just said to you concerning your father’s associates, and when next they call, as they will, of course, do very shortly, try to receive them with your usual gracious charms, and should they offer you any advice upon worldly matters, which we must not permit ourselves to neglect, send for me. I will leave you now. Mrs. Franklin will call upon you to-morrow. Try to be brave and calm, and pray for the guidance which will be vouchsafed you, should you ask it, frankly and freely.” Anita Lawton gave him her hand and accompanied him in silence to the door. There, with a few gentle words, she dismissed him, and when the sound of his measured footsteps had diminished, she closed the door with a little gasp of half relief, and turned to the window. It had been an effort to her to see and talk with her spiritual adviser, whose hypocrisy she had vaguely felt. If only Ramon had come––Ramon, whose wife she would be in so short a time, and who must now be father as well 3 4 5 6 as husband to her. She glanced at the little French clock on the mantel. He was late––he had promised to be there at four. As she parted the heavy curtains, the telephone upon her father’s desk, in the corner, shrilled sharply. When she took the receiver off the hook, the voice of her lover came to the girl as clearly, tenderly, as if he, himself, stood beside her. “Anita, dear, may I come to you now?” “Oh, please do, Ramon; I have been waiting for you. Dr. Franklin called this afternoon, and while he was here with me Mr. Rockamore and Mr. Mallowe came, but I could not see them. There is something I feel I must talk over with you.” She hung up the receiver with a little sigh, and for the first time in days a faint suspicion of a smile lightened her face. As she turned away, however, her eyes fell upon the great leather chair by the hearth, and her expression changed as she gave an uncontrollable shudder. It was in that chair her father had been found on that fateful morning, about a week ago, clad still in the dinner-clothes of the previous evening, a faint, introspective smile upon his keen, inscrutable face; his eyes wide, with a politely inquiring stare, as if he had looked upon things which until then had been withheld from his vision. She walked over to the chair, and laid her hand where his head had rested. Then, all at once, the tension within her seemed to snap and she flung herself within its capacious, wide-reaching arms, in a torrent of tears––the first she had shed. It was thus that Ramon Hamilton found her, on his arrival twenty minutes later, and without ado, he gathered her up, carried her to the window-seat, and made her cry out her heart upon his shoulder. When she was somewhat quieted he said to her gently, “Dearest, why will you insist upon coming to this room, of all others, at least just for a little time? The memories here will only add to your suffering.” “I don’t know; I can’t explain it. That chair there in which poor father was found has a peculiar, dreadful fascination for me. I have heard that murderers invariably return sooner or later to the scene of their crime. May we not also have the same desire to stay close to the place whence some one we love has departed?” “You are morbid, dear. Bring your maid and come to my mother’s house for a little, as she has repeatedly asked you to do. It will make it so much easier for you.” “Perhaps it would. Your mother has been so very kind, and yet I feel that I must remain here, that there is something for me to do.” “I don’t understand. What do you mean, dearest?” She turned swiftly and placed her hands upon his broad shoulders. Her childish eyes were steely with an intensity of purpose hitherto foreign to them. “Ramon, there is something I have not told you or any one; but I feel that the time has come for me to speak. It is not nervousness, or imagination; it is a fact which occurred on the night of my father’s death.” “Why speak of it, Anita?” He took her hands from his shoulders, and pressed them gently, but with quiet strength. “It is all over now, you know. We must not dwell too much upon what is past; I shall have to help you to put it all from your mind––not to forget, but to make your memories tender and beautiful.” “But I must speak of it. It will be on my mind day and night until I have told you. Ramon, you dined with us that night––the night before. Did my father seem ill to you?” “Of course not. I had never known him to be in better health and spirits.” Ramon glanced at her in involuntary surprise. “Are you sure?” “Why do you ask me that? You know that heart-disease may attack one at any time without warning.” Anita sank upon the window-seat again, and leaned forward pensively, her hands clasped over her knees. “You will remember that after you and father had your coffee and cigars together in the dining-room, you both joined me?” “Of course. You were playing the piano, ramblingly, as if your thoughts were far away, and you seemed nervous, ill at ease. I wondered about it at