HN 3152 P
THE
OTHER
BROWN
ADELE
LUEHRMANN



KD 1१387


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THE
OTHER BROWN









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“Hands up!”


THE
OTHER BROWN
BY
ADELE LUEHRMANN
Author of "The Curious Case of Marie Dupont,” Etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
LUCIUS W. HITCHCOCK

We
>
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.,
1917


KD 19387
HARVARD
UNIVERSITY
LIBRAR
Copyright, 1917, by
The Century Co.
Copyright, 1917, by
EVERY WEEK CORPORATION
Published, August, 1917


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"Hands up!” ........ Frontispiece
“Stay where you are," Scarborough ordered . . 43
“Is that him?" asked the policeman . . . . . 59
“And where is he now?” . . . . . . . 153
“You're under arrest,” he said . . . . . . 203
“I mean," she answered, “ that it might have made
a diference · · · · · · · · · · 235
“ You must tell me how I can help you,” she said . 281
“Look at me!” the hollow voice went on .. . 305





THE
OTHER BROWN





THE
OTHER BROWN
CHAPTER I
IT was sheer luck — at least, so Tim Scarbrough
1 says — that led to his curiously fateful discussion
of dual personality with a total stranger. It merely
chanced that the latter was reading a magazine story
based on dissociation of personality, a very striking
story that Scarbrough also happened to have read,
and he had seized upon it as a means of starting a con-
versation, nothing more. He had begun to talk for
no other reason than that he found it unbearable to eat
with a human being and behave as though they were
animals feeding at a trough.
He had barely glanced at his table companion as
he dropped hastily into his seat — hastily, because the
conductor of the dining-car was waving him toward
a seat farther on, the one opposite Valentin Gil, and
Tim had an excellent reason for not wishing to dine
face to face with that particular person. The reason
was that he did not wish Gil to remember him if they


THE OTHER BROWN
should ever meet. True, Scarbrough's appearance,
as he himself well knew, was of the nondescript kind
not easily impressed on the memory. Rather short,
rather thin, sandy-haired, and sallow, the average man
might have passed him in the street a dozen times
without noticing him; but Gil was not an average
man, for one thing, and for another, Tim was taking
no chances. If in the near future, the Mexican should,
by some unavoidable mishap, become aware of his
existence, it was highly important that he should not
be able to recall the fact that they had left Washing-
ton and arrived in New York by the same train.
All of this Tim could not well explain to the con-
ductor of the dining-car, so he merely ignored the
waving hand and slid into the nearest empty seat.
At his abrupt advent the young man across the table
looked up from his magazine, pleasantly returned
Tim's friendly nod, and went on with his reading.
"A handsome youngster," thought Scarbrough, re-
membering now that he had seen his neighbor back in
the parlor car. His seat was the third behind Gils,
and he had come aboard at Philadelphia while the
Mexican was in the smoker. These trivial details
Scarbrough would have sworn to, for to recall with
exactness anything he had once noted was a valuable
part of his stock in trade. And immediately, from
force of habit rather than from any special interest
in the subject, he began mentally to size up his com-
panion, point by point, as if for future reference,


THE OTHER BROWN
though that he would ever have need of it did not then
occur to him.
“Age, twenty-three or four; height, five-eleven;
build, wiry and athletic; weight, about one-sixty; hair,
blond, thick, wavy — takes a world of brushing to keep
it flat; eyes, blue; expression, frank; complexion too
dark for a blond — looks like a tropical tan; face,
clean-shaved, a trifle broad; nose, a trifle short; mouth,
straight, pleasant; chin, round, but firm; clothes in
quiet good taste, rather loose fit, look London-made.
All told, a healthy, honest, intelligent, friendly chap,
probably a young 'plute' who goes in for sports."
As Scarbrough summed up his conclusions, the
subject of them suddenly raised a well-browned hand
and smoothed down from the careful part dividing
them first one half, then the other, of his mop of
crisp, blond hair. The action brought a smile to his
observer's eyes.
“ That's a habit,” thought he. “I was right about
the brushing. Well, my young friend, the gods have
been too good to you. You ought to have something
on your mind if it is only your hair.”
A waiter now arrived with a plate of soup, and the
favorite of the gods shifted his magazine to make
room for it, without, however, removing his eyes from
the printed page. The soup looking appetizing, Scar-
brough ordered some and was already in the act of
consuming it before his neighbor gave evidence of
being aware that his own stood untasted before him.


THE OTHER BROWN
Flattening one hand upon the magazine. to hold it
open, he began to feed himself with the other, ab-
sently, between paragraphs; but the reading soon
monopolized his attention again, and the soup plate
was presently removed, only half empty.
Wondering idly what literary product could have
the power to distract the interest of a husky young
male from his food, Tim leaned forward a little and
spelled out in the inverted letters at the top of the page,
“Her Other Self,” and opposite, the name of the
periodical. Instantly he remembered having read him-
self to sleep a few nights before with that very story.
He had thought it interesting, too, he recalled, though
hardly as absorbing as this chap seemed to find it.
The reading finally came to an end with the arrival
of various dishes which crowded the magazine from
the table, and the reader reluctantly closed the book.
"Hard to quit, is n't it?" Tim said in the languid
drawl that he had brought up from the South ten years
earlier and which always, to strangers, made him ap-
pear just the easy-going, inert, unobservant person that
he never was.
The blue eyes of his companion widened blankly
upon him for a moment as though their owner, ab-
sorbed in his thoughts, had not at once caught the
question, then the answer came cordially enough:
“Yes, rather. I had stumbled on a good yarn."
Scarbrough nodded. “It is a good one."
At that the young man who was turning away to


THE OTHER BROWN
dispose of his magazine on the window-sill looked back
quickly. “You've read it?" he exclaimed. “How
does it end? I've just got to the elopement, when
she's in the abnormal state, you remember? What
happens when she changes back to her normal person-
ality and finds out she is married to the man who
ruined her sister ? ”
“ She kills herself.”
“O-h!”
Scarbrough smiled at the frank disappointment.
“ It could n't very well end any other way, could it?”
he asked.
“ But what does the sister do? And the man?”
“It does n't say. The story stops with the suicide."
“Of course! That's always the way. Writers al-
ways kill off their people when they don't know what
else to do with them,” said the young stranger dis-
gustedly. “But it is n't true to life, now is it? Such
a situation in real life would n't have come out that
way. Even if the girl had killed herself, that would n't
have ended things. And it can't have ended them in
the story. The sister went on living; so did the man.
Somebody always goes on living."
“But a story has to stop some time, I reckon,
whether it ends or not,” drawled Tim, while from be-
neath their rather heavy lids his brown eyes shot a
keen glance across the table. Something in his com-
panion's final words had struck him oddly. Was it
the words themselves, or the emphasis, or just the
7


THE OTHER BROWN
speaker's unusual accent? That accent puzzled Tim.
He had taken its owner at sight for an American;
then at his first words he had decided that he was
English; now he was uncertain what he was. His
speech was markedly British, yet there was in it some-
thing that seemed quite foreign to the English tongue.
Hardly definite enough to be called an accent, it yet
indicated - at least, so Tim thought — that the
stranger, at home as he obviously was in the English
language, might be even more at home in some other.
But what other? That was where Scarbrough stuck.
The variation was so slight, so intermittent, that it de-
fied classification. Only a keen ear would have de-
tected it at all. Being baffling, it became interesting.
But with a shrug of assent the young man now
turned his attention to his food, and from the absent
manner in which he served himself, it seemed likely
that, if left to him, the conversation would end there.
So after a moment Tim spoke again.
“Of course, all the author cared about was the girl's
two personalities,” he observed, as if his thoughts had
never left the story they had been discussing. “Queer,
is n't it, what a fascinating subject dual personality
is?”
As a matter of fact the subject was not in the least
fascinating to Tim for the reason that he did not be-
lieve that the phenomenon of double personality ever
occurred in actual life; but he had had evidence that
the topic was an interesting one to his companion and,


THE OTHER BROWN
consequently, one about which he would talk readily.
If he talked, an attentive listener might be able to single
out first the words and then the individual letters in
from time to time. They would, of course, be always
the same letters, and knowing those, it ought to be
fairly easy to deduce the speaker's nationality.
To Tim's gratification the young man's gaze, which
was wandering abstractedly down the car, came back
at once with an eager nod of agreement, but as he did
not speak Tim went on again.
“In fiction, that is, not in life. Take, for instance,
Stevenson's 'Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr.
Hyde.' Jekyll is a decent, kindly man who by means
of a powder he has compounded transforms himself
into a cowardly ruffian, a sort of monster, calling him-
self Hyde. With another powder he turns himself
back to Jekyll. It's a fascinating idea for a story, I
grant. But just take a real case of it. Change a
decent, quiet, reasonable man into a noisy, irresponsible
fascinating; it's disgusting. Or let a poor devil get
the notion fixed in his addled brains that he is John
the Baptist or Napoleon, and there is nothing enchant-
ing about that either.”
“But drunkenness and insanity are not change of
personality.”
“Why not?” said Tim, thinking that in the word
“ drunkenness" he had already captured a clue. But


THE OTHER BROWN
was it a consonantal or a vowel sound that deviated
from the normal? He must listen more closely.
“Why not?” he repeated. “The victim changes com-
pletely, becomes something altogether different from
his usual self. Is n't it as near dual personality as we
ever get outside of books?”
"It is n't dual personality at all.”
The repeated assertion was emphasized by a slight
note of impatience, a sort of eager insistence rather,
and the stranger leaned forward a little.
“Dual personality is the result of dissociation of
personality; that's the technical term,” he explained,
speaking more slowly and somewhat painstakingly.
" It is the splitting up of a personality into separate
parts which in turn dominate the faculties. Each is
aware of itself as a distinct and complete individual-
ity, and neither has any direct knowledge of the other's
existence. That is what is meant by double person-
ality.”
“I know; but I don't believe it exists except in fic-
tion. Stevenson certainly did n't mean to imply that
it did. His yarn is pure symbolism. Hyde is simply
the personification of the evil part of Jekyll, or of us
all — the beast in us. We're taught to control it, to
suppress it, from the day we're born. If we yield an
inch, it has us by the throat before we know what's
happened. 'That's Stevenson's theme. At least,"
Tim added, for the sake of courtesy, “that's how I
IO


THE OTHER BROWN
interpret it. Of course, you could take it literally if
you wanted to.”
"But I don't want to — not that story!” exclaimed
the young man at once. “It's too fantastic, of course.
But this other story, the one I've just been reading,
could happen. Why, there are cases as strange or
stranger on record. I—I've read the records.”
"I know,” Tim returned. “I've read several my-
self — the doctors' reports, you mean? But it seemed
to me that all those cases boiled down to some form
of insanity.”
His companion's lips parted to answer, plainly in
contradiction, but closed again silently, and there was
a pause while he stared across the table at Scarbrough
without seeming to see him, his blue eyes tensely
focused in thought. Then finally, as if reaching a
decision, he said with a courteous firmness:
“I am sure you are mistaken, but I dare say most
people would agree with you.” After this he took up
his knife and fork as though that was all he cared to
say on the subject.
But almost at once and before Scarbrough could
reply, he laid down the knife and fork, and as if im-
pelled by a sudden idea or perhaps by the access of
some hidden feeling, he leaned forward again.
“Don't you see that that is just why anybody af-
flicted with a second personality would do anything in
the world to keep it from being found out?” he said
II


THE OTHER BROWN
earnestly, adding quickly: “ And don't think for a
minute that he could n't. For, far from being insane
and irresponsible when in the abnormal state, a man
may be as intelligent as he is normally. And he can
soon find out about his normal self if he is keen — his
habits and tastes — and imitate them so well that no
one guesses the truth. Of course, he's different in
some ways, and people notice that. He may even be
so changed that they think he takes a drug or — or
drinks. But that 's better than being thought insane
and — and being locked up.”
Tim smiled, and his heavy-lidded eyes made the
smile look sleepy.
“If I had had any idea you were a doctor, I'd
never have let myself into an argument like this,” he
drawled, feeling perfectly sure that his companion was
not a doctor, but hopeful that the remark would draw
from him some definite statement about his profession,
if he had one. The information might, in turn, throw
light on his nationality. That slight oddity of speech
still puzzled Tim, so slight and elusive was it. To be
sure there was no reason why he should not settle the
matter by a direct inquiry, no reason except his pro-
fessional pride. The truth was that he did not care
in the least to know this stranger's nationality, but he
did want very much to prove his own ability to find
out a thing like that without asking questions. Any
fool could ask questions.
“A doctor?” the young man echoed in surprise.
12


THE OTHER BROWN
“Oh, I see. You think that because I've read up on
the subject a little. But — I did that just out of in-
terest — because I happen to — to know of a case.”
"A case of dual personality?” Tim was frankly
incredulous.
His companion nodded gravely. “Yes, a genuine
one."
“ That you came in personal contact with ? "
“Well — I know all about it.”
“How? From people that did come in contact —”
Tim's question was cut short by the sound of his
own name and a vigorously friendly hand on his shoul-
der, and he looked up to greet a grinning, red-haired
youth who had just come down the aisle from an-
other table.
“Dozy! Good Lord! where 'd you come from? ”
“Been down home," said the boy. “Hope I'm
not butting in,” he added with a smile across the table.
Then, without waiting for a reply, he sat down with
the confident manner of one used to " butting in ” and
having people like it. He and Scarbrough were
cousins of a kind, a southern kind, no one knowing
just how far removed. The relationship was tradi-
tional in their families, and their mothers, who
were devoted friends, had always emphasized it.
There was, indeed, a similarity of type between the
two men. Dozy, like Tim, was rather short and
meagerly constructed, but his hair and eyebrows had
more color, and the broad white teeth that his engaging
13


THE OTHER BROWN
grin so frequently displayed furnished him with at
least one striking feature. One could hardly have
passed him on the street without noticing him, espe-
cially if he happened to be smiling.
“You are butting in, decidedly," his kinsman in-
formed him cordially. “But I don't expect that tell-
ing you so will help any. I was just having an in-
teresting discussion with Mr. —?”.
“My name is Brown."
“ Thanks. Mine is Scarbrough, and this is my
friend, Dozier Cullop.”
“Glad to know you, Mr. Brown,” said Dozy, offer-
ing his hand.
"Mr. Brown was just saying that he knew of a case
of dual personality,” Tim said at once to bring the
conversation back to the point of interruption. “Was
it a man or a woman?”
“ A man."
“ And just how did it affect him?"
“Oh, about like that girl in the story,” Brown an-
swered after obvious hesitation. “He did n't know
in one mental state anything that happened in the
other. This beef is pretty tough. If you ordered any
of it, I advise you to get something else.”
"I did n't, thanks," said Tim. “Was the change
in him very noticeable? ”
“Very.” Brown turned with a slight frown to
Dozy. “Don't you find it warm in this car?"
14 .


THE OTHER BROWN
“Of course," Tim answered, ignoring the fact
that the question had not been addressed to him.
“ They ’re always overheated. Just how did it change
him? ”
An undisguised frown crossed Brown's face now,
but it only made Tim smile to himself. He was per-
fectly aware that the young man had been trying to
change the subject, and he was determined not to let
him. People were always making positive statements
about things, then trying to slide out when you began
to pin them down to facts. Tim felt sure that the
facts in this case would uphold his own side of the
argument, and he wanted to make Brown admit it.
"How did it change him?" he repeated in his
sleepiest drawl.
There was a pause before an answer came while
Brown stared past Tim, his brows still lowered. Then,
as if finding the direct question as difficult to evade as
his inquisitor had known he would, he said falter-
ingly:
“Well — he did n't change physically, of course —
that is, not exactly. But he somehow looked so dif-
ferent — his expression and manner and bearing —
that people who knew him well did n't recognize him
- sometimes. His tastes changed, of course — and
his feelings —”
“That's just like a play I saw last winter,” Dozy
put in. “ The girl changed right on the stage, and,
15


THE OTHER BROWN
believe me, it was uncanny. She did n't walk or talk
or act the same, and by Christopher, she looked dif-
ferent. It was the most —”.
“Was the difference between the man's two per-
sonalities anything like that between Jekyll and Hyde,
for instance?” Tim questioned, cutting short Dozy's
digression in the fear that Brown, who had nearly
finished his dinner, would leave and escape him.
“Oh, not at all," was the instant response. “Hyde
was a monster. There was nothing like that in this
case. The difference was that while normally the
man was quiet, self-controlled, and — temperate, in
the abnormal state he was nervous, high-strung and
- and rather reckless.”
“And intemperate? He drank, you mean?”
“Well — yes,” Brown answered after a moment.
“But it was not the drink that caused the change in
him,” he added hastily. “He never wanted it until
after the change had come over him. Never touched
it, hated the taste of it.”
“That was funny!” said Dozy.
“Not at all,” Tim replied. “There are many peri-
odical drinkers who loathe liquor between sprees. But
I don't quite see, Mr. Brown, how you can be so sure
that this man's trouble was not a form of insanity.
You did n't know the case at first hand, you say —"
“Pardon me, but I wonder if we could n't have a
window opened?” As he spoke, Brown half-rose.
"Wait a minute, here's a waiter,” said Dozy, and
16


THE OTHER BROWN
beckoning the dusky food-bearer, he besought from
him a little air. “You English just can't bear to be
comfortable, can you ?” he asked as he turned back
with a laugh to Brown.
“I'm not English,” answered the latter quietly,
though a quick, dark flush showed under his tan.
“I'm American. But I have n't been used to steam
heat lately, and it suffocates me.”
“ They always overdo it on trains,” Scarbrough
said, wondering at the flush. So the chap was Ameri-
can after all. “However, about your man, Mr.
Brown, just how did he come out with his two selves?
What's the story?”.
But Brown, his patience finally exhausted by his
questioner's persistence, did not answer. He straight-
ened sharply in his seat and looked at Scarbrough,
his face rigid, his lips tight.
"If you will excuse me, I prefer not to discuss the
case," he said coldly. “It happens to be that of a
member of my family.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” Tim reddened with
mortification. “I had no idea of such a thing. Of
course, we 'll say no more about it.” Then, to relieve
the awkwardness of the moment he turned to Dozy.
“Had dinner ?” he asked.
“Uh-huh — all I want. My class is giving a din-
ner at the St. Quentin to-night, and I'm saving my
appetite. I'm to respond to a toast,” he hurried on,
anxious to help Tim out by keeping up the talk.
17


THE OTHER BROWN
“I'm as nervous as a cat. Wish you fellows would
join me in a drink.”
“Not drinking, thanks,” said Scarbrough.
“ Thank you; I never take anything,” Brown an-
swered.
“ Better join us and stay sober, kid,” Tim advised.
“ Better for your speech. How did you find the old
town?”
"Oh, same as ever. Nothing 'll change it but an
act of God. I went down for Sister's wedding, you
know. Tried to get her to postpone it on account of
the dinner to-night, but she said it would be bad luck,
so I had to leave before it was half over to make this
train, and I've been worrying all the way up for fear
we'd go off the track or something. I would n't miss
that banquet to-night for a farm! The sophs are
planning to break in and raid us if they can. Any-
how, that's what we think. They 're up to some-
thing, that's sure."
The boy rattled on, and gradually the conversation
became general, Brown taking part in it also as the
constraint wore off.
Scarbrough, meanwhile, had kept a careful eye on
the table at which Valentin Gil was dining, timing his
own meal in accordance with the latter's progress.
And when at length he saw the Mexican paying his
check, he called at once for his own. At that, Brown
who had already settled his score and was lingering to
listen to Dozy's chatter, rose to leave the table, and
18


THE OTHER BROWN
it chanced that just as he did so, Gil passed, and they
came face to face.
With an exclamation of surprise the Mexican
stopped and held out his hand, only to withdraw it
again instantly. “Oh, pardon, a mistake,” he said,
with the awkwardness that seizes one who has mis-
taken a stranger for an acquaintance, and at once
walked on.
For several moments Brown remained staring after
him.
“Do you happen to know who that is?” he asked,
looking over at Tim.
Scarbrough shook his head.
“No idea.”
“Looks like a Mexican, don't you think so ?”
“ Yes, rather," Scarbrough hesitated. “Ever been
to Mexico ?”
Brown nodded.
"Just from there," he answered, and with a pleas-
ant bow to his table companions, he turned away.
“So long, Brown. Hope I meet you again some
time," Dozy Cullop called after him.
“Thanks,” Brown returned heartily, looking back
to smile at the boy. “So do I.”
Scarbrough got up.
“Here,” he said, thrusting a bill at Dozy. “Stay
and pay my check," and without a word of explana-
tion followed Brown down the aisle.
He kept some distance back of him, and when they
19


THE OTHER BROWN
had reached the car in which they both had seats,
Scarbrough stopped in the narrow passage that ran
beside the smoking-room, and furtively watched the
other as he went on. The faces of the car's occupants
were toward him and half-way along sat Gil, his dark
head already lowered over a newspaper. Would he
look up when Brown passed? Would any sign of
recognition be exchanged between them?
This important question Tim was not destined to
have settled, for at the critical moment a woman seated
in front of Gil stepped into the aisle and shut off the
view. And when she had again removed herself,
Brown was in his own seat opening a newspaper, while
the Mexican, apparently, had not stirred.
“May have been just what it looked like — a mis-
take on Gil's part,” Tim told himself as, disappointed,
he walked back to the vestibule to wait for Dozy.
20
.


CHAPTER II
W HAT'S up, Tim?” Dozy demanded breath-
VV lessly, the instant he appeared.
“None of your business," Scarbrough informed
him pleasantly, as he pocketed his change.
“I hear you 're working for Uncle Sam now."
“Is that so? And where did you collect that valu-
able news item?” Tim's deceptively sleepy eyes wid-
ened inquiringly.
Dozy grinned impishly. Tim's eyes did not deceive
him. He knew that they were never sleepy, and he
also knew how keenly Scarborough disliked discussion
of his affairs.
“ Your mamma told my mamma, and my mamma
told me,” he mocked.
“Well, son, now that you know it, forget it,” cau-
tioned Tim. Especially,” he added more seriously,
“if our good-looking young friend, Brown, should
happen to ask you.”
“Brown!” Dozy's jaw dropped in amazement.
“ Tim! You're not after him?"
“Why not?”
“ He's no crook.”
“Took a fancy to him, eh? Well — so did I.
21


THE OTHER BROWN
And you 're probably right about him. But I'm tak-
ing no chances this trip — understand ?” Scarbrough
paused with a significant glance. “So don't talk.”
Dozy wanted to ask why. He wanted to ask other
questions. But experience had taught him that none
of them would be answered. So he contented himself
with repeating emphatically: “He's no crook.
He's all right. He's all right if anybody ever was.
And if you ask me, Tim,” he added, “I think he
acted mighty well about that dual personality business.
What in the name of decency made you keep after
him until he had to admit it was in his own family?
Could n't you see he did n't want to talk about it? "
“Well, you riled him some yourself when you took
him for English,” Tim evaded deliberately. “ Notice
that?”
“Notice it? I should say so! He got as red as
if I'd insulted him. Good Lord, Tim, you don't sup-
pose he's German!”
“He says he's American. Come on.”
Scarbrough led the way back to his seat, and as
they passed Brown, Dozy gave the latter a sharp, ap-
praising glance, carefully masked by a friendly grin.
“Aw, you 're plumb crazy – he's no crook,” the
boy growled into his companion's ear when they were
safely by. “And he can't be German either — with
that accent."
Tim made no reply. He had, as it happened, just
decided that the young man in question could be Ger-
22


THE OTHER BROWN
WA,
man, that that elusive foreignness in his speech might
be thus accounted for, though one had to admit that
a theory of Russian or Scandinavian birth would have
accounted for it equally well. However, not wishing
to discuss the point with Dozy, he led him into talk of
people and affairs “down home” until the porter
came along with his whisk-broom to tidy up his charges
for their arrival in New York.
“So long,” said Dozy, rising to go to his own niche
in the car behind. “If you get lonesome in the great
city look me up.”
“Sure thing. Still living with your uncle up
town?”
"Uh-huh. He's a good old scout — never gives
me any trouble.” With a parting grin the youngster
vanished.
Left alone, Scarbrough gazed thoughtfully down
the aisle at the back of Brown's blond head, then along
to Gil's dark one. The Mexican's hair was the color
of charcoal, straight, and coarse — Indian hair.
Other marks of aboriginal descent he bore in his high
cheekbones, high nose, long eyes, and pale copper skin.
He was middle-aged, a lawyer who for fifteen years
had practised his profession with only moderate suc-
cess, drawing his clientèle as he did from the few
Mexicans resident in New York. But latterly, owing
to the revolutions in their own country, the number
of these had greatly increased, and Gil's business had
grown accordingly; and in recent months he had also
23


THE OTHER BROWN
had the good fortune to secure as clients several rich
Americans for whom he had acted as agent in the
purchase of mining properties in Mexico. These
were said to have been bought in at bargain prices
from small holders unable longer to continue non-
paying investments, and Gil was supposed to have
profited handsomely by the deals. Certainly the qual-
ity of his clothes, his well-groomed aspect, and self-
satisfied air spelled prosperity in capitals.
So far, so good. But an intimation had now
reached Washington that these transfers of Mexican
holdings, legitimate enough in themselves, had a sin-
ister significance that gravely concerned the United
States Government. The new owners, it was alleged,
had no intention of waiting indefinitely for dividends,
and it was said that plans were already under way for
instigating raids of Mexican bandits into Texas to
force the Administration to send troops to the border,
a step which, it was hoped, would lead to war and in
due course to the resumption of industrial occupations,
under control of the United States.
Gil's complicity in this treasonous project was as
yet only suspected, and Scarbrough had been assigned
the task of keeping him under observation. It was
work that might prove of the utmost importance, in-
volving, perhaps, the peace of the nation and count-
less lives, and Tim felt intensely his responsibility.
After a full minute's speculative gaze at the black
pate of the Mexican, he looked again at Brown,
24


THE OTHER BROWN
Here, he felt, was a man of very different caliber, so
different indeed that it seemed absurd to couple the
two. And yet, though he reminded himself again
and again that he had not an iota of tangible proof,
the feeling persisted that between these men there
was some hidden bond. Although he knew that the
feeling might well be entirely due to his own nervous
apprehension, he thought it worth while a few minutes
later, when the train was pulling into New York, to
stop at the seat just vacated by Brown, and pick up
two crumpled bits of paper which he had seen the
young man toss away while the porter was brushing
him. From their color Scarbrough knew that the
papers must be Pullman checks, one doubtless for the
chair near which it lay. That one would teach him
nothing, for he was already aware that Brown had
boarded the train at Philadelphia. The other check
might, however, tell whence the young man had come
to Philadelphia, where he had perhaps only changed
cars.
Dropping the checks quickly into his overcoat
pocket, for he had not time to examine them then,
Tim followed Valentin Gil. Brown he soon lost sight
of on the crowded platform, and did not again see
Dozy. He had, indeed, all he could do to keep up
with the Mexican, who appeared to be in a hurry. Un-
encumbered by a bag, the latter forged ahead, mak-
ing his way by sheer weight of his thickset body. It
was only by walking almost on his heels and taking
25


THE OTHER BROWN
instant advantage of the openings he forced for him-
self that Tim was able to keep pace with him at all.
“Keep that taxi in sight!” he ordered his chauffeur
as he plunged into the taxi following Gil's.
The two machines rolled out of the station, units in
a long procession, and turned north to Seventh Ave-
nue. Tim dropped the window in front of him and
leaning forward studied the license number of the
other car until it was stamped on his memory. Then
he looked anxiously ahead. It was nearly eight
o'clock, and a few blocks farther on lay the junction
of Forty-second Street and Broadway, which, like a
mighty vortex, sucks to itself at that hour all the traffic
of the city.
“Get alongside,” he directed sharply, fearing that
if he did not keep abreast of Gil's taxi he might at
any corner be parted from it by a cross current of
travel. At last, however, they were safely through the
worst congestion, out of the roar and blaze, pointed
toward Columbus Circle. Reaching that pivot, they
swung to the right and entered Central Park West,
where in the early evening northbound vehicles are
scarce. For half a mile they held their course; then,
at a street in the Seventies the taxi ahead suddenly
turned, slowed down, and stopped at a house near the
corner.
“Look out now!” warned Scarbrough. “Pass
them! Now turn round and stop on the other side
of the street. I'll tell you when.”
26


THE OTHER BROWN
Plainly unsuspicious of espionage, Gil mounted the
stone stoop of the house before which he had stopped,
rang the bell, and stepped into the vestibule to await
admission. This came, as it chanced, just at the mo-
ment that Scarbrough's taxi halted at the opposite
curb, and Tim was given a brief, but very distinct view
of the tall, gray-haired man who opened the door —
distinct enough, at least, for him to see that the man
was not a servant.
The house, like all its fellows in the long block, was
four-storied, narrow, and brown. Nothing was no-
ticeable about it except that it showed fewer lighted
windows than any of the others. There were none at
all above the first floor, though that was hardly a mat-
ter for remark.
Five minutes passed, ten, then suddenly the door
was opened again, this time by Gil himself. Closing
it behind him, he came quickly down the steps to the
sidewalk and reëntered his taxi, which at once started
back along the way by which it had come. At the
first entrance into the park, however, it turned in, ap-
parently headed for the other side of town.
And then, just as Scarbrough's taxi had passed the
gate and was following the other down the broad park-
way, something went wrong. It stopped.
.“ What's the matter?” gasped Tim.
The chauffeur returned an inarticulate groan which
said only too plainly that he knew what the matter
was and was resigned to his fate.
27


THE OTHER BROWN
Deciding that such being the case, the wisest course
would be to leave him to it, Tim jumped out, thrust a
bill at him, and sprinted back to the street with a wild
hope of picking up a cab there. But the hope was
vain.
“All in the day's work,” he told himself stoically.
Anyhow, he had the license number of the Mexican's
machine; it would be a simple matter to locate it later,
and find out from the driver where he had gone.
But in the meantime what was to be done? He
might walk over to Broadway, get a cab, and try to re-
cover the lost trail by making the round of places Gil
was expected to visit. The plan held a bare chance
of success, and for want of another, Tim started off.
But he had not reached Broadway when he abruptly
discarded his first thought for a better second, which
was to find out what he could of the occupants of the
house at which Gil had called. It was not a house to
which he had been expected to go, and that fact made
it all the more important to know something about it.
Returning to Central Park West, Scarbrough
walked north. Near the corner of the street in which
the house in question stood, he met a policeman, a big,
genial Irishman, and after a little manæuvering and
the present of a cigar, Tim came to his point.
“Know the name of the people living in Number
Seven?”
“Number Sivin, is it now?” the patrolman echoed,
28


THE OTHER BROWN
and to Tim's astonishment his ruddy face broadened
with a grin. He winked.
"Sure; what's in a name?” he queried, chuckling.
“A rose be anny other name would smell the same, as
the poet says.”
Tim's blank gaze of wonder brought another chuckle
from him, and he continued :
“Sure now, if I knew the name, I'm thinkin' I
could av made me blessid fortune a-chargin' for the
information this week gone. If there's wan man,
there's twinty has asked me that question. But I
don't know, and that's the truth av it. She moved
into the house a week ago about. Anyhow, 't was then
I laid me eyes on her for the first toime.”
He paused and, regarding Tim seriously, nodded.
“ Ye're right though, she's a queen, a rale wan if
iver there was. Did ye ever now see the loike o'
them eyes? Velvet stars they are, and that 's the truth
av it."
Scarbrough smiled in noncommittal assent, not sorry
to have his curiosity misinterpreted. It was evident
that in addition to the man he had seen, the house
also sheltered a woman, an unusually good-looking one,
which was interesting news, though not important.
This was not a “woman case.”
“ Think she's married?” he asked, selecting the
question at random as one likely to elicit further infor-
mation.
29