the time.” “It was because of father. To you he appeared in the best of spirits, as you say, but I, who knew him better than any one else on earth, realized that he was forcing himself to be genial, to take an interest in what we were saying. For days he had been overwrought and depressed. As you know, he has confided in me, absolutely, since I have been old enough to be a real companion to him. I thought that I knew all his business affairs––those of the last two or three years at least––but latterly his manner has puzzled and distressed me. Then, while you were in the dining-room, the telephone rang twice.” “Yes; the calls were for your father. When he was summoned to the wire he immediately had the connection given to him on his private line, here in the library. After he returned to the dining-room he did seem slightly absent-minded, now that I think of it; but it did not occur to me that there could have been any serious trouble. You know, dearest, ever since the evening when he promised to give you to me, he has consulted me, also, to a great extent about his financial interests, and I think if any difficulty had arisen he would have mentioned it.” 7 8 9 “Still, I am convinced that something was on his mind. I tried to approach him concerning it, but he was evasive, and put me off, laughingly. You know that father was not the sort of man whose confidence could be forced even by those dearest to him. I had been so worried about him, though, that I had a nervous headache, and after you left, Ramon, I retired at once. An hour or two later, father had a visitor––that fact as you know, the coroner elicited from the servants, but it had, of course, no bearing on his death, since the caller was Mr. Rockamore. I heard his voice when I opened the door of my room, after ringing for my maid to get some lavender salts. I could not sleep, my headache grew worse; and while I was struggling against it, I heard Mr. Rockamore depart, and my father’s voice in the hall, after the slamming of the front door, telling Wilkes to retire, that he would need him no more that night. I heard the butler’s footsteps pass down the hall, and then I rose and opened my door again. I don’t know why, but I felt that I wanted to speak to father when he came up on his way to bed.” Anita paused, and Ramon, in spite of himself, felt a thrill of puzzled wonder at her expression, upon which a dawning look, almost of horror, spread and grew. “But he did not come, and after a while I stole to the head of the stairs and looked down. There was a low light in the hall and a brighter one from the library, the door of which was ajar. I supposed that father was working late over some papers, and I knew that I must not disturb him. I crept back to bed at last, with a sigh, but left my own door slightly open, so that if I should happen to be awake when he passed, I might call to him. “Presently, however, I dozed off. I don’t know how long I slept, but I awakened to hear voices––angry voices, my father’s and another, which I did not recognize. I got up and by the night-light I saw that the hands of the little clock on my dresser pointed to nearly three o’clock. I could not imagine who would call on father so very late at night, and I feared at first it might be a burglar, but my common sense assured me that father would not stop to parley with a burglar. While I stood wondering, father raised his voice slightly, and I caught one word which he uttered. Ramon, that word sounded to me like ‘blackmail!’ Why, what is it? Why do you look at me so strangely?” she added hastily, at his uncontrollable start. “I? I am not looking at you strangely, dear; it is not possible that you could have heard aright. It must have been simply a fancy of yours, born of the state of your nerves. You could not really have understood.” But Ramon Hamilton looked away from her as he spoke, with a peculiarly significant gleam in his candid eyes. After a slight pause he went on: “No one in the world could have attempted to blackmail your father. He was the soul of honor and integrity, as no one knows better than you. Why, his opinion was sought on every public question. You remember hearing of some of the political honors which he repeatedly refused, but he could, had he wished, have held the highest office at the disposal of the people. You must have been mistaken, Anita. There has never been a reason for the word ‘blackmail’ to cross your father’s lips.” “I know that I was not mistaken, for I heard more––enough to convince me that I had been right in my surmise! Father was keeping something from me!” “Dear little girl, suppose he had been? Nothing, of course, that could possibly reflect upon his integrity,––don’t misunderstand me––but you are only twenty, you know. It is not to be expected that you could quite comprehend the details of all the varied business interests of a man who had virtually led the finances of his country for more than twenty years. Perhaps it was a purely business