THE OTHER BROWN
“Married! 'T is but a slip of a gur-rul she is !”
ejaculated the patrolman, rolling the word over his
tongue in his vehemence. “ Them's her folks she
lives with — the old man and woman. I've not yet
had a good squint at the mother, but the old fellow
looks to be English. Though 't is only guessin' I
am, and that's the truth av it. I know nothing at all
about them, who they are or where they come from.
English the old man looks, but them eyes of the
gur-rul never come out av England — or Ireland
neither.”
Seeing that the man had nothing more to tell, Tim
presently said good-night to him, and walked on
toward the house. As he did so, it occurred to him
that it was in that very block that Dozy Cullop lived
with his uncle. Dozy had a sharp eye for a pretty
face. If there was one above the average flitting
about his purlieus, he was more than likely to have
seen it and to have trustworthy data concerning its
owner.
With this happy thought Tim quickened his pace.
There was just a chance that Dozy had not yet started
for his college dinner.
30


CHAPTER III
VOU is wanted at de telephome, Mister Dozy."
Young Cullop turned from the chiffonier glass
before which he was putting the finishing touches to
the hurried toilet that he had made on arriving from
the train, and glared at Mose, the old darky who for
years had filled the double rôle of butler and valet in
his uncle's bachelor household.
"I'm not here,” he replied impatiently. “I've no
time to talk to anybody. Did n't I tell you to say I'd
gone out?”
“Yas, sah, an' de gent’man say he know it, but he
bleeged to talk to you des de same. It's dat Mister
Caucus."
“Kaukie! Why — what the devil? ” Dozy leaped
for the hall and tore down the stairs to the telephone
on the floor below.
“Hello, Kaukie, what's up?"
“Plenty — and then some. They 're trying to
kidnap our speakers. They got Beaseley yesterday
and carted him to Newburgh, but we chased up after
them and got him!” Kaukie paused to laugh his tri-
umph. “Say, you missed some fun, Cullop.”
“My luck!” groaned Dozy. “And all for a fool
wedding!”
31


THE OTHER BROWN
“I called up to tell you, you want to look out.
They 're probably laying for you in front of your
house, and your stunt is to go by the roof.”
“Roof!”
"Sure. Dead easy. Call up somebody at the other
end of the block and ask them to let you out through
their house. That's how I got here. And hurry up.
It's eight-ten now.”
Dozy hung up the receiver and dashed to a front
window, where, carefully pulling back the shade, he
looked down into the street. Breathlessly he watched
the passers-by, but they seemed to be only the usual
pedestrians. There was nothing about any of them
to arouse his suspicions. Then suddenly a black
shadow in the area of the house just across the way
caught his eye. Watching, it seemed to him to change,
to move. That's where they were — a bunch of them
— waiting for him!
He ran back to the telephone and unhooked the
receiver, then stopped short and hung up again. Why
- he did n't know the name of a single soul living on
that block. And probably Mose did n't either. Nice,
neighborly place, New York! He shouted for the
negro, who came running.
“ Mose, who lives in the corner house at the other
end of the block ? ” he questioned.
“Dey ain't anybody libbin' dere now, dey 's all gone
to de country.”
“Who lives in the next house?”
32


THE OTHER BROWN
"De next house? Nobody don'lib dere. It's a
boa'din'-house."
“ What's the name of — well, do you know the
name of anybody living near the other end of the
block?” Dozy demanded desperately.
“Yas, sah, I does. Dey 's a fambly o’de name
O'Harris libbin' in de fo'th house, or maybe it's de
fifth. I disremembers which. Dey 's a ve’y fine
fambly. Dey got lace curtains in de windows des like
we-all's. An' dey —”
But Dozy was already searching the H's in the tele-
phone book and did not listen. The Harrises were
numerous, but he finally located the one on that block,
and called the number. A woman's voice answered,
a maid's, he soon discovered, for when he had fin-
ished his rather breathless plea, she said she would
speak to Mrs. Harris. There followed a minute's
wait, then another woman's voice spoke to him, in-
quiring in an astonished tone just what it was he
wanted. When, however, he had repeated his request
and explained its urgency, she acceded graciously,
laughing as if amused.
“When is it you wish to come? ” she asked. “At
once? Very well, I'll have one of the servants go
right up and open the scuttle for you. Oh, not at all.
I'm very glad to help you out of your predicament.”
She laughed again.
Thanking her gratefully, he hung up and rushed
back to his room for his overcoat and hat, and was
33


THE OTHER BROWN
already half-way up the stairs to the roof when it
occurred to him that he had not asked Mrs. Harris
just where her house stood in the block. He would
have to count up till he got to her number — only,
bless Pete, if he remembered the number! He ap-
pealed to Mose who stood waiting to follow him up
and lock the trap after him.
“ Ef it ain't de fo'th, it 's de fifth, and ef it ain't de
fifth, it 's de fo'th," the old man assured him:
“All right. The trap will be unlocked. I can tell
that way,” said Dozy and he stepped out on the
roof.
It was a cold night, one of those tag-ends of win-
ter that often outlast April in New York, and it was
dark, without either moon or stars; but the lights in
the higher buildings in the next block shed a faint
illumination on his path. Fortunately there were no
high buildings in his block; he had a clear way and
level, with no barriers except an occasional low wall
over which he had only to step.
As he neared the end of the row of houses, he
stopped and counted. He had reached the sixth from
the corner, so his goal must be either the next or the
one after that. Ah, it was the next. Even in the
dim light he could see that the trap-door stood wide
open for him. Hurrying to it, he looked down, half-
expecting to find some one waiting below to receive
him. But there was no one; there was not even a
light. Probably the opening to the roof was in a


THE OTHER BROWN
closet that contained no light fixture. Funny though
that they had not left the closet door open!
He began the descent which was down steep, ladder-
like stairs, and when he had gone far enough, he closed
the trap above him and latched it. With the outdoor
light shut off, he was now in total darkness, and in-
voluntarily he hesitated, listening. But he could hear
nothing. Odd that there was no one about! Mrs.
Harris had been very cordial.
At the foot of the steps he stopped again and felt
in his clothes for matches. Of course, he had none.
There was nothing to do, but feel his way. A dusty
task, he discovered, but he soon located the door and
let himself into the hall. There he looked about.
A light rose dimly from somewhere below, prob-
ably from the street floor, three flights down, for it
was barely enough for him to see the top of the stairs.
Arrived there he peered down. The hall below seemed
as dark as this one.
He was on the point of calling out to announce
himself, for he felt extremely uncomfortable groping
his way through a strange house like a burglar, but
he reflected that the family must all be on the first
floor, and he was reluctant to give them any further
trouble on his account. Descending to the floor below,
he found all the doors closed as above, but here through
the key-hole of one a light showed, and as he passed
this door he walked as heavily as possible, hoping to
make himself heard by somebody. He even waited a
35


THE OTHER BROWN
moment at the top of the next flight of stairs, but no
one appeared.
Impatient now, he ran down these steps and hurried
through the second floor hall. Here, two doors stood
open, but the rooms were dark, and without pausing
again, he went on to the floor below, which he could
see was lighted. He gave no thought whether he went
quietly or not, but the thick stair carpet deadened
the sound of his steps, and he found himself still alone
when he reached the bottom and stopped under the
lighted chandelier near the front door.
The hall was merely a narrow passage, such as is
found in many New York houses. Beneath the stairs
that he had just descended was another flight, leading
to the basement, and at the head of this flight there
was a door, closed now, which led to what was prob-
ably the dining-room, as in his uncle's house. Open-
ing from the hall in front were the double doors of the
drawing-room.
One of these, he saw as he turned in that direction,
was partly open, but not enough for him to look into
the room. He could, however, see that there was a
light there, and after a moment's hesitation he stepped
to the door and rapped gently. There was no an-
swer. Raising his hand to knock more loudly, on a
sudden impulse, he pushed the door back instead and
looked in. Several gas-jets were burning in the or-
nate chandelier, and one glance down the long, stiffly
furnished room that looked as bleak and impersonal
36


THE OTHER BROWN
as a hotel “ parlor," sufficed to tell him that there was
no one in it. It was empty, and the double doors
leading to the dining-room were closed.
Retreating to the hall, he stood there, at a loss.
Eager and impatient to get away, he had only to open
the front door and walk out. But he could not leave
like that, without a word of thanks. Surely there
must be somebody in the house. Perhaps the family
had been on the point of going out when he called
up, and instructions about him had been given to a
servant who had forgotten them. Still, there had
hardly been time to forget; he had started almost im-
mediately after telephoning. Besides, some one had
opened the scuttle for him.
Puzzled, he waited. Perhaps he had arrived sooner
than was expected, and the servant had gone down
to the basement for something and would be coming up
presently. Walking back to the railing of the base-
ment stairs he looked down; but there was no light
below and no sound of anybody stirring there.
Then, suddenly, as he turned away he did hear some-
thing, and coming so unexpectedly after the long si-
lence it gave him an odd start. It was the first sound
not made by himself that he had heard since enter-
ing the house. He listened. It came from the dining-
room. Some one closed a drawer there, no doubt a
servant putting things away.
Dozy took a step toward the dining-room door to
knock, then stopped and opened his lips to call out
37


THE OTHER BROWN
instead, but changed his mind about that too. Knock-
ing on doors and shouting in strange houses was not
at all to his taste. The thing to do was to ring the
front door-bell. That would bring somebody. It
was what he should have done in the beginning, in-
stead of waiting there like an imbecile for some one
to turn up.
Opening the front door he stepped out and looked
about for the bell, but as his finger touched the but-
ton, he drew it back and looked down the street toward
the house opposite his uncle's. From the top of the
stoop on which he stood, he could not see into the
area, the ambush of his enemies, but what he did see
set his heart to pounding.
Two slender forms had emerged and were coming
up the street, advancing at such a slow, slinking gait
as made it plain that they were prowling about for
no good purpose. Somebody must have smelled a
rat.
Quivering with excitement, he jabbed the bell-but-
ton and heard the response of the bell within, then
turning again looked apprehensively down the street.
If only he could cut and run now, while the coast was
clear! But, of course, he could not, especially now
that he had rung. He must stay and let somebody
know he had been there.
Impatient, he stepped back into the house, expect-
ing to meet the servant who answered the bell half-
way and so expedite matters; but there was no one in
that he had in course, he could not come coast was
38


THE OTHER BROWN
sight, nor could he hear any one approaching. It was
obvious that the family were out and the servants do-
ing as they darn pleased !
Exasperated, he started forward, intending to go
back to the dining-room and rout out whoever was
there without any more ceremony; but at his first step
a noise from the drawing-room stopped him. He
heard the double doors at the back drawn open, then
closed again. Evidently the person he had heard was
coming that way instead of through the hall.
It flashed across Dozy's mind that in the low scrap-
ing of the doors as they slid back and forth there was
an odd suggestion of stealth. At least, it seemed to
him afterwards when he tried to revive each detail
of his strange adventure, that he recalled having had
some such impression; but at the moment he was too
impatient to indulge the idea and without waiting an
instant, he gave the half-open door of the drawing-
room a vigorous shove and marched in.
The next moment he found himself face to face with
a young man. Both of them recoiled from the unex-
pected encounter ; then Dozy laughed out wonderingly.
“Why, hello, Brown! You live here?”.
The young man's bare blond head shot up with a
violent start, and he stared at the boy.
“Oh,” said Dozy, his jaw falling as a second glance
at the young man's face told him that he had made a
mistake. “I beg your par —”.
But he got no further, for the stranger suddenly
39


THE OTHER BROWN
dashed past him to the hall; then came the sound of
his flying feet on the stairs.
Rooted for the moment by astonishment, Dozy gave
himself a jerk that landed him again in the hall just
in time for a last glimpse of a disheveled head as it
disappeared above. Arriving at the second floor the
owner of the head did not pause, but could be heard
running along the passage and up the steps to the
floor beyond.
“Well, what do you know about that?" Dozier
Cullop said to himself.
Then, out from the upper darkness of the house
there came a scream, a woman's scream, a piercing
shriek of terror.
It ran along the boy's taut nerves like an electric
current, shocking him into a palsy for several sec-
onds before he could free himself enough to move.
Impetuously he started up the stairs, then as abruptly
stopped again and listened. But there was no second
scream; all he now heard was the footsteps running
through the hall and again mounting the stairs.
He started up again, thinking of the woman, but
wheeled sharply at a new noise from behind him,
hurrying feet outside on the stoop. Then through the
front door which he had left ajar a man plunged into
the house.
It was Scarbrough. At sight of the boy he fell
back. “Dozy! What are you doing here? What
was that scream?”
40


THE OTHER BROWN
Dozy stumbled limply down the steps to meet
him.
“I don't know, Tim. I don't know,” he gasped.
“It was up there. Listen!”
From above came the distant slamming of a door.
“What is it?” said Scarbrough, staring. “What
happened? What are you doing here?”
“I don't know. We'd better go up and see.”
“Wait.” Scarbrough caught him back. “What
are you doing in this house?”
Breathlessly Dozy began to explain, but half-way
through Tim cut him off.
“ You must have got into the wrong house."
“Wrong house?” echoed the boy blankly. “But
the scuttle was open — Oh! that must have been
where he was going!”
"He? Who?”
“The man. When I got down-stairs and found no
one about, I went out and rang the bell, then came
back. I heard somebody in the front room and went
in and — there was a man there."
“ What sort of man?”
Dozy hesitated. Back to his mind had come sud-
denly the memory of what he had said to the man,
of his odd mistake. “Why — a- a young man,” he
faltered.
“What did he say?"
“He did n't say anything — just turned and ran
out to the hall and up the steps, and on up.”
41


THE OTHER BROWN
“ And you did n't hear anything at all until after you
rang the bell?”
“Yes, I heard some one in that room back there,
the dining-room, I suppose it is. I thought it was a
servant."
“And you saw no signs of any one about up-stairs,
you say?"
“No. Oh, yes; there was a light in a room on the
third floor. Where the woman was, probably.
Ought n't we to go up and see about her?”
“In a minute. I'll just take a look in that back
room first."
Scarbrough walked down the hall. At the head of
the short flight of basement stairs he stopped and
looked down. He saw only darkness. He heard
nothing. Then he turned to the door of the back
room.
It was not locked, but did not open more than a
few inches. Something seemed to be pressing against
it. Stepping back a little he drew a pistol from his
hip pocket.
“Open this door," he said quietly.
There was no answer.
He tried the door again. It gave a little, then a
little more; then suddenly he stopped pushing, closed
it, and turned, a queer look on his face.
“What's the matter?” asked Dozy.
Without replying Tim brushed by the boy, down
the hall and through the drawing-room to the double
42





THE OTHER BROWN
doors opening from it to the back room. Following,
Dozy noticed that he had put his pistol back in his
pocket.
The doors slid apart with a scraping noise under
Scarbrough's pressure, and the two men looked into
the room.
"My God!” gasped Dozy, recoiling from the sight
that met them; and Scarbrough, though he did not
speak, stood stock-still.
The room was not a dining-room, but a library
or study. Large, curtained book-cases lined the walls,
and in the middle stood a flat-topped desk over which
several newspapers lay scattered. So much one took
in at a glance, and at the moment a glance was all any
one could have spared for it. For on the floor,
crumpled against the door to the hall, lay an object that
drew the eye like a magnet.
It was the body of a man. He was about fifty-five
years old, gray-haired, thin, well-dressed, lying face
up, the eyes open and staring. Near him was a red
leather wallet from which the edges of disordered
papers jutted irregularly, as though they had been
crammed into it hurriedly.
“Stay where you are," Tim ordered his companion,
and crossing to the body, he knelt and examined it,
making rapid tests of pulse and heart. Then he
came back to Dozy who was watching, white-faced
and motionless.
“ Dead — a blow on the temple,” he announced
45


THE OTHER BROWN
calmly. “And still warm. Here, take this and go
call a cop.” He dug a police whistle from a trousers
pocket, then turned to the desk where a telephone in-
strument stood.
“ Police headquarters,” Dozy heard him demand
in his sleepy drawl, as he himself dashed for the street.
46