matter.” “I tell you, Ramon, that that man, whoever he was, actually dared to threaten father. When I heard that word ‘blackmail’ in the angriest tones which I had ever heard my father use, I did something mean, despicable, which only my culminating anxiety could have induced me to do. I slipped on my robe and slippers, stole half-way downstairs and listened deliberately.” “Anita, you should not have done that! It was not like you to do so. If your father had wished you to know of this interview, don’t you think he would have told you?” “Perhaps he would have, but what opportunity was he given? A few hours later, he was found dead in that chair over there; the chair in which he sat while he was talking with his unknown visitor.” The young man sprang to his feet. “You can’t realize what you are saying; what you are hinting! It is unthinkable! If you let these morbid fancies prey upon your mind, you will be really ill.” His tones were full of horror. “Your father died of heart-disease. The doctors and the coroner established that beyond the shadow of a doubt, you know. Any other supposition is beyond the bounds of possibility.” “Of heart-disease, yes. But might not the sudden attack have been brought on by his altercation with this man? His sudden rage, controlled as it was, at the insults hurled at him?” “What insults, Anita? Tell me what you heard when you crept down the stairs. You know you can trust me, dear–– you must trust me.” “The man was saying: ‘Come, Lawton, be sensible; half a loaf is better than no bread. There is no blackmail about this, even if you choose to call it so. It is an ordinary business proposition, as you have been told a hundred times!’” “‘It’s a damnable crooked scheme, as I have told you a hundred times, and I shall have nothing to do with it! This is final!’ Father’s tones rang out clearly and distinctly, quivering with suppressed fury. ‘My hands are clean, my financial operations have been open and above-board; there is no stain upon my life or character, and I can look every man in the face and tell him to go where you may go now!’ 10 11 12 13 F “‘Oh, is that so!’ sneered the other man loudly. Then his voice became insinuatingly low. ‘How about poor Herbert––’ His tones were so indistinct that I could not catch the name. Then he went on more defiantly, ‘His wife––’ He didn’t finish the sentence, Ramon, for father groaned suddenly, terribly, as if he were in swift pain; the man gave a little sneering laugh, and I could hear him moving about in the library, whistling half under his breath in sheer bravado. I could not bear to hear any more. I put my hands over my ears and fled back to my room. What could it mean, Ramon? What is this about father and some other man and his wife which the stranger dared to insinuate! reflected upon father’s integrity? Why should he have groaned as if the very mention of these people hurt him inexpressibly?” “I don’t know, dear.” Ramon Hamilton sat with his honest eyes still turned from her. “You must have been mistaken; perhaps you even dreamed it all.” Anita Lawton gave an impatient gesture. “I am not quite the child you think me, Ramon. Could that man have meant to insinuate that father in his own advancement had trod upon and ruined some one else, as financiers have always done? Could he have meant that father had driven this man and his wife to despair? I cannot bear to think of it. I try to thrust it from my thoughts a dozen times a day, but that groan from father’s lips sounded so much like one of remorse that hideous ideas come beating in on my brain. Was my father like other rich men, Ramon? He did not live for money, although the successful manipulation of it was almost a passion with him. He lived for me, always for me, and the good that he would be able to do in this world.” “Of course he did, darling. No one who knew him could imagine otherwise for a moment.” He hesitated, and then added, “No one else discovered this man’s presence in the house that night? You have told no one? Not the doctor, or the coroner, or Dr. Franklin?” “Oh, no; if I had it would have been necessary for me to have told what I overheard. Besides, it could have had no direct bearing on daddy’s death; that was caused by heart-disease, as you say. But I believe, and I always will believe, that that man killed father, as surely, as inevitably, as if he had stabbed or shot or poisoned him! Why did he come like a thief in the night? Father’s integrity, his honor, were known to all the world. Why did that reference to this Herbert and his wife cause him such pain?” “I don’t know, dear; I have no more idea than you. If you really, really overheard that conversation, as you seem convinced you did, you did well in keeping it to yourself. Let that hour remain buried in your thoughts, as in your father’s grave. Only rest assured that whatever it is, it casts no stain upon your father’s good name or his memory.” He rose and gathered her into his arms. “I must go now, Anita; I’ll come again to-morrow. You are quite sure that you will not accept my mother’s invitation? I really think it would be better for you.” She looked deeply into his eyes, then drew herself gently from his clasp. “Not yet. Thank her for me, Ramon, with all my heart, but I will not leave my father’s house just yet, even for a few days. I am sure that I shall be happier here.” He kissed her, and left the room. She stood where he had left her until she heard the heavy thud of the front door. Then, turning to the window, she thrust her slim little hand between the sedately drawn curtains, and waved him a tender good-by; then with a little sigh, she dropped among the pillows of the couch, lost in thought. “Whatever was meant by that conversation which I overheard,” she murmured to herself, “Ramon knows. I read it in his eyes.” The young man, as he made his way down the crowded avenue, was turning over in his mind the extraordinary story which the girl he loved had told him. “What could it mean? Who could the man have been? Surely not Herbert himself, and yet––oh! why will they not let sleeping dogs lie; why must that old scandal, that one stain on Pennington Lawton’s past have been brought again to light, and at such a time? I pray God that Anita never mentions it to anyone else, never learns the truth. By Jove, if any complications arise from this, there will be only one thing for me to do. I must call upon the Master Mind.” CHAPTER II REVELATIONS OR two days Anita wandered wraithlike about the great darkened house. The thought that Ramon was keeping something from her––that he and her dead father together had kept a secret which, for some reason, must not be revealed to her, weighed upon her spirits. Conjectures as to the unknown intruder on the night of her father’s death, and his possible purpose, flooded her mind to the exclusion of all else. In the dusk of the winter afternoon she was lying on the couch in her dressing-room, lost in thought, when Ellen, tapping lightly at the door, interrupted her reverie. “The minister, Miss Anita––the Rev. Dr. Franklin––he is in the drawing-room.” 13 14 15 16 “Oh!” Anita gave a little movement of dismay. “Tell him that I am suffering from a very severe headache, and gave orders that I was not to be disturbed by anyone. He means well, Ellen, of course, but he always depresses me horribly, lately. I don’t feel like talking to him this afternoon.” The maid retired, but returned again almost immediately with a surprised, half-frightened expression on her usually stolid face. “Please, Miss Anita, Dr. Franklin says he must see you and at once. He seems to be excited and he won’t take no for an answer.” “Ramon!” Anita cried, springing from the couch with swift apprehension. “Something has happened to Ramon, and Dr. Franklin has come to tell me. He may be injured, dead! Ah, God would not do that; He would not take him from me, too!” “Don’t take on so, Miss Anita, dear,” the faithful Ellen murmured, as she deftly smoothed the girl’s hair and rearranged her gown; “the little man acts more as if he had a fine piece of gossip to pass on––fidgeting about like an old woman, he is. Begging your pardon, Miss, I know he is the minister, of course, and I ought to show him more respect, but he forever reminds me of a fat black pigeon.” The remarks of the privileged old servant fell upon deaf, unheeding ears. Anita, sobbing softly beneath her breath, flew down to the drawing-room, where the pompous black-cloaked figure rose at her entrance. But––was it purely Anita’s fancy or had some indefinable change actually taken place in the manner of her spiritual adviser? The rather close-set eyes seemed to the girl to gleam somewhat coldly upon her, and although he took both her hands in his in quick, fatherly greeting, his hand-clasp appeared all at once to be lacking in warmth. “My poor child, my poor Anita!” he began unctuously, but she interrupted him. “What is it, Dr. Franklin? Has something happened to Ramon?” she asked swiftly. “Please tell me! Now, without delay! Don’t keep me in suspense. I can tell by your face, your manner, that a new misfortune has come to me! Does it concern Ramon?” “Oh, no; it is not Mr. Hamilton. You need have no fears for him, Anita. I have come upon a business matter––a matter connected with your dear father’s estate.” Anita motioned him to a chair. Seating herself opposite, she gazed at him inquiringly. “The settlement of the estate? Oh, the lawyers are attending to that, I believe.” Anita spoke a little coldly. Had Dr. Franklin come already to inquire about a possible legacy for St. James’? She was ashamed of the thought the next moment, when he said gently, “Yes, but there is something which I must tell you. It has been requested that I do so. It is a delicate matter to discuss with you, but surely no one is more fitted to speak to you than I.” “Certainly, Doctor, I understand.” She leaned forward eagerly. “My dear, you know the whole country, the whole world at large, has always