CHAPTER IV
THE whistle shrilled loudly through the night air,
1 once, twice, and again on a long, sustained note.
The boy waited, glancing first toward one, then toward
the other end of the block. Presently he heard heavy,
running steps and made out the tall form of a patrol-
man hurrying in his direction.
He whistled again to guide the man, and several
people coming along stopped and stared curiously at
him and at the house. He hardly saw them. He felt
as if he were dreaming. Nothing seemed real. He
glanced down the street toward his own home, then
at the house opposite it. They seemed to him a thou-
sand miles away. Vaguely he recalled that once —
years ago — he had started out to go to dinner.
“Well, what's the matter?” It was the patrolman
inquiring. Dozy led him into the house.
“I'm from Washington, Officer. Secret service,”
said Scarbrough, checking with a warning look the
man's astonished recognition, for it was the patrol-
man with whom he had talked only a few minutes ago.
“I happened to be passing this house when I heard
a scream. I ran up. The door was open. I came in
and found this. I've 'phoned headquarters, and I
47


THE OTHER BROWN
want you to stay here till somebody comes to take
charge. Don't touch anything. My friend and I are
going through the house. When the men come from
headquarters call me."
“Very good, sir,” said the policeman with an ac-
cent of awe, his face very red, probably from embar-
rassment at the recollection of his late facetiousness
toward a member of the secret service. It was plain
now that the latter's interest in this house had sprung
from something other than a pair of velvety eyes.
In the hall Scarbrough picked up a box of matches
from a stand and handed it to Dozy.
“Light up as we go along," he said.
At the foot of the stairs they stopped a moment
and looked up into the darkness, listening. Hearing
nothing, they ascended deliberately to the second floor.
Here Dozy lit the hall light and those in the rooms,
and Tim made a rapid search. The two smaller of
the four rooms were evidently not in use as sleeping
quarters, the mattresses of the beds being covered
with dust sheets. Of the larger rooms the front one
appeared to be occupied by some one on the eve of
a journey. There were no clothes or toilet articles
about, and on the floor stood a suitcase and a large
Gladstone bag. The larger room at the back was a
woman's, and in considerable disorder. Garments lay
scattered about on bed and chairs, dresser drawers
were open, and an empty trunk stood in the middle of
the room, its trays out on chairs nearby. In the small
48


THE OTHER BROWN
room adjoining were more trunks, all locked. In si-
lence the two men started for the floor above.
"Up there's where I saw the light through the key-
hole,” whispered Dozy suddenly. “ Look, the door 's
open!” As they turned the bend in the stairs, they
saw a streak of light from above. They paused and
listened; then went on again, until, arriving at the third
floor, they found the body of a woman lying across the
threshold of the lighted room. She was a stout,
elderly woman, a servant apparently, in neat black
dress and apron.
“She's alive,” Scarbrough announced after an ex-
amination. “Must have fainted. She does n't seem
to be hurt anywhere."
He pulled a liquor flask from his pocket, but recon-
sidering his intention, felt the woman's pulse again.
“She 'll be all right,” he decided. “We can revive
her when we get through if she has n't come to by
then."
He got up and looked about the lighted room. Here
also was a trunk in process of being packed, and a
worn traveling bag stood near it. One other room
on that floor showed signs of occupancy. In a closet
hung a night-dress and a silk kimono, and there were
a few toilet articles on the dresser. But there was no
trunk in this room, only a small black leather bag,
cheap-looking and quite new. On a chair hung a
small, white, maid's apron.
The top-floor rooms were all unoccupied apparently,
49


THE OTHER BROWN
for dust sheets covered the beds, and dust was on the
furniture.
“This is where you get to the roof,” said Dozy,
opening a door and admitting light into the dark in-
terior of the closet, empty except for the flight of nar-
row steps. “Ah, the trap 's unbolted! See? I
thought so! This is where he was making for. This
door is the one he slammed after him."
“Sure you bolted that trap when you came down?”
questioned Tim.
“ Positive."
“Let's go up.”
They climbed out to the roof and looked around.
“He had his getaway planned,” said Scarbrough;
“ otherwise he'd have gone by the front door which
was right before him and wide open. The question is
by which of these twenty houses did he go. Oh, no
use trying the scuttles,” he declared, as Dozy started
off toward the adjoining house. “He locked up after
him, of course.”
But Dozy persisted in his purpose, returning pres-
ently on finding the nearest scuttle locked.
“That's funny,” he said. “That next house must
be the Harris's, since this is n't. Mose said positively
the fourth or fifth from the corner. But it's locked,
and Mrs. Harris said she would have it opened for
me."
“Nothing funny about that. You did n't come, and
they locked it again.”
50


THE OTHER BROWN
“But it's hardly been long enough for that,”
Dozy objected, striking a light to consult his
watch. “It's hardly been twenty minutes since I
'phoned.”
Reëntering the house, they went down at once to
the woman on the third floor. She had recovered con-
sciousness, they found, and was now kneeling,
crouched against the open door of her room. Amazed
by her aspect, they halted and watched her.
Her face was turned their way, but she was not
looking at them, and she was shaking violently, obvi-
ously with fear, for her wide black eyes stared heaven-
ward as if in terrified supplication. Her lips mum-
bled an unintelligible prayer while with one tremulous
hand she crossed herself again and again.
“That's all right. We're not going to hurt you,”
Scarbrough said to her soothingly, approaching as he
spoke.
She closed her eyes and shuddered away from him
with a hoarse scream and once more made tremblingly
the sign of the cross.
“We're not going to hurt you,” he repeated, and
now, as if at last his voice had pierced her terror-
deadened ears, she looked at him. A swift, complete
change came over her expression. It was evident that
his face was not the one she had expected to see.
Vacantly she gazed at him, then at Dozy; she made an
effort to rise, and they helped her up.
“Who are you? What do you want here?” she
51


THE OTHER BROWN
asked. The words were spoken readily and distinctly,
but with a foreign accent.
“You'd better sit down a minute," Tim advised and
pulling out his flask, he offered it. “Better drink a
little of this.”
She waved it aside and kept her feet, clinging to
the door-jamb for such support as she needed.
“Who are you?” she asked again more firmly.
“What are you doing here?”
Closely for several moments Scarbrough studied the
brown, wrinkled face before he replied.
“We're here to see about what happened down-
stairs,” he said at last.
“ Down-stairs?” she repeated, frowning at him
wonderingly.
“Yes. You know all about it,” he asserted flatly,
his eyes fixed upon her.
" Down-stairs ? ” she echoed again, her own gaze as
intent as his. Then she started violently; her face
grew ghastly.
“The Señor! Something has happened to the
Señor? ” she cried, wildly questioning him.
He hesitated a moment, then assented with a nod.
“Madre de Dios!” she breathed, rapidly crossing
herself. “He is - dead?”
“ Yes.”
She gave a smothered scream and would have fallen
had Dozy not caught her. They carried her to a
chair and placed her in it, and she sat there trembling.
52


THE OTHER BROWN
With chattering teeth she tried vainly to pray, her
withered hand making continuously the sign of the
cross.
And then with amazing suddenness her agitation
ceased; the shaking hand fell limply to her lap, her
gray head sank upon her breast, and she murmured
dully:
“ It is the will of God, the will of God." There
was a strange new note of inertness, of resignation in
her voice.
After a long wait to see if she would say any-
thing more, Scarbrough spoke. “Now try to control
yourself,” he said kindly, “and tell me just what hap-
pened here — to you.”
She raised her head and looked at him, her black
eyes narrowing.
“Nothing happened to me,” she said steadily.
“Oh, yes, there did," he contradicted. “We found
you in a dead faint. You had had a scare — you'd
seen a man. Who was it?”
She did not answer, but turned away, and as if
mechanically, her hand lifted and again she swiftly
crossed herself.
“I saw no one. I saw — nothing."
He gave her a searching glance. She was staring
before her into space, and he was struck by the surpris-
ing strength of her profile, the set jaw and the firm
straight line of her tight lips.
“What did happen then ?” he asked.
53


THE OTHER BROWN
uttered no complaint. Supporting her from behind
while Dozy went ahead, Scarbrough was able to keep
a close watch on her face. He was puzzled. That
she was a servant seemed plain, but she was not one of
the modern sort, hired to-day, dismissed to-morrow;
she had probably been associated with the dead man
for years, and consequently was to be reckoned in this
affair as a member of the family. .
And she had lied. That much was certain.
Plausible as her story seemed, it did not square with
her behavior before she told it. Nor did it account
for her scream. She had not mentioned that; either
she did not know she had screamed, or did not know
that they knew it. But there could be no doubt, Scar-
brough felt, that she had seen the man who bolted up
the stairs and escaped by the roof. Awakening from
her swoon and hearing steps coming down, she had
believed that he was returning. It was fear not of
death, but of him, that had set her to babbling prayers
and crossing herself. Yet she had denied either see-
ing or hearing him, denied seeing or hearing any one.
Why?


CHAPTER V
INSPECTOR COOLEY from headquarters, a stout,
1 grizzled veteran with small ferret eyes and a pug-
nacious jaw, followed by two young policemen and
Ryan, the patrolman Dozy had summoned, came into
the hall to meet them just as they were beginning their
descent of the lower flight of steps. The four big
men, with the added impressiveness of their uniforms,
made a formidable looking group, and it did not sur-
prise Scarbrough that the old woman started and
caught her breath at sight of them. The fact might
be significant or it might not.
When they had reached the bottom, Tim introduced
himself and Dozy to the inspector; then, indicating the
woman, who had sunk upon one of the lower steps
and was watching them with veiled, somber eyes, he
said:
“She seems to be the only person in the house. We
found her up-stairs unconscious. I don't know who
she is.”
“What's your name, and who are you?” asked
Cooley gruffly.
“I am the housekeeper, Juana Martinez," the old
woman answered without moving.
“ Mexican?”


THE OTHER BROWN
“No.” She frowned and straightened herself. “I
am Spanish.”
“Who lives here?”
“ Señor Welles-Hewitt and his daughter.”
“ Is he Spanish?"
“No, English.”
“ Is he the dead man?”
She did not reply to that, and Scarbrough spoke.
“She has n't seen him yet; better let her have a look.”
Cooley nodded. “ Bring her in, Muller,” he ordered
one of his subordinates and, turning, entered the draw-
ing-room, beckoning Scarbrough to join him.
At Muller's approach the old woman shrank away,
and Dozy was moved to intervene.
“I'll help her,” he said, coming forward, and the
next moment was glad he had done so, for though she
did not thank him by word or look, she reached for his
arm with pathetic eagerness. Slowly he raised her
to her feet, and after a slight hesitation, she let him
lead her. Once started, she did not stop again, but as
they neared the double doorway into the room where
the dead man lay, it was plain to the boy that she was
straining every nerve to keep her self-control.
The body had been moved by the inspector's order
from the floor to a long davenport which stretched
diagonally across a corner of the library. The red
leather wallet now lay on the desk beside the neatly
folded newspapers. The inspector had obviously an
order-loving soul.
57


THE OTHER BROWN
In the doorway Juana Martinez stopped, gave one
wild glance at the head of the dead man, showing as
it now lay, the ugly purple welt on the temple; then
she shut her eyes and crossed herself, shudderingly.
“Ay, Dios!” she wailed.
“Is that him?” Cooley asked, and she lowered her
head in assent.
They let her sit down then, out of sight of the
corpse, and Cooley began to question her. Her re-
plies, reluctantly and slowly as some of them came,
were nevertheless direct and made, all told, a simple,
straightforward story.
She had been for years, she said, housekeeper for
her present employer, Señor Lionel Welles-Hewitt, an
Englishman with mining interests in Mexico. He was
a widower with no family except his daughter, the
Señorita Alba, a young girl of twenty-one. The three
of them had left Mexico only ten days before to come
to New York and had at once taken this furnished
house with the intention of remaining until conditions
in Mexico should have improved. But at noon of that
very day the señor had suddenly announced a change
of plans. Business, he had said, called him to Mexico
for a short stay, and not wishing to leave his daughter
and an old woman alone in the house with only serv-
ants, he arranged that they should spend the time of his
absence at a convent in the city, the convent at which
the señorita had been educated.
After an early dinner which the housekeeper had
58



“Is that him?" asked the policeman





THE OTHER BROWN
herself prepared with the help of a maid, the other
servants having been already dismissed, she went to
her room to pack, sending the maid to pack for the
señorita. At half-past seven an expressman had called
for the trunk of the señor, who was to leave by a mid-
night train, and a few minutes later the señorita went
out for a little air, taking the maid with her. Shortly
after that, a quarter of an hour, perhaps, the front door-
bell had rung, and she had started down to answer it,
but hearing the door close, and then the voice of the
señor speaking to some one in English, she had con-
cluded that it was the señorita returning, and had gone
back to her room. There, tired out by the day's un-
usual exertions, she had sat down to rest a few min-
utes and must, she thought, have fallen asleep, for she
knew nothing after that until she had suddenly started
up, thinking she heard the door-bell ringing again.
The rest of the story was merely a repetition of what
she had told Scarbrough; that after the ringing of the
bell she had seen and heard nothing until he and Dozy
had come down from the roof and found her praying.
As for the scream — if she had screamed, it must have
been, she said, when that sudden, sharp pain struck
her heart. She might have cried out then, though she
had no recollection of having uttered a sound.
Closely questioned by the inspector, she declared
she had no idea who it was that the señor had admit-
ted to the house, nor did she know what he had said.
She had caught no words; she had not listened; she


THE OTHER BROWN
knew only that he spoke in English, not Spanish.
Whether any one had been expected to call, she could
not say. Perhaps the señorita would know when she
returned.
“Now, look here,” said Cooley, pinning her with
his small, shrewd eyes. “You've been working for
this man for years, you say, living in the same house
with him, and first and last you must have found out
a good deal about his affairs. Who do you think
killed him? ”
Juana Martinez closed her eyes and crossed herself.
“I do not know,” she said.
“Well, maybe you don't, but you got some suspicion,
have n't you? Why, you 're bound to have!”
“I know nothing," she answered in a low tone.
“Did many people come here to see him?”
“No, not many. Gentlemen came sometimes —
for business. I did not know their names.”
“What business did they come for?”.
She seemed to hesitate; then she shrugged her large
shoulders.
“I do not know," she answered.
“And you've no idea at all who could have done
this job? Had he been having trouble with anybody
lately, trouble about business — or anything else?”
She shook her head.
"I do not know. I know nothing."
Inspector Cooley gave a growl of exasperation.
“When do you expect the daughter back?” he asked.
62


THE OTHER BROWN
At this question the old woman started slightly and
glanced toward the street.
“She must come very soon,” she replied. “ She
went only for a short walk. She had been in the
house all day.”
With a grunt the inspector turned from her to ques-
tion Scarbrough, but the latter, with a significant
glance, motioned him toward the back room.
“I think you 're on the right track, inspector," he
began diplomatically. “She knows more than she
will admit, so don't you think it will be wiser not to
ask me or Cullop anything in her hearing? She may
not know that Cullop saw the man, so why tell her?
Besides, for the boy's sake, it's hardly fair. He got
mixed up here through no fault of his, and I don't
want him running any needless risks.”
Cooley looked over at Dozy who was waiting out
of ear-shot across the room. “Just how is he mixed
up in it?” he asked.
Tim explained briefly. “It's an odd coincidence,"
he ended, “but I can vouch for him, and you can test
his story very easily by looking up the Mrs. Harris
who agreed to let him go through her house. She
probably lives next door.”
Cooley nodded and, beckoning Dozy over, demanded
his own account of his strange experience, interrupting
the recital with frequent questions.
“And you say you came into this room after ring-
ing the bell because you heard those doors being
63


THE OTHER BROWN
opened?” he asked when the boy had reached this
point in his narrative.
“Yes. I thought the servant I had heard in the
back room was coming through here instead of through
the hall, and I was in a hurry. Of course, I did n't
know whether it was a servant or not,” Dozy broke off
to explain, having been admonished more than once
to be exact in his statements. “But what I heard
sounded like a drawer opening — or closing — and I
supposed _”
“Never mind that. When you came in here, you
saw a man coming out of that room?"
“Oh no — I did n't see him come out. But I had
heard the doors open and close again, and when I came
in, he was here, so I thought —”
“Never mind what you thought. Stick to what
you know. Where was he when you first saw him?”
“ Pretty near the door, I think, — the hall door,-
because we almost ran into each other. And then —”
Involuntarily he halted. He had come to the point
at which he could no longer be absolutely frank. He
had no right to be. To report the mistake he had
made would almost certainly cast suspicion on an inno-
cent man. This he had realized when he had evaded
Tim's question, and that was before the discovery of
the murder. Now the necessity for silence was im-
measurably increased.
“Go on. What happened then?” asked Cooley.