considered your father to have been a man of great wealth.” “Yes. My father’s charities alone, as you are aware, unostentatiously as they were conducted, would have tended to give that impression. Then his tremendous business interests––” “Anita, at the moment of your father’s death he was far from being the King of Finance, which the world judged him to be. It is hard for me to tell you this, but you must know, and you must try to believe that your Heavenly Father is sending you this added trial for some sure purpose of His own. Your father died a poor man, Anita. In fact, a bankrupt.” The girl looked up with an incredulous smile. “Dr. Franklin, who could ever have asked you to come to me with such an incredible assertion? Surely, you must know how preposterous the very idea is! I do not boast or brag, but it is common knowledge that my father was the richest man in the city, in this entire part of the country, in fact. The thought of such a thing is absurd. Who could have attempted to perpetrate such a senseless hoax, a ridiculous insult to your intelligence and mine?” The minister shook his head slowly. “‘Common knowledge’ is, alas, not always trustworthy. It is only too true that your father stood on the verge of bankruptcy. His entire fortune has been swept away.” “Impossible!” Anita started from her chair, impressed in spite of herself. “How could that be? Who has told you this terrible thing?” “The unfortunate news was disclosed to me confidentially by your late father’s truest friends and closest associates. Having your best interests at heart, they feel that you should know the state of affairs at once, and came to me as the one best fitted to inform you.” “I cannot believe it!” Anita Lawton sank back with white, strained face. “I cannot believe that it is true. How could such a thing have happened? They must be mistaken––those who gave you such information. Father was worth millions, at least. That I know, for he told me much of his business affairs and up to the last day of his life he was engaged in tremendous deals of almost national importance.” 17 18 19 “Might he not have become so deeply involved in one of them that he could not extricate himself, and ruin came?” Dr. Franklin insinuated. “I know little of finance, of course; and those who wished you to know gave me none of the details beyond the one paramount fact.” “I know, of course, who were your informants,” Anita said. “No one except my father’s three closest associates had any possible conception of how much he possessed, even approximately, for he was always secretive and conservative in his dealings. Only to Mr. Mallowe, Mr. Rockamore and Mr. Carlis did he ever divulge his plans to the slightest extent. A bankrupt! My father a bankrupt? The very words seem meaningless to me. Dr. Franklin, there must be some hideous mistake.” “Unfortunately, it is no mistake, my poor child. These gentlemen you mention, I may admit to you in confidence, were my informants.” “You say they gave you no details beyond the paramount fact of my father’s ruin? But surely they must have told you something more. I have a right to know, Dr. Franklin, and I shall not rest until I do. How did such a catastrophe come to him? There have been no gigantic failures lately, no panics which could have swept him down. What terrible mistake could he have made, he whose judgment was almost infallible?” The minister hesitated visibly, and when he spoke at last, it was as if with a conscious effort he chose his words. “I do not think it was any sudden collapse of some project in which he was engaged, Anita, but a––a general series of misfortunes which culminated by forcing him, just before his death, to the brink of bankruptcy. You are a mere child, my dear, and could not be supposed to understand matters of finance. If you will be guided by me you will accept the assurance of your friends who truly have your best interests at heart. Their statements will be confirmed, I know, by the lawyers who are engaged in settling up the estate of your father. Do not, I beg of you, inquire too closely into the details of your father’s insolvency.” Anita rose slowly, her eyes fixed upon the face of the minister, and with her hands resting upon the chair-back, as if to steady herself, she asked quietly: “Why should I not? What is there which I, his daughter, should not know? Dr. Franklin, there is something behind all this which you are trying to conceal from me. I knew my father to be a multi-millionaire. You come and tell me he was a pauper instead, a bankrupt; and I am not to ask how this state of affairs came about? You have known me since I was a little girl––surely you understand me well enough to realize that I shall not rest under such a condition until the whole truth is revealed to me!” “I am your friend.” The resonance in the minister’s voice deepened. “You will believe me when I tell you that it would be best for your future, for the honor of your father’s memory, to place yourself without question in the hands of your true friends, and to ask no details which are not voluntarily given you.” “‘Best for my future!’” she repeated, aghast. “‘For the honor of my father’s memory.’ What do you mean, Dr. Franklin? You have gone too far not to speak plainly. Do you dare––are you insinuating, that there was something disgraceful, dishonorable about my father’s insolvency? You have been my spiritual adviser nearly all my life, and when you tell me that my father was a bankrupt, that the knowledge comes to you from his best friends and will be corroborated by his attorneys, I am forced to believe you. But if you attempt to convince me that my father’s honor–– his good name––is involved, then I tell you that it is not true! Either a terrible mistake has been made or a deliberate conspiracy is on foot––the blackest sort of conspiracy, to defame the dead!” “My dear!” The minister raised his hands in shocked amazement. “You are beside yourself, you don’t know what you are saying! I have repeated to you only that which was told to me, and in practically the same words. As to the possibility of a conspiracy, you will realize the absurdity of such an idea when I deliver to you the message with which I was charged. Your father’s partner in many enterprises, the Honorable Bertie Rockamore, together with President Mallowe, of the Street Railways, and Mr. Carlis, the great politician, promised some little time ago that they would stand in loco parentis toward you should your natural protector be removed. They desire me to tell you that you need have no anxiety for the immediate future. You will be cared for and provided with all that you have been accustomed to, just as if your father were alive.” “Indeed? They are most kind––” Anita spoke quietly enough, but with a curiously dry, controlled note in her voice which reminded the minister of her father’s tones, and for some inexplicable reason he felt vaguely uncomfortable. “Please say to them that I do sincerely appreciate their magnanimity, their charity, toward one who has no right, legal or moral, to claim protection or care from them. But now, Dr. Franklin, may I beg that you will forgive me if I retire? The news you have brought me of course has been a terrible shock. I must have time to collect my thoughts, to realize the sudden, terrible change this revelation has made in my whole life. I am deeply grateful to you, to my father’s three associates, but I can say no more now.” “Of course, dear child.” Dr. Franklin patted her hand perfunctorily and arose with ill-concealed relief that the interview was at an end. He could not understand her attitude of the last few moments and it troubled him vaguely. She had received the news of her father’s bankruptcy with a girlish horror and incredulousness––which had been only natural under the circumstances; but when it was borne in upon her, in as delicate a way as he could convey it, that dishonor was involved in the matter, she had, after the first outburst, maintained a stony, ashen self-poise and control that were far from what he had expected. It was the most disagreeable task he had performed in many a day and he was heartily glad that it was over. Only his very great desire to ingratiate himself with these kings of finance, who had 20 21 22 23 commissioned him to do their bidding, as well as the inclination to be of real service to his young and orphaned parishioner, had induced him to undertake the mission. “You must rest and have an opportunity to adjust yourself to this new, unfortunate state of affairs,” he continued. “I will call again to-morrow. If I can be of the slightest service to you, do not hesitate to let me know. It is a sad trial, but our Heavenly Father has tempered the wind to the shorn lamb; He has provided you with a protector in young Mr. Hamilton, and with kind, true friends who will see that no harm or deprivation comes to you. Try to feel that this added grief and trouble will, in the end, be for the best.” The alacrity with which he took his departure was painfully obvious, but Anita scarcely noticed it. Her mind was busy with the new, hideous thought, which had assailed her at that first hint of dishonesty on the part of her father––the thought that she was being made the victim of a gigantic conspiracy. As soon as she found herself alone, she flew to the telephone. “Main, 2785,” she demanded.... “Mr. Hamilton, please.... Is that you, Ramon?... Can you come to me at once? I need your advice and help. Something has happened––something terrible! No, I cannot tell you over the ’phone. You will come at once? Yes, good-by, Ramon dear.” She hung up the receiver and paced the floor restlessly. Almost inconceivable as it had appeared to her consciousness under the first shock of the announcement, she might in time have come to accept the astounding fact of her father’s insolvency, but that disgrace, dishonor, could have attached itself to his name––that he, the model of uprightness, of integrity could have