THE OTHER BROWN
“Why — nothing. We just looked at each other,
both of us sort of surprised and —"
“You got a good look at him then? Describe him.”
“Well — he was young, about twenty — between
twenty and twenty-five, say. And he had light hair.
He did n't have a hat on, so I noticed his hair. It was
curly and sort of mussed up.”
“How about his height and weight?”.
"He was sort of tall — I think, and — and slender.”
“How was he dressed ? "
"I did n't notice,” said Dozy truthfully. “You
see, I only saw him for a second and I was so sur-
prised —”
“ Surprised? Why?”
“Because I—I did n't expect to see — anybody
and ”
“You did n't expect to see anybody? Was n't that
what you went into the room for?”
“Why — yes — of course,” stammered poor Dozy.
“But I did n't expect to — to bump right into them.”
“ And did you bump into this man?” demanded the
inspector.
“ Well, not quite — I almost did though.”
“ Think you 'd know him if you saw him again?”
"I — don't know. I could n't say positively."
“ Did he say anything to you? ”.
“No, not a word — just bolted out of the room
and up -”
65


THE OTHER BROWN
u
S
“ Did n't you say anything either?" Cooley inter-
rupted.
It was the dreaded question, the question the boy
had been praying would not be asked. But he had
made up his mind if it were asked, to answer it as
truthfully as he could without involving anybody else.
He had the innocent man's instinct to tell everything
and yielded to it almost automatically.
“Yes — I said something," he replied, and instantly
he was aware of a movement of surprise from Scar-
brough. “Oh, it was nothing much — I did n't have
a chance," he stumbled on. “I just said: “Why,
hello — you live here?'”.
The words were hardly spoken before he realized
his folly and regretted that he had not had the wit to
lie outright.
“What's that?” Cooley came back at him sharply,
and Dozy had to repeat the words, which he tried to
toss off lightly.
“What did you say a thing like that for?” asked
his inquisitor. “You said you thought he was a
servant!”
“Oh, I saw right off that he was n't!” answered
Dozy. “But I did n't know whether he lived in the
house or — or was just calling.”
“ Huh! Kind of free and easy way to talk to a
strange man in a strange house, was n't it?”
The boy laughed nervously.
“Well, I'm a kind of free and easy person. Mr.
66


THE OTHER BROWN
Scarbrough will tell you that,” he replied. But he did
not look at Tim. He knew without looking that those
deceptively sleepy eyes were boring holes in him. He
could feel them.
“Huh!” Cooley grunted again thoughtfully.
“And he did n't answer you?'
“No, just bolted out and up the stairs; then the
woman screamed and Mr. Scarbrough came in. He
can tell you the rest, Inspector, better than I can,”
Dozy hurried on. “So if you don't mind I 'll go.
I've got a dinner date.”
“Sorry," snapped Cooley. “But you 'll have to
postpone it till we locate that Mrs. Harris and get her
story.”
“Why not go there now, Inspector ? ” Tim put in.
“Waiting for the coroner,” the inspector growled.
“Would n't it be a good idea to get this point set-
tled before the coroner comes? It's only next door,
you know."
Cooley suppressed a frown. It was plain that he
did not relish interference; at the same time he hesi-
tated to offend a member of the United States Secret
Service; there was no telling when there might be a
come-back.
“ All right,” he conceded grudgingly. Turning, he
picked up the dead man's wallet from the desk and for
a moment stood frowning at it doubtfully, apparently
uncertain whether to take it with him or leave it.
“Was he robbed ? " asked Tim.
67


THE OTHER BROWN
“ Robbed! Did n't you look at this ? "
Cooley opened the wallet and turned back an inside
flap, revealing a section tightly packed with money.
“ There's five hundred dollars there," he said.
“And look at here!” He next brought to light a
chamois case in which lay several jeweled rings and
scarf-pins. “And he's got a good watch on him too.
The guy that done for him was n't after coin. He
must have wanted papers — looked through them all
in a hurry, by the way he left 'em. We can make a
better guess about things when we know what turns
up missing."
Closing the wallet he placed it in an inside pocket
of his coat.
"Looks like the butt end of a gun was used, don't
it?” he asked, glancing down at the dark bruise on
the temple of the murdered man.
Scarbrough nodded.
The inspector turned away. “He was going to
Mexico all right,” he added. “Had a ticket and trunk
check in his pocket. Come on.”
Scarbrough and Dozy followed him out of the house.


CHAPTER VI
M RS. HARRIS was not at home. But a few
IV questions to her butler revealed the fact that he
was the person really wanted, for it was he who had
been sent up by his mistress to open the scuttle for
Dozy. Being a well-trained English servant, he was
opposed on principle to discussing with outsiders any
matter involving his employer; but the majesty of the
law, made manifest by Cooley's uniform, overcame
his scruples.
His story of the telephone call verified Dozy's.
Mrs. Harris had sent him up to the roof where he had
waited for some time, he said, until, thinking the young
man was not coming, he was just closing the trap
again when he suddenly heard the sound of running
steps above him.
"I thought it must be the gentleman, sir,” he told
the inspector, “and was raising the trap for him when
I hears the steps go by. 'He's missing the house,'
thinks I, and was going to call out to him. But when
I looks, sir, he's already going into the next house."
“ Which one? That? ” Cooley pointed toward the
Welles-Hewitt house.
"No, sir — on the other side, sir. I starts after
69


THE OTHER BROWN
him to call him back, thinking it might be dangerous
for him, going into a strange house where he was n't
expected - being taken for a burglar, perhaps, sir.
Then I remembers as how that 's a lodging-house, and
as such used to unexpected ins and outs — in a man-
ner of speaking. So then I waits a bit longer, but
thinking it must be all right — him not coming back,
sir — I locks up again and comes down-stairs."
. “Could you see him? Would you know him
again?” Cooley asked.
"No, sir. It was too dark, sir. And his back was
to me.”
Informing the butler that he might be called upon
to repeat his story at the inquest and was to hold him-
self in readiness, the inspector and his companions left
to continue their inquiry next door. Patrolman Ryan
was summoned from the scene of the murder to stand
guard outside the house about to be visited, since it
might become necessary to search the place, and giving
him strict orders to allow no one to leave while they
were inside Cooley ascended the stoop and rang the
bell.
From within the boarding-house — for such it
proved to be - came a lively strain of dance music
played by a victrola, and when the door was presently
opened for them by a colored maid, several couples
could be seen dancing in the long parlor. From one
of these pairs the maid detached her mistress, Mrs.
Malone, a fat little woman of forty, who came puffing
70


THE OTHER BROWN
up, on the defensive and highly resentful of the intru-
sion of the police and of the implied aspersion upon
her house and her people.
"Sorry, madam, but we got to make a search,” said
Cooley shortly. “ Just take a look round,” he added
to Dozy.
“Not there," answered the latter, thankful for the
fact. He felt wretchedly uncomfortable; he had never
been in a position he liked so little, and he fervently
hoped they would find no one in the house who re-
motely resembled the man he had encountered.
“ Anybody left here in the last half-hour ? ” ques-
tioned Cooley, glancing from the landlady to her maid
who had lingered in the offing to stare her wonder at
the invaders. “Sure of that?” he snapped when he
got a negative reply. “How long these people been
dancing here?”
“Ever since dinner,” said Mrs. Malone.
Cooley stepped to the doorway. At sight of him
the dancers stopped, and some one shut off the music.
" Any of you people notice anybody go out that
front door in the last half-hour?”
There was a startled hush, then a woman spoke.
“Why, yes — I did," she faltered, wonderingly.
“ About ten minutes ago.”
“ A man?"
She nodded and turned to Mrs. Malone who had
followed the inspector to the door. “ It was that
new young man on the top floor, the one with the light
71


THE OTHER BROWN
hair," she explained. “I wondered if he was leaving
for good. He had a suitcase."
This appeared to be news to the lady of the house,
surprising news.
“Why — is that so?” she puffed, staring at her
informer.
“Who is the man?” demanded Cooley sharply.
“Why — I don't know," she told him with a blank
look. It was obvious enough that she did not. '
“He's not been here a week yet. His name is
Brown.”
At the name, coming so unexpectedly, Tim Scar-
brough turned with a startled glance at Dozy. But
the boy, on his guard, did not move. He held his eyes
by main force on Mrs. Malone, though he felt his face
grow rigid, his hands icy.
“Describe him," the inspector ordered.
“Well — he's quite young and good-looking -—"
“Aw, he's only a kid, Inspector — this Brown is —
twenty-two or three at most," volunteered a young man
among the dancers, his tone plainly indicating that in
his opinion the officer was barking up the wrong tree.
“I know that,” snapped Cooley, his tone implying
that he would like it to be distinctly understood that he
knew his own business best. “What's he look like?”
“He's tall, slim, dark-complected —”.
“He's sun-burned, been spending the winter in the
south,” Mrs. Malone interposed with a touch of pride.
“He's English, I think.”
72


THE OTHER BROWN
“ English, huh? And just been here a week?”
“A week to-morrow — paid in advance,” she an-
swered, as though confident that a fact so important
to her must be of value. “But he has n't slept in his
room more than once or twice, and he has never taken
a meal in the house.” Here she broke off with an
alarmed glance at her questioner, as if the circum-
stances just mentioned had suddenly assumed a suspi-
cious aspect. “But he told me he would n't be regu-
lar at first,” she explained nervously. “He said he
had business that would take him out of town a good
deal.”
“ What kind of business?”
"I did n't ask. I never pry into my people's
affairs!” the landlady replied, recovering her aplomb.
Cooley turned again to the group of boarders.
“ Any of you know anything about this man? None
of you ever talk to him?”
“I've passed good-evening on the stairs," answered
the man who had spoken before. “But just from that
I got a most favorable impression, and it's my
opin -"
“Nobody else ever speak to him?"
One or two of the boarders shook their heads, the
rest making no response of any kind, whereupon Mrs.
Malone began haughtily:
“My people are not the sort to _"
“ All right, all right,” Cooley cut her off, impa-
tiently. “What time did this Brown come in to-night?
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THE OTHER BROWN
None of you know?” He glared around the circle
of faces, and as one after another the heads shook,
he grunted his disgust. People never did know any-
thing worth knowing. “All right. Now we 'll go
through the house,” he announced bruskly.
At this there was a movement of concern among the
assembled household, followed by a scurrying toward
the stairs. Cooley let them all pass. “They ’11 light
up and save time,” he said to Tim.
This proved to be the case, and the search pro-
ceeded rapidly, the landlady leading the way with a
deeply affronted air.
Dozy, on the lookout for a word alone with Scar-
brough, at last got the chance to whisper:
“It was n't the man we met on the train. 1-"
“Shut up,” Tim warned under his breath. “And
stick to your story — hear?”
Dozy nodded, astonished, but infinitely relieved.
On the top floor Mrs. Malone pointed to the closed
door of one of the front rooms. “That's his," she
said shortly.
Cooley entered, lit the gas, and looked around.
“Left in a hurry," was his comment.
“He only had a suitcase of things,” Mrs. Malone
protested
“Well, he took 'em all.”
Apparently he had, for even after a detailed search
of the room no clue to its late occupant came to light
except an empty whiskey flask, found in a bureau
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drawer. As his eyes fell on its label, the inspector's
face cleared visibly. He jerked his head around to the
mistress of the house.
“Did he leave this?” he asked.
“Certainly,” she replied with asperity. “My rooms
are always thoroughly cleansed after each guest."
Slipping the flask into his pocket, Cooley made an-
other attempt to extract additional information from
her; but apparently she possessed none. She did not
even know her lodger's first name; no mail had ever
come for him; he had had no visitors.,
“Where do you get to the roof?” snapped Cooley,
finally. “Guess you know that!”
She did, and ungraciously told him.
“I'll take a look round,” he growled as he mounted
the steps, followed by Scarbrough. Dozy remained
below with Mrs. Malone.
A survey of the shadowy housetops yielded noth-
ing new. But Cooley, it appeared, was in no need of
further enlightenment. He had made up his mind
about everything.
“He got into the house this way; that's plain," he
informed Scarbrough. “ It was a premeditated job
if there ever was one. He'd been laying to do it for
a week — ever since he took that room, and had to
do it to-night on account of the old guy going away.
It was planned neat enough. You got to hand it to
him. He'd have got away with it all right, too, if
that kid friend of yours had n't made a mistake and
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got into the wrong house. And that was an accident
the smartest crook on earth would n't have looked for
to happen.” There was a shade of admiration in the
inspector's voice.
“But if he got into the house by the roof, who was
it Welles-Hewitt let in, do you think?” Tim ques-
tioned. This was the one point in Cooley's theory
that interested him.
“Nobody. The old woman was lying to us — try-
ing to throw us off the scent. He was n't the kind to
answer door-bells. He was used to servants."
“But the servants were all gone. And he may have
thought it was his daughter — as the housekeeper did.”
The inspector shook his head. “Take it from me,
he never went near the door, Mr. Scarbrough. The
woman is lying – trying to save her skin. It was
her that did the inside work. That's why she says
she did n't scream and did n't see anybody. But it was
her opened the scuttle and got rid of the servants.
And it won't surprise me any to find out it was her
sent the girl out for a walk with the maid."
“But if she was in on the thing, why did she
scream?”
“Oh, I dope that out this way," Cooley answered
with ready resource. “The job was to rob, not mur-
der the old guy. You 'll see! To-morrow it 'll come
out that there's important papers missing. They'd
planned it for some night when the family was asleep.
But they waited too long, and when the old man sud-
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THE OTHER BROWN
denly decides to go to Mexico, they see they got to act
quick. If he's leaving at midnight, his daughter's
apt to sit up till he goes, and the only chance to get
her and the maid out of the house is to send 'em out
to walk, and that has to be early in the evening. As
soon as they 're gone the old woman opens the scuttle
and lets the young guy in. Then I guess something
went wrong, like it does sometimes, and he had to
croak the old guy to get what he was after, or to shut
him up, maybe. And when he saw the woman up-
stairs as he was making his getaway, he told her.
That's why she screamed.”
“I see. You've worked it all out very cleverly,
Inspector."
Cooley accepted the compliment with a grunt of
satisfaction. “I always strike a theory right off the
bat,” he said complacently. “I got imagination.
You got to have it in this business."
He led the way down, leaving Tim to close and bolt
the trap. The bolting, however, proved impossible,
the bolt having been filed off so that it would not catch.
“Neat work,” applauded Cooley. “Was n't taking
any chances of having it locked on him.”
Rejoining Mrs. Malone, the inspector ordered her
to collect her household, to whom he issued a curt
warning not to talk to outsiders about the case.
“And that goes for you, too,” he informed Dozy
as they left the house. “I want to keep details out
of the papers for the present, so you cook up an-
77


THE OTHER BROWN .
other excuse for being late to dinner. Understand ? "
Dozy gave his assurance with alacrity and dashed
away. He knew an hour of reckoning was coming
with Tim, but he felt safe from the inspector. Tim
would not betray him; he was sure of that.
He was right. Nothing was further from Scar-
brough's purpose than to tell anybody of the meeting
with Brown on the train. For that would connect
him, Scarbrough, too closely with the case and hinder
him in carrying out his instructions from Washington.
Ryan, the patrolman on guard before the Malone
house, informed them, when they appeared, that more
men had arrived from headquarters.
“ All right,” said Cooley. “I'll send some one over
to relieve you, and you can go back to your beat."
“ And the young lady has come home, sor.”
This Ryan announced with a side glance at Tim,
who caught it and understood. Of course the patrol-
man was wondering about him; it was only to be hoped
that he would content himself with wondering. To
explain to Cooley why he had pumped the policeman
about the Welles-Hewitt house a few minutes before
the discovery of the murder, might involve Valentin
Gil in the case and block the investigation of the Mexi-
can plot. And such a contingency must at all costs be
avoided. What was the 'escape of one guilty man
compared with the peace of a nation?
“Ah, back is she? ” exclaimed Cooley, and at once
started hurriedly off.
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• THE OTHER BROWN
Scarbrough fell into step beside him. He could not
do better for the present than to stay and see the thing
through, he thought. Besides, he was not averse to
a glimpse of “the young lady."
“I don't suppose you need me any longer,” he be-
gan in his most ingratiating drawl, “but if you don't
mind, I'd rather like to hang round for a while. It's
a great pleasure to watch you work, Inspector.”
“Oh, hang round all you want,” returned Cooley,
flattered into graciousness. “But you 're free to go
any time you get ready. I know where to find you.”
“Thanks," said Tim. Then taking advantage of
the favorable moment he put a direct question.
“Did that whiskey flask give you any clue?”
Cooley grunted in assent.
“The label shows it was bought in Mexico. He's
the man we want, all right.”