been guilty of crooked dealing, of something which must for the honor of his memory be kept secret from the ears of his fellow-men, she could never bring herself to believe. Every instinct of her nature revolted, and underlying all her girlish unsophistication, a native shrewdness, inherited perhaps from her father, bade her distrust alike the worldly, self-interested pastor of the Church of St. James and the three so-called friends, who, although her father’s associates, had been his rivals, and who had offered with such astounding magnanimity to stand by her. Why had they offered to help her? Was it really through tenderness and affection for her father’s daughter, or was it to stay her hand and close her mouth to all queries? Why did not Ramon come? Surely he should have been there before this. What could be detaining him? She tried to be patient, to calm her seething brain while she waited, but it was no use. Hours passed while she paced the floor, restlessly, and the dusk settled into the darkness of early winter. Wilkes came to turn on the lights, but she refused them––she could think better in the dark. The dinner-hour came and went and twice Ellen knocked anxiously upon the door, but Anita, torn with anxiety, would pay no heed. She had telephoned to Ramon’s office, only to find that he had left there immediately upon receiving her message; to his home––he had not returned. Nine o’clock sounded in silvery chimes from the clock upon the mantel; then ten and eleven and at length, just when she felt that she could endure no more, the front door-bell rang. A well-known step sounded upon the stairs, and Ramon entered. With a little gasp of joy and relief she flung herself upon him in the darkness, but at an involuntary groan from him she recoiled. “What is it, Ramon? What has happened to you?” Without waiting for a reply she switched on the light. Ramon stood before her, his face pale, his eyes dark with pain. One arm was in a sling and the thick hair upon his forehead barely concealed a long strip of plaster. “Nothing really serious, dear. I had a slight accident––run down by a motor-car, just after leaving the office. My head was cut and I was rather knocked out, so they took me to a hospital. I would have come before, but they would not allow me to leave. I knew that you would be anxious because of my delay in coming, but I feared to add to your apprehension by telephoning to you from the hospital.” “But your arm––is it sprained?” “Broken. I had a nasty crash––can’t imagine how it was that I didn’t see the car coming in time to avoid it. It was a big limousine with several men inside, all singing and shouting riotously, and the chauffeur, I think, must have been drunk, for he swerved the car directly across the road in my path. They never stopped after they had bowled me over, and no one seemed to know where they went.” “Then the police did not get their number?” “No, but they will, of course. Not that I care, particularly; I’m lucky to have got off as lightly as I did. I might have been killed.” “It was a miracle that you were not, Ramon. Do you know what I believe? I don’t think it was any accident, but a deliberate attempt to assassinate you; to keep you from coming to me.” “What nonsense, dear! They were a wild, hilarious party, careless and irresponsible. Such accidents happen every day.” “I am convinced that it was no accident. Ramon, I feel that I am to be the victim of a conspiracy; that you are the only human being who stands in the way of my being absolutely in the power of those who would defraud me and defame 24 25 26 father’s name.” “Anita, what do you mean?” “Dr. Franklin called upon me this afternoon; he left just before I telephoned to you. He told me an astonishing piece of news. Ramon, would you have considered my father a rich man?” “What an absurd question, dear! Of course. One of the richest men in the whole country, as you know.” “You say that he consulted you about his business affairs, and that you knew of no trouble or difficulty which could have caused him anxiety? His securities in stocks and bonds, his assets were all sound?” “Certainly. What do you mean?” “I mean that my father died a pauper! That on the word of Mr. Rockamore, Mr. Mallowe, Mr. Carlis and Dr. Franklin, he was on the verge of dishonorable bankruptcy, into which I may not inquire.” “Good Heavens, they must be mad! I am sure that your father was at the zenith of his successful career, and as for dishonor, surely, Anita, no one who knew him could credit that!” “Mr. Rockamore and the other two who were so closely associated with him made a solemn promise to my father shortly before his death, it seems, that they would care for and provide for me. They sent Dr. Franklin to me this afternoon to explain the circumstances to me, and to assure me of their protection. Save for you, they consider me absolutely in their hands; and when I sent for you, you were almost killed in the attempt to come to me. Ramon, don’t you see, don’t