CHAPTER VII
'
M Y name is Rosalba Yznaga. Mr. Welles-
Hewitt was my stepfather. No, no, I have no
idea who could have done this terrible thing!”.
The girl was seated, facing the inspector as he ques-
tioned her, but now, as she shuddered out her denial,
her wonderful dark eyes traveled from him to Scar-
brough, then on to the group of policemen at the far
end of the room, every one of them with his rapt gaze
upon her face. It was evident that to her their pres-
ence in the house was almost as great a horror as the
tragedy that had brought them.
She was richly dark, with a clear olive skin. Her
face, a longish oval, shadowed by the frame of her
dusky hair and by the soft-brimmed, girlish hat she
wore, was very pale. There was a little color in her
full lips from which now and then as she spoke, she
caught back her breath tremulously. She sat rigidly
erect, her slim, gloved hands tightly clasped together
in her lap.
At her side, still seated where Dozy had placed her
on bringing her into the room, was the old housekeeper,
Juana Martinez. Her fleshy body was sunk low in
her chair, her eyes were closed, her lips moved cease-
89


THE OTHER BROWN
lessly. Ever and again, as if at set intervals in the
prayers she was repeating, she crossed herself. Once
she raised her head and looked over at the girl who
was speaking, but her vacant eyes showed that she
gave no heed to what was said.
And behind these two, at a respectful distance, with
face as white and terrified as that of her mistress,
stood the young housemaid.
“I have been to church. Mrs. Martinez insisted
that I go out; I had been in the house all —”
“ She insisted?"
Cooley snapped the question and, with a passing
glance of triumph at Scarbrough, looked hard at the
old woman. But the latter gave no sign of having
heard, and it was clear from the expression of the girl
that she was unaware of having said anything start-
ling.
" She is always careful of my health,” she explained,
“so when she said I must go out to get some air, I
decided to go to church and offer a prayer for my step-
father's safety. You see, it is very dangerous in
Mexico now for foreigners. That is why we could
not stay there."
“What are you? Spanish? You don't talk like
it,” said Cooley, his little ferret eyes blinking at her
suspiciously. In her speech there was, indeed, no
trace of foreign intonation, though to Scarbrough's
trained ear the voice itself had a warm, full-throated
resonance rarely heard in a native speaker of English.
81


THE OTHER BROWN
"I was educated in England and also went to school
here in New York for a time. Besides, I have lived
all my life with my stepfather who is English. We
have always spoken English.”
“I see. Do you know if he has had trouble with
anybody lately?”
"He has had no serious trouble, I am sure. He
has worried because our mine could not be worked,
and we were losing a great deal of money. It was
because of that that he was going to Mexico. But
he had no enemies — no one who would have — mur-
dered him.”
Her voice half broke on the horrible, incredible
word, and suddenly the old woman roused herself.
“It is the will of God," she muttered aloud, crossed
herself solemnly, and returned to her prayers.
“Miss Yznaga,” said Inspector Cooley after a short
glare of irritation at the housekeeper,“ do you know
a man named Brown?”
That he put the question with the hope of starting
something, Cooley afterwards denied. It had not
occurred to him, he said, that Brown was anything
more than a temporary alias, probably confined to Mrs.
Malone's boarding-house. But whether intentional or
not the name had an extraordinary effect, not on Mrs.
Martinez,— either she did not hear it, or it meant noth-
ing to her,— but on the maid and on Rosalba Yznaga.
The former gave a violent start, then stood rigid,
her face as white as death, watching her young mis-
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THE OTHER BROWN
tress, who in turn stared wide-eyed at the inspector.
“Why do you ask me that? ” she demanded in a
wondering tone.
"Oh, you do know him?” he returned eagerly.
“Who is he?'
“Who is he?”
“Yes, and what does he look like?”
“Look like?” she echoed again, blankly.
“Yes,” he snapped. “You know himn well enough.
I can see that.”
At this she recoiled slightly as though in offense at
his tone.
“I have met him only —only once in my life," she
answered after a moment's hesitation. “But why do
you ask about him? What has he to do with —
this?” She made a fleeting gesture toward the back
room.
“Where is he now?” Cooley demanded, ignoring
her question.
“Why do you ask?” she retorted, her own tone
sharpening.
“Here now, you got to answer questions, not ask
'em,” he admonished gruffly. “Where does this
Brown live?”
“I don't know.”
"What's his business?”
“I don't know."
“Well — what's his first name?”
“I don't know.”
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THE OTHER BROWN
never! He would not come. There was a reason —”.
She stopped short then, and an odd expression fitted
across her face as though some new thought had
startled her. But with a quick movement of her
shoulders, she seemed to brush it aside. “ It does not
matter,” she said. “He was not here. I do not be-
lieve you."
“What's the reason he would n't come here? Been
having trouble with the old man, eh?”
“No. I have told you my stepfather did n't even
· know him.”
“ Then why would n't he come?”
"I— don't know.” Again that odd look crossed
her face.
“Did he tell you he had a reason?”
“I will not answer any more questions."
Cooley glared at her for a time in helpless exas-
peration.
“Oh, all right, I can't make you talk if you won't,”
he announced, finally. “ But I got to tell you the way
you 're acting is likely to get you in bad. You're
pretty young, and you got nobody here to advise you,
and I 'm telling you for your own good. If you defy
the law and shield a criminal —”
“He's not a criminal."
“If he's innocent, what are you afraid of?” he
retorted. “And let me tell you this; if he's innocent,
you 're taking a bad way to prove it. Guess you see
that!”
86


THE OTHER BROWN
“But I can prove it! I can tell you some —”.
She broke off abruptly again, and her face betrayed
a conflict of impulses. She was tempted, it seemed,
to speak, yet for some reason hesitated. “No," she
declared at last, “I shan't say anything." And sit-
ting down she began to pull off her gloves with nervous
jerks.
Inspector Cooley gave a shrug of disgust and de-
spair and looked around at Scarbrough for sympathy.
“You ’re quite right not to press her now,” Tim was
quick to respond in an approving undertone, though he
had been listening to the examination with consider-
able annoyance, strongly tempted more than once to
intervene. Nothing was to be gained from a high-
spirited girl by the inspector's clumsy methods.
"She 'll talk to-morrow when she is calmer,” he en-
couraged. “She has had a bad shock and is excited.”
“ Sure. She's the excitable kind too. I could see
right off she had to be handled with gloves.”
Scarbrough suppressed his smile.
“Quite right,” he applauded. “But are n't you go-
ing to question the maid?”
“ Sure.” Cooley beckoned to the girl. “What do
you know about this affair?” he asked.
“I, monsieur ? But nozzing.”
“ You Spanish, too ?”
“French, monsieur. My name is Amélie Gabet.”
She approached hesitantly, a small, rather plump girl
of twenty-three or four, dressed in a closely-fitting
87


THE OTHER BROWN
tailored suit and a small, cheap-looking, stiff hat, the
severity of which was partly assuaged by the glossy
bands of fair hair that showed beneath it. Less
austerely attired, she might have been very attractive,
for her plump cheeks were as smooth and dimpled as
a child's, and her blue eyes soft and appealing.
“How long you been working here?”
“ Just a week, monsieur."
“ Know anything about this man Brown?"
“No, monsieur.”
“Never heard of him?"
“No, monsieur.”
Cooley fixed her with his ferret stare.
“Never heard Miss Yznaga speak of him?"
“Never, monsieur.”
“Huh! Where did you go when you went out this
evening?”
“ Mademoiselle has told you — to church."
“ How long did you stay there?”
Amélie Gabet's lips parted to answer, but closed
again as she glanced over at her mistress. There was
a pause.
“ Well?” the inspector prompted.
“A 'alf-hour, perhaps, monsieur. Mademoiselle
’ave geeve to me permission to go for 'alf an hour to
a cinema theater, but — but I ’ave remain at ze church,
monsieur."
At this announcement Rosalba Yznaga stirred in
her seat, and for the briefest instant her eyes met
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THE OTHER BROWN
those of the maid; then both looked away. Scar-
brough, watchful of details, noted that the hands of
the Spanish girl had tightened convulsively over the
gloves she held.
“I was ver' fatigue and I ’ave prefaire to sit quietlee
while mademoiselle ’ave go up to ze altar to pray,"
Amélie explained, and to Tim it was apparent that
her words bore relief to her mistress.
“ Then you came right back here?”
“ Yes, monsieur."
The inspector took out a note-book and wrote her
name down. :“Where do you live?” he asked, his
pencil waiting.
“I-I 'ave not yet found a place, monsieur," fal-
tered the girl. “Mademoiselle ’ave geeve ze permis-
sion zat I remain 'ere to-night. I ’ave no ozzer place
to go.”
“You shall come with me, Amélie, wherever I go,"
Rosalba Yznaga interposed. “When Dr. Tierney
comes he will tell me what to do. You don't need to
worry. I'll take care of you.”
The lashes of the French girl's, soft blue eyes flut-
tered a moment; then she looked down.
“Mademoiselle is ver' kind,” she said.
Cooley's ferret stare narrowed suddenly upon her,
shot to Miss Yznaga, then came back.
“ You must have some address," he insisted, after
a pause. “Where do you get your mail?”
" At ze 'ouse of a friend in Brooklyn, monsieur,


THE OTHER BROWN
But my friend ’ave move and ’ave yesterday sent me ze
new number. It is upstairs in my room. If mon-
sieur will permit, I will fetch it.”
“ All right, go ahead. And when you come down,
bring along whatever you want to take with you to-
night, so you won't have to go up again.”
“ Bien, monsieur.”
“There's something between those two," Cooley
declared in an undertone to Tim when the maid had
left the room. “And I'm not going to give 'em a
chance to get together. That French girl's got some-
thing on the other. Miss Yznaga was up to something
besides praying to-night, and the maid knows it. And
she knows about Brown — notice how she jumped
when I mentioned his name first? And notice how
quick the other was to say she'd look after her?
Huh! She 'll have to! Believe me, Mr. Scarbrough,
that was the coolest bit of blackmailing I ever saw
put over. And who'd ever think it with those soulful
eyes of hers ? Gee, but women are wonders! Hello,
who's this?”
The last remark was elicited by the sounds of move-
ment and of voices in the hall. Somebody was evi-
dently arriving.


CHAPTER VIII
THERE were two new-comers, the coroner's physi-
1 cian and Dr. Tierney, the family practitioner
and friend.
At sight of the latter, Rosalba Yznaga started for-
ward with a little broken cry of relief, and gathering
her into his arms, the doctor patted her soothingly for
a minute, then began with rapid questions to put him-
self in touch with the situation.
Scarbrough watched him with much interest, for
Dr. Percival Tierney was a big man in his profession
and one of the alienists most frequently called on for
expert testimony in cases of criminal insanity. He
was physically large, of a robust Irish type, with clear,
shrewd blue eyes, a florid complexion, and bushy white
hair. He moved and spoke with decision, his voice
and manner evidencing the man of authority. How
he had won his conspicuous place in the world might
easily have been learned that night by a far denser
observer than Timothy Scarbrough; for the doctor
had not been in the house two minutes before he was
in command.
“All in good time, Inspector. I 'll answer you pres-
ently, as soon as we get things straightened out a bit.
91


THE OTHER BROWN
Not much work for you here, Doctor, I see. There's
no doubt my poor friend was murdered, and how.
Will you just have the goodness to call up your office
and get a coroner here so that we can get ahead a
bit? And now, Alba, my child, you must be brave.”
As he spoke to the girl affection broadened slightly
the hint of a brogue in his speech.
“ Sit here, for a minute, me darlin', and let me take
a look at Nana — I'm thinking she needs it. Here,
two of you lads lend a hand. Gently now. Lay her
on the sofa, and let's have some water for her. The
dining-room 's below, my boy — just hurry a bit, will
you?'T is only Doctor, me dear; lie quiet. Now
open your mouth - a swallow of water and there you
are! - Very good, Doctor, I'm obliged to you.
We'll not be keeping you, sir. Good-night. And one
of you lads call up the Convent of Santa Ysobel, and
say to Sister Mary Bridget that Miss Yznaga and Mrs.
Martinez will be there in a winking, that Dr. Tierney
is bringing them in his car. And now, me love, run
along up-stairs and get whatever it is you 'll be taking
with you, and the same for Nana. Have you no maid
here to help you?”
At the question Inspector Cooley gave a start and
looked around. He had been standing beside Scar-
brough watching the doctor in fascinated envy, think-
ing that if the latter demanded the large fees that he
was said to receive with the suave assurance that char-
acterized him now, it was no wonder he got them. In
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THE OTHER BROWN
the inspector's absorption, Amélie Gabet had been for-
gotten. Where was she? She must have come down-
stairs again by this time.
“Amélie is up-stairs; she 'll help me,” Alba replied
to the doctor's inquiry. “She 'll have to go with us,”
she added with a swift glance at Cooley. “She ex-
pected to stay here to-night and has nowhere else to
go."
“Very well, me darlin'. Now run along. I'm
wanting to get you away from this sad house as soon
as may be.”
“One minute, miss.”
The inspector bruskly barred the way. His pur-
pose to prevent a private meeting between mistress and
maid still held, and he had no idea of allowing the
latter to go to the convent.
“Fogarty, go up-stairs and tell that girl to hurry!”
he ordered one of his men, waving him on his way
with an imperious arm. There were others besides
high-priced doctors who knew how to get themselves
obeyed. Then he at once turned to deal with the of-
ficious person who had already usurped the center of
the stage too long. Scowling importantly, he cleared
his throat.
“Well, Inspector, you were wanting to ask ques-
tions a while back,” interposed Tierney briskly. “So
let 's get to it, man. You ’re wanting to ask, of course,
what I know of this deplorable affair. Nothing, noth-
ing at all. 'T is a shock and grief to me, that I can
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THE OTHER BROWN
tell you. But who did it I can't imagine. 'Tis the
work of some greaser, no doubt. I know the breed
well. I practised in Mexico a number of years. It
was there I met my poor friend.
“Had he an enemy? 'T is possible — who has not,
I'd ask you ?” continued the doctor, when Cooley had
put the question. “What name is that? Brown?
I know more than enough of them, but no lad of that
description. What's that?” The physician turned
and looked down in surprise at the girl beside him.
“Is that true, my dear. Do you know this young
man?"
“ Yes,” she answered. “But what he says about
him is n't true. He was n't here to-night — he
was n't! I'm sure of it.”
“You see?” snapped Cooley. “Now make her
tell me what she knows about him.”
Tierney looked hard at the girl's white face, set in
defiance. On his arm he could feel her tense clutch.
“We 'll just let her be for to-night, Inspector," he de-
cided. “ She's overwrought now, and small wonder.
’T will be different in the morning. She will tell you
then whatever she knows.”
“I'll never tell — never! He did n't do it! He
did n't!” The excited denials came out half-choked
by tears.
“There, there, my love! Run along and get your
things, and we'll be going before Nana 's asleep en-
tirely," coaxed the doctor. He looked around. “And
94