you understand, there is some mystery on foot, some terrible conspiracy? That unknown visitor, my father’s death so soon after, and now this sudden revelation of his bankruptcy, together with this accident to you? Ramon, we must have advice and help. I do not believe that my father was a pauper. I know that he has done nothing dishonorable; I am convinced that the accident to you was a premeditated attempt at murder.” “My God! I can’t believe it, Anita; I don’t know what to think. If it turns out that there really is something crooked about it all, and Rockamore and the others are concerned in it, it will be the biggest conspiracy that was ever hatched in the world of high finance. You were right, dear, bless your woman’s intuition; we must have help. This matter must be thoroughly investigated. There is only one man in America to-day, who is capable of carrying it through, successfully. I shall send at once for the Master Mind.” “The Master Mind?” “Yes, dear––Henry Blaine, the most eminent detective the English-speaking world has produced.” “I have heard of him, of course. I think father knew him, did he not?” “Yes, on one occasion he was of inestimable service to your father. I will summon him at once.” Ramon went to the telephone and by good luck found the detective free for the moment and at his service. He returned to the girl. She noticed that he reeled slightly in his walk; that his lips were white and set with pain. “Ramon, you are ill, suffering. That cut on your head and your poor arm––” “It is nothing. I don’t mind, Anita darling; it will soon pass. Thank Heavens, I found Mr. Blaine free. He will get to the truth of this matter for us even if no one else on earth could. He has brought more notorious malefactors to justice than any detective of modern times; fearlessly, he has unearthed political scandals which lay dangerously close to the highest executives of the land. He cannot be cajoled, bribed or intimidated; you will be safe in his hands from the machinations of every scoundrel who ever lived.” “I have read of some of his marvelous exploits, but; what service was it that he rendered to my father?” “I––I cannot tell you, dearest. It was very long ago, and a matter which affected your father solely. Perhaps some time you may learn the truth of it.” “I may not know! I may not know! Why must I be so hedged in? Why must everything be kept from me? I feel as if I were living in a maze of mystery. I must know the truth.” She wrung her hands hysterically, but he soothed her and they talked in low tones until Wilkes suddenly appeared in the doorway and announced: “Mr. Henry Blaine!” CHAPTER III HENRY BLAINE TAKES A HAND 27 28 29 A MAN stood upon the threshold: a man of medium height, with sandy hair and mustache slightly tinged with gray. His face was alert and keenly intelligent. His eyes shrewd, but kindly, the brows sloping downward toward the nose, with the peculiar look of concentration of one given to quick decisions and instant, fearless action. His eyes traveled quickly from the young girl’s face to Ramon Hamilton, as the latter advanced with outstretched hand. “Mr. Blaine, it was fortunate that we found you at liberty and able to assist us in a matter which is of vital importance to us both. This is Miss Anita Lawton, daughter of the late Pennington Lawton, who desires your aid on a most urgent matter.” “Miss Lawton.” Mr. Elaine bowed over her hand. When they were seated she said, shyly: “I understand from Ramon––Mr. Hamilton––that you were at one time of great service to my father. I trust that you will be able to help me now, for I feel that I am in the meshes of a conspiracy. You know that my father died suddenly, almost a week ago.” “Yes, of course. His death was a great loss to the whole country, Miss Lawton.” “Something occurred a few hours before his death, of which even the coroner is unaware, Mr. Blaine. I told Mr. Hamilton what I knew, but he advised me to say nothing of it, unless further developments ensued.” “And they have ensued?” the detective asked quietly. “Yes.” Anita then detailed to Mr. Blaine the incident of her father’s nocturnal visitor. As she told him the conversation she had overheard, it seemed to her that the eyes of the detective narrowed slightly, but no other change of expression betrayed the fact that the incident might have held a significance in his mind. “The voice was entirely strange to you?” he asked. “Yes; I have never heard it before, but it made such an impression upon me that I think I would recognize it instantly whenever or wherever I might happen to hear it.” “You caught no glimpse of the man through the half-opened door?” “No, I was not far enough downstairs to see into the room.” “And when you fled, after hearing your father groan, you returned immediately to your room?” “Yes. I closed my door and buried my face deeply in the pillows on my bed. I did not want to hear or know any more. I was frightened; I did not know what to think. After a time I mu...