THE OTHER BROWN
where's this maid you were sending for, Inspector ?”
At that moment, as if in answer, Policeman Fogarty
appeared in the doorway. He was alone.
“The girl's not up-stairs, sir,” he announced.
“What!” cried Cooley. “Where is she?”
“I could n't say, sir," Fogarty replied with a puz-
zled frown. “Muller says she's never come down —
he's been in the hall all the time. But I could n't
find her all over. I looked in the closets and under
the beds, sir, thinkin' she might be after hidin' her-
self.”
An instant of amazed silence filled the room; then
Cooley barked out a sharp command.
"Fogarty! Muller! Up to the roof with you
quick! If you find the scuttle unlocked, search the
roofs of the whole block. Try all the scuttles. If this
scuttle is locked, search the house again. The rest
of you stay here. And don't let anybody leave!”
And with that parting injunction the inspector rushed
to the street.
“What's up now?" inquired Dr. Tierney in as-
tonishment, looking for his answer to Scarbrough.
Tim explained briefly, watching the effect of his
words on the girl, who heard them with parted lips
and wide eyes. Shrewd reader of faces that he was,
the secret service man saw in her face only surprise
and bewilderment.
Hearing the inspector's step returning, Scarbrough
met him on the stoop.
95


THE OTHER BROWN
“ Can you beat it ? ” was the officer's wrathy greet-
ing. “She got away! Walked straight through the
house and by that bunch of simps dancing. They
thought she was somebody's laundress come for the
clothes, because she had a bag. Can you beat it?”
“Well, you know now who was working inside,"
said Tim. But Cooley snorted at the meager con-
solation and, reëntering the house, strode back to Alba
Yznaga.
“What do you know about that French girl?” he
snapped angrily.
She recoiled involuntarily from his violent manner
into the protection of the doctor's arm; but though to
Scarbrough's sympathetic gaze she looked like a fright-
ened child, it was obvious that fear had not robbed
her of her courage or quelled her defiance. She merely
stared at the glowering man, her lips tight.
“Well?” prompted Cooley irritably.
“ Just a minute, Inspector," Tierney interposed in
his authoritative way. “She will answer you. Alba,
my dear, you must answer," he gently urged.
“ There's nothing to be afraid of. Tell me what
you know about this girl.”
“I don't know anything,” Alba replied, turning her
white face to him. “ She came and asked me for a
place the day we moved here. I happened to see
her, as Nana was busy at the time, and I liked her
looks. She was so anxious for me to take her — she
begged so. She said she had had all her references
96


THE OTHER BROWN
stolen on the steamer coming over, and they were all
English ones, and it would take a long time to get
others, and no one would take her without them, and
she had no money — she said. I thought she was
telling the truth, and I was sorry for her. But Nana
was very angry with me for taking her without refer-
ences and wanted to send her away; but I said that
would n't be right — after I had engaged her.” Alba
looked around now at Cooley. “What has she
done?” she asked. “I don't understand.”
“You don't, eh?” he answered, his eyes leveled
on her suspiciously. “Then I'll tell you. She's a
confederate of this fellow Brown that you 're shield-
ing from the law —”.
“ That will do, Inspector," Tierney intervened curtly.
“As Miss Yznaga's physician, I decline to allow her
to be examined any further about this matter to-night.
She is in a highly nervous condition, and the ordeal
is likely to endanger her health. Come,” he said to
the girl. “I'll go up and help you get your things
together.”
Cooley permitted them to pass without argument.
Being something of a bully, he was easily overawed by
an opponent of the doctor's caliber. Indeed, when
they presently returned, ready for departure, he showed
an eagerness to make amends for his gruffness. And
Tierney, satisfied with his victory, met him half-way.
“You know where to find us, Inspector, when you
want us," he observed affably, as Cooley walked with
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him to the door, following the policemen who were sup-
porting the old housekeeper. Mrs. Martinez had been
awakened sufficiently to stand and walk, but the seda-
tive the doctor had given her had stupefied her, and
only for an instant did she seem to become aware of
her surroundings. That was when her glance, vaguely
wandering, chanced to fall on Scarbrough. Then a
gleam lighted the dull eyes, and as she looked away
again she made the sign of the cross.
“ It is the will of God,” she murmured, and sub-
missively let herself be led away.
"She knows,” thought Tim. “Seeing me reminded
her of what happened up-stairs. She knows the man
she saw there, but not as Brown. The odd thing is
that she seems to recognize a sort of divine justice in
the murder. I wonder why?"
From without the house came the sounds of the
starting of the doctor's motor. Tim looked at his
watch. Almost nine. No use to stay any longer!
With the family gone, there was little chance of fur-
ther facts coming to light.
Observing suddenly that he was for the moment
alone, Tim walked back to the library for a final sur-
vey of it. Of the tragedy enacted there it told little,
and that negatively. Obviously there had been no
struggle. Even the sparse hairs of the dead man were
unruffled. The blow, it appeared, might have been
dealt just as the victim had turned his back to open
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the door, perhaps to allow his murderous visitor to
pass out.
And who was that visitor? Brown or Gil?
If Gil, what evidence was there against him? Only
his call at the house. And fully fifteen minutes must
have elapsed between that and the finding of the body.
Then, too, his behavior had been in no way suspicious.
He had gone to the house and left it openly, in a pub-
lic cab. As for Brown, he had not only been seen in
the house after the murder, but had fled on discovery.
Also he had prepared his getaway and had had an
accomplice in the house.
Who was Brown? And why was the old house-
keeper shielding him? Why the girl?
Scarbrough was puzzled. Like Cooley he had suc-
cumbed to the human impulse to pick a theory out of
the air. But he had found none that explained all the
facts. The trouble was that too many facts were
missing.
Out in the hall he could now hear the inspector's
loud voice talking to somebody, probably the coroner.
Well, no need for him to stay. Better to put in his
time hunting up Gil's cabman at the Pennsylvania
Station. After all, the Mexican was the only person
whose movements concerned him vitally. Interest-
ing as this affair was, it was not his business except
as it threatened to interfere with what was his busi-
ness. All he had to do with it at present was to
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keep still. If innocent, Gil would, of course, tell the
police of his call on Welles-Hewitt, as soon as he
heard of the murder. If he did not tell, it would be
fairly conclusive evidence -
But here Scarbrough's speculations ceased as
abruptly as if the power to think had suddenly failed
him. For at that moment, entering the room behind
Cooley, he saw to his surprise the very man with
whom his thoughts were occupied — Valentin Gil.
IO0


CHAPTER IX
INSTANTLY Tim stepped aside, and to his relief
I the new-comer in passing gave him only the brief-
est glance before fixing his eyes on the body of the
murdered man.
“ When did it happen? ” Gil asked in his strongly
foreign accent, turning his swarthy, immobile face to
the inspector.
“ About eight o'clock.”
There was a pause then, during which Gil did not
move, but to Tim's watchful eyes it seemed that his
body stiffened, grew tense.
“You say you came here to see the old man on
business? Known him long?” Cooley inquired.
“Not personally. I have known of him for some
years," said Gil.
“Ever hear of a young English fellow, calling him-
self Brown — tall, with light hair?”
“Brown?” There was unmistakable surprise in
the Mexican's voice, and he repeated the name again
as if probing his memory before he answered. “Yes,
I have met a young man of that description and name,”
he said. “But surely you do not suspect —”.
“Oh, we got our proof,” Cooley interrupted.
“ Know where he is? ”
Gil shook his head. “What proof?” he asked.
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“I don't think I told you,” Gil replied suavely. “It
is a matter in no way connected with this affair. I
shall have to consult Miss Yznaga about it. May I
ask where she is?”
Grudgingly Cooley supplied the information.
“And you say you did n't know these people well?”
he questioned.
"No, and that only in a professional way. I am a
lawyer.” He took out a card-case and handed the in-
spector a card from it. “My address. Command me
at any time,” he said.
At this point Scarbrough who had quietly with-
drawn to the hall and was listening from there, left
the house and hurried to the corner where he had the
good fortune to pick up a taxi at once. Two min-
utes later he was once more trailing the Mexican.
And again, just as when he had attempted to fol-
low him an hour ago, Gil's taxi turned east, into the
park. But it was not the same machine. Tim noted
carefully its license number. Later, by tracing the
two taxis, he hoped to discover how the Mexican had
spent the time between his two calls at the Welles-
Hewitt house. For the present other questions were
to the fore.
Why had Gil concealed the fact of that first call?
What was his connection with the murder? That
there was a connection now seemed certain, and Tim
blessed the breakdown of his cab to which he owed his
present first-hand knowledge of the case. Was Gil
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an accomplice of Brown? Had he met the latter
after the murder, learned of the encounter with Dozy,
and come back to find out how much the police knew ?
It was possible.
But where was he going now?
Down the oiled parkway, shining black and lustrous
under the lights of the bordering lamp-posts, sped the
two cars, swerving round the lake only to bend east-
ward again until, on emerging into Fifth Avenue, they
turned north.
“Easy now! Pass them!” Tim ordered when the
machine ahead suddenly veered toward the curb and
slowed down. “Turn the corner! - That 'll do!
Stop!”
In another second he was back on the avenue. One
glimpse he caught of Gil at the door of the house be-
fore which his taxi had halted; then the Mexican dis-
appeared within. Tim drew back at once into the
side street to wait. His head buzzed with new ques-
tions. What had brought Gil to that house? It was
one Scarbrough knew well. Ten years ago, when he
had first come to New York, the home of Lars Johan-
sen, millionaire steel manufacturer, was one of the
city's sights, though since then scores of more costly
and less tasteful dwellings had outdistanced it in popu-
lar favor.
But what connection could the rich Swedish-Amer-
ican have with this case? Some link there must be.
What else could bring Gil there at such a time, as
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straight and fast as he could come? He was there
to see Lars Johansen himself, since the old man lived
alone in his big house, alone with the art treasures he
spent his leisure and money in collecting. But what
possible business could there be between these two men
at this hour?
While he puzzled over the incongruity, a startling
thought flashed into Scarbrough's mind. Quite re-
cently, as he suddenly recalled, the name of Lars
Johansen had been much in the newspapers, owing to
his refusal to convert his steel mills into munitions
factories. Simply a matter of conscience — he would
not profit by the destruction of human life, was his
stated reason. And though his attitude had met with
approval in some quarters, in others his “matter of
conscience” had been translated as pro-German feel-
ing, or anti-Russian, which came to the same thing.
Did not the world know, was asked by these critics,
how Sweden feared and hated Russia ?
But Brown? Where did he come in?
The thought of the Pullman checks suddenly re-
curred to Tim. He dug them from his pocket and,
striking a match, examined them. The first, as he
had expected, was for the seat occupied by Brown from
Philadelphia to New York. The other read, “ Spit-
zen to Philadelphia.”
Spitzen! Tim stared at the name until the fire
of the match reached his fingers and roused him from
his absorption. But when he had dropped the match
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and crushed it with his foot, he continued to stare
fixedly before him, trying to grasp the significance of
what he had just learned.
Spitzen was the Pennsylvania town in which the
Johansen steel mills were located. The mills were
Spitzen. Their smoke made the place seem at a dis-
tance like a mere smudge on the sky, and no one lived
there except the mill people, though once the town had
been a clean, little Swedish settlement and the home
- his first in America — of the immigrant Johansen.
Nothing but business could have taken a man like
Brown to Spitzen. But what business? Again the
incident of Brown's encounter with Gil in the dining-
car came back to Tim's mind. He remembered his
suspicion of a bond between the two men. Was it pos-
sible, he asked himself, that the rabid, pro-British
newspapers were right? Was Germany backing Mex-
ico in her defiance of the United States? If that were
possible, absurd as it seemed, then it might also be that
the murder of the Englishman, Welles-Hewitt, was
part of a political plot.
From that point of view, Brown's guilt took on
a different aspect. It became suddenly believable.
Hitherto, even in face of the overwhelming evidence,
Tim had found it impossible to convince himself that
the man with whom he had talked that evening could
be guilty of such a crime. But, granted a patriotic
motive, there was no limit to what a man would do,
especially a young man. And was it not to the young
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What Porough Shad as
and ardent, with their recklessness of death, that the
dangerous work in any project always fell?
And who then was Welles-Hewitt? A secret agent
of his government? Had he been murdered to pre-
vent his going to Mexico, or to secure certain papers
in his possession? The latter, undoubtedly; for the
plot must have been under way when Brown engaged
his room at the boarding-house and when his confed-
erate, the French girl, entered the Welles-Hewitt
home, and at that time the victim had apparently had
no intention of going to Mexico. Yes, it was papers
they were after. What papers ?
At that question Scarbrough suddenly gave himself
a jerk. Good Lord! he was as bad as that fool of an
inspector. He did n't know yet that any papers had
been stolen.
His wait for Gil was shorter than he had expected.
In less than a quarter of an hour the Mexican emerged
from the Johansen house and reëntered his taxi. It
turned and went south, keeping to Fifth Avenue, until,
just above Washington Square, it turned into a side
street and stopped before a small, modest dwelling.
Here it was discharged by Gil who admitted himself
into the house with a key. It was his home, Tim knew,
and the prospect was that he would remain there for
some time, if not all night. Dismissing his own cab,
Scarbrough found a telephone booth at a corner drug
store, and summoned in all possible haste the aid he
wanted — two men to watch Johansen, two for Gil.
107


CHAPTER X
VI TITHIN fifteen minutes of his telephoning two
detectives appeared to relieve him of the sur-
veillance of Gil, and having given them their instruc-
tions, Tim hurried off. At the Pennsylvania Station
whither he went first he had no difficulty in locating,
by means of its license number, the taxi in which Gil
had made his first call at the Welles-Hewitt house. . It
chanced to be again in line for a fare.
The chauffeur, a round-eyed, fat-faced young fel-
low, was ready enough to talk.
“Say, I thought there was something funny about
that guy!” he declared with quick interest as soon as
Tim began to question him. “First go-off, he give
me a number on the east side and —”.
“What number?” Scarbrough asked.
“Oh, I don't remember it now — Fifth Avenue it
was, a swell address. I went on through the park,
but when we was starting up the avenue he stops me.
Changed his mind, he says, and he gives me a number
on the west side again. And then, the minute I gets
turned to go back, he sings out to take him to the
nearest El. station!” The round eyes popped at Tim,
demanding to know if he had ever heard the like of
such erratic behavior.
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“Third Avenue Elevated ? ” Tim asked.
“Sure. And he goes up the steps too. I waited
to see. He had me guessing, acting funny that way.
What's the matter with him?”.
“That's what we're trying to find out,” Tim an-
swered enigmatically. “You say he acted funny ?
How?”
“Why — changing his mind like I told you. And
being in such a hurry. I could n't go fast enough for
him. He was sure mad about something — nearly
snapped my head off when he give an order, like it
was my fault he did n't know where he wanted to
go.”
“Which side of the el. did he go up?”
“ Southbound.”
Additional inquiries and proddings of the young
man's memory in an attempt to unearth the two ad-
dresses given by the Mexican proving futile, Tim took
himself off. He suspected that the Fifth-Avenue ad-
dress was Johansen's, and would have given a good
deal to be sure of it; but the chauffeur, although he had
recalled the Welles-Hewitt number readily enough,
seemed unable to remember the others, probably be-
cause they had not been impressed on his mind by the
act of going to them.
Scarbrough's next destination was the St. Quentin
Hotel, for a few words with Dozier Cullop. These he
had intended leaving for the following day; but had
finally decided that as he had the time now, there
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would be no harm in taking the boy away from his
class banquet long enough to find out if he were hold-
ing back anything that might throw light on the situa-
tion.
The talk with the taxi chauffeur had not been so
illuminating as had been hoped. One thing, however,
it did prove, or seem to: something had occurred at
the Welles-Hewitt house during Gil's first call there
which had left him in a perturbed and vacillating state
of mind. What was it? And why had he deserted
his taxi for the elevated? Was he going so far down
town that the question of expense had influenced him?
Or had he grown suddenly cautious, desirous of con-
cealing his movements ?
To his relief Tim had only a few minutes to wait
after sending for Dozy. The latter came hurrying
out to him, agog at the summons.
“Sit down,” said Scarbrough, drawing the boy to a
secluded corner of the hotel lounge, and adding with
a sharp glance,“ Sober ?”
“Have n't touched a drop," Dozy declared.
“ Have n't made my spiel yet. What's up? Have
they got him? ”
“Got whom?”
“Why — the man they were after."
“ Brown?”
“Why - I don't know if that's his name --"
“ Cut it, kid,” said Scarbrough. “I want the truth.
The man you saw in that house to-night was the same
ΙΙο


THE OTHER BROWN
wa
S
.
amei
man we met on the train, and what you said to him
was: 'Hello, Brown,'— was n't it?”
“Yes, I did say that; but he was n't the same man.”
“What did he say?"
“Not a word, Tim - I swear it! Everything else
happened just the way I told the inspector, and I'd
have told that too — about the name — only I knew
I'd made a mistake -”.
“ Look here, Dozy!” Scarbrough laid an arresting
hand on the boy's arm. “I know you. I know you'd
lie like a gentleman to save a friend any hour of the
day or night, but — no, wait! Now listen. A good
deal happened after you left. The daughter came back
— or stepdaughter, rather. Her name is Yznaga -
Spanish. She is a very beautiful girl with lovely eyes.
Did you ever see her on the street?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, she knows Brown; but she would n't tell
anything - defied Cooley. I have an idea there's a
love affair there. Then, the housemaid turned out to
be Brown's confederate. She got away by the roof
too."
“Good Lord!”
" It's a strange case," said Tim earnestly. “And
it may be very far-reaching. That's why you can't
indulge yourself in any quixotic notions. I told you
to stick to your story to-night because I did n't want
either of us to get mixed up in the case.” With a
quick glance about to assure himself that there was no
III


THE OTHER BROWN
danger of being overheard, Scarbrough lowered his
tone and went on. “Remember the man who passed
our table in the dining-car this evening, the one who
spoke to Brown?”
Dozy nodded.
“ Brown did n't know him.”
“He did n't recognize him," Scarbrough corrected.
“ He knew him well enough. The Mexican admitted
it at the Welles-Hewitt house to-night. Now this
Mexican is suspected of ” Tim stopped, arrested
by an instinct of caution. “He's under suspicion.
That's why I'm in New York,” he amended briefly.
“ Word of honor, kid, that the man you saw in the
house was not the one we met ? "
“ Word of honor !” Dozy affirmed. “I thought it
was at first, then saw it was n't. Have n't you ever
mistaken one person for another until you —”.
“This is different. There's the name. If these
two Browns are not the same, they ’re brothers.”
“Oh — I had n't thought of that!” said Dozy.
“But I'll bet that's it. Some brothers do look aw-
fully alike, especially to strangers. But say —” he
broke off with a troubled frown. “It will be terribly
tough on Brown — our Brown — if the other fellow
is his brother. He seemed such a bully chap. Did r't
you think so ?”
Tim assented absently. He was thinking.
“I took to him right off," Dozy went on, worriedly.
“I liked the way he looked at one — straight in the
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THE OTHER BROWN
eye. And I liked the way he kept hold of himself
when you were badgering him about that dual per-
sonality ca —
An amazing idea clipped the word, taking the boy's
breath. Open-mouthed, he stared at his friend.
“ Tim!” he said suddenly. “ Could it be? Could
that dual personality case he was telling about be —
himself? He said it was in his family!”
“What's that?” Startled in turn, Scarbrough
stared.
“He said it was in his family,” Dozy repeated ex-
citedly. “And he said it was a man! And that
people who knew him well did n't recognize him in
the other personality. And he said he did n't know
in one what he did in the other. Maybe that was why
he did n't know me!”
“The idea is absurd,” said Scarbrough shortly.
“But everything fits, Tim! He said from being
quiet and steady normally, the man became reckless
and excitable. And he said — Tim, don't you re-
member — he said he drank!”
Scarbrough did not answer, but his face told Dozy
that he had scored at last, that Tim was thinking of
the whiskey flask found in the boarding-house room.
“He said that normally the man did n't drink —
hated it,” Dozy argued on. “And he refused when
I asked him to have something — said he never touched
it. Don't you remember that? Then what would he
be doing with whiskey in his —"
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“Dozy,” Tim interrupted. “ Just how was the man
you saw in the house different from the other ? Think
now! How was he dressed ?”.
"Well — I'm not sure, but I think he had on a dark
suit — like our Brown's. But you see, I was so taken
by surprise I did n't notice details. Besides, I saw
him only a moment. All I can really remember is
his hair. It was light and thick like Brown's, but not
brushed down smooth. That was one thing that made
him look different, maybe. Because he did look dif-
ferent — his face did, though I don't know just how.
But the minute I got a good look at him I saw it
was n't Brown - our Brown. Anyhow, that whiskey
bottle proves it was not the same man — unless it was
one with two personalities. My Lord, Tim!” Dozy
ended in dismay; " that would be worse than having
it his brother."
Tim rose impatiently.
“I've got to go,” he said. “ Sorry I had to take
you away from your dinner. But just remember that
what I've been telling you is between us.”
“Sure,” said Dozy. “But, Tim," he added anx-
iously as Scarbrough started away. “Do you think
it could be that — double personality ?”
“No, I don't,” said Tim. “Forget it."
114


CHAPTER XI
TWELVE o'clock. Alba Yznaga counted the
1 ponderous strokes of the distant tower clock
and at the last she sat up in bed. It was impossible
to lie there any longer thinking, thinking, thinking.
Switching on the light of the small table-lamp that
stood within reach, she threw on a kimono, slid her
feet into her slippers, and began moving restlessly
about the pretty, chintz-draped room to which Mrs.
Gil had brought her from the convent, a few hours
ago.
But the relief to her nerves of the physical activity
was short; her mind was presently back in its groove,
thinking, thinking.
If it were only to-morrow, that she might go to
that police inspector and tell him about Eric Brown,
show him that he had made an absurd mistake! How
stupid she had been to let him frighten her — a great
bully like that. If only she had kept her presence of
mind! If only she had answered quite calmly as she
should have done: “ Yes, I know a Mr. Brown. I
met him recently in Mexico — by chance.” Then she
would have told about the meeting, and the man would
have seen for himself how ridiculous his suspicions
were.
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THE OTHER BROWN
Instead of that she had acted like a silly school-
girl; she had been hysterical and had refused to answer
questions. That, of course, had made them think she
was hiding something incriminating. Oh! — Oh!
How could she have been such a little fool!
And was n't she being a fool now, fretting over
what was done when she ought to be planning how best
to undo it? But would it be best to go to the in-
spector? Might it not add a second mistake to the
first? Might he not think she had made up the story
to conceal the truth? After all they had no real
grounds of suspicion against Eric Brown. Dr. Tier-
ney had said so. They suspected a man named Brown;
but there were thousands of Browns in New York.
And Eric Brown might not even be in New York;
or if he were, he could easily prove that he had not
been near their house at the time of the murder.
The murder! She could not yet grasp the reality
of it. And Amélie! Was it true that the girl had
sought employment in the house only for the purpose
of aiding the murderer? It was very hard to believe
that; yet she had seemed not quite like a servant;
there had been something in her manner — something
odd.
And it was true that she had spied last night, had
probably followed her mistress to the shop across from
the church and had seen her go into the telephone
strangely when the inspector questioned her, making
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him think heaven knew what. And yet that telephone
call, innocent as it was, could not be explained without
explaining so much more.
But the worst thing of all for Alba to remember was
her slip about Eric Brown's refusal to come to her
home. Oh, why had she let that escape her? It made
it look as if there must have been some sort of trouble
between him and her stepfather. Yet they had never
met.
But why would he never come to her home?
Always the circle of her thoughts ended there.
What was the thing he would not tell her, the thing
that stood between them, that might even, he had said,
separate them as long as they lived? What could it
be that could do that? He loved her. He had said
so, and she knew it — she knew it!
She had dropped into a low chair and now she
raised her hands and pressed them against her eyes,
blotting out her surroundings, shutting away every-
thing, but the memory that fired her brain like wine.
She lived again in that moment the wonder hours of
her life. All her young blood, warmed for centuries
by a southern sun and shot through with the fervor
and passion that were her racial right, was astir in an
instant. She felt as though she floated on waves that
emanated from herself; she felt his arms close round
her, his lips —
With a start she sat erect and listened, fancying
she had heard a step outside her door. She must be
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THE OTHER BROWN
careful; she had perhaps disturbed the señora by walk-
ing about the room.
The interruption brought her back to a realization of
her position. She was only a guest in this house,
and her stay could at most continue for only a few
weeks. Then what was she to do? They must find
a home for themselves somewhere, she and Nana.
Just she and Nana! Unthinkingly she drew a deep
breath, and instantly her conscience smote her; for she
knew it was relief she felt — relief that in the new
home there would be only herself and her old nurse.
She was not glad that her stepfather was dead. Of
course she was not! If it were possible to bring him
back by a word of hers, she would not hesitate to
speak it. The vision of his stricken form, so white
and still, as she had seen it last, returned to her, bring-
ing with it pity and contrition. Yes, she would bring
him back if she could; even to go on again with the
life that had grown so distasteful. But — must she
lie to herself? Since she could not bring him back,
she was glad the old life was over and done with. She
could not lie to herself about that. Had she not once
been tempted to marry a man she did not care for just
to escape it? The memory of that project filled her
with horror now; but at one time she had considered
it seriously, desperately. No, she would not lie to
herself; she had not loved her stepfather. How could
she love him? He had never loved her. And he had
hated Nana. Oh, their quarrels, their endless wrang-
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in the daytime. When the European war had started,
they had lived for a while in Italy, going from there
to South America, then back to Mexico, then to New
York.
Alba shuddered, remembering those last years and
the people she had met, mostly men, and the man she
had come so near to marrying.
Again her thoughts were halted suddenly; there
were steps at her door, and now a tap. It was the
señora, of course. Hurrying to the door, she opened
it and, as she expected, found Mrs. Gil outside, hold-
ing a small tray on which stood a glass of steaming
milk.
“I heard you stirring,” her hostess explained," and
I've brought you something to help you go to sleep.”
“Oh, Señora, I'm so sorry I disturbed you,” Alba
apologized. “I ought to have thought — I'm so
sorry to trouble you."
“You did n't disturb me, my dear; I have n't been
asleep either," the other replied, crossing to the table
beside the bed where she set down the milk.
Bianca Gil was a woman whose exact age it would
have been difficult to guess. At the moment, in her
soft bedroom robe, with her abundant dark hair loosely
caught up at the nape of her bare neck, she looked
hardly past thirty. But in a stronger light her face
would have shown older, even a little worn. Yet her
figure had the slimness and grace of a girl's, and her
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THE OTHER BROWN
low, Latin brow was still quite smooth. In her deli-
cate, unobtrusive way she was almost beautiful; cer-
tainly she was charming and simpatica — as her
Italian father would have said.
"I forgot to ask you," she went on, fingering the
hot glass tentatively, “if there is anybody in town
you would like to have written to, or 'phoned? Be-
cause I've brought you here to be with me, does n't
mean that I want to keep you from your friends, you
know."
“ Thank you, but I have no friends in New York,"
said the girl. “I have n't many anywhere,” she added
after a moment. Surely the señora knew, if any one
did, that that was so, and why.
But Bianca only answered with her warm smile:
“So much the better for me then! Now get into
bed, dear. This is cool enough to drink. Take it
slowly. Tastes a little bitter? Yes, I know; I put
in a powder to quiet your nerves. I often take them.
You must lie still and not think, and before you know
it you will be asleep; you can depend on it. Feet
warm?”
She satisfied herself on this important point; then
pulled the covers up closely about the girl's shoulders.
“You 're so kind, Señora —” Alba began grate-
fully, but Mrs. Gil stopped her with:
“ You're not to talk, you know — not a word!”
Then with the tray she stole out of the room.
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THE OTHER BROWN
Alba lay perfectly still, as she had been bidden. Al-
ready she felt warmer, quieter. And she did want to
go to sleep and stop thinking for a little while.
How kind the señora was! How kind to have
brought her here, and how glad she was now that she
had come. For Nana the convent was all right; the
nuns would take good care of her. But she herself
must have more freedom to come and go than would
have been allowed her at Santa Ysobel's. That was
why she had accepted the señora's invitation so
eagerly; that, and because she had believed she was
really wanted. The señora's tender eyes, her caress-
ing hands, had taken her back to her childhood. Oh,
yes, Señora Gil was really fond of her; she had al-
ways known that. She could recall a dozen small in-
cidents in her childhood showing the affection felt for
her by the pale, silent girl who had sat all day in her
stepfather's study, writing, writing. Sometimes when
he was away, the writing had stopped for an hour
or so while Señorita Grassi had told her stories, won-
derful adventures of the Aztec gods and goddesses.
What funny gods they were!
Returning to Mexico after the long stay in Eng-
land, she had heard that Bianca Grassi had married
and gone to live in New York and she had supposed
that they had passed out of each other's lives forever.
Then last night the señora had heard of the murder
and had hurried to the convent.
How queer life was! You saw people one day and
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expected to see them the next, and you never saw them
again. Or you said good-by forever and — then-
Steadily and surely the sleeping powder had worked
its magic and dissolved all thought.
123


CHAPTER XII
N OZIER CULLOP'S class dinner was over. Out
of the St. Quentin the students swarmed into the
midnight peace of upper Broadway, roistering noisily
as they went.
Dozy's share of the entertainment having been a
complete success, it was with a light heart and light
step that he fell in with a group of friends southbound;
and not until he had left them and started eastward
along his home street did the exciting events of the
early evening return to his mind. So far had his
thoughts been for several hours from the tragedy on
which he had stumbled that he found it difficult at
first to visualize it as a personal experience. In retro-
spect it was like a happening he had read about in a
newspaper, doubtful and remote. Then, suddenly
something occurred that brought the reality of it back
to him with a rush.
He had just arrived at Columbus Avenue, which he
had to cross to reach the block in which he lived,
when a trolley car slowed down to discharge a pas-
senger. Halted by it, he glanced idly at the man who
stood on the platform waiting to descend, and at sight
of his face, thrown into distinct view by the bright
lights of the car, Dozy stepped back in startled sur-
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prise. The next moment the man swung himself
down; there were two quick rings of the conductor's
bell, and the car started again.
Dozy held his breath. The man, who appeared not
to have noticed him, standing as he did in compara-
tive shadow, at once turned his back and waited for
the car to move off. Then he crossed the street and
entered the block on which stood the Welles-Hewitt
lowed. His heart was beating excitedly. Once, as
he passed under a lamp-post, his shadow, grotesquely
elongated, suddenly stretched to the heels of the man
ahead, and he jumped back, fearing that the other
must feel the contact, turn, and discover him. But
the man continued his easy gait, unhurried and undis-
turbed.
The street was very still, and beyond the range of
the few lamps it was dark. At the far end of the
long block the trees of Central Park stood out, bare
and skeleton-like, from their background of merg-
· ing shadows. Now and again a machine whirred by,
blotting out for the moment the low black line of the
park wall; then all was still once more except for the
heel-taps of the two men.
Fascinated, Cullop kept on. He passed his home,
hardly aware of it as he went by. He had no idea
what he meant to do. He did not mean to do any-
was up to and where he was going.
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The Welles-Hewitt house stood near the corner.
Behind the white shades of the lower windows a
light was burning. Some one was there; the police, of
course. But outside the house there was no one.
They were getting very near it now. Now the man
was there; he was passing; he looked up at the lighted
windows as he passed, but he did not stop. Dozy
drew a long, relieved breath; then he stopped with a
gasp.
The man was going to Mrs. Malone's.
He mounted the stoop of the dark house deliberately,
one hand feeling in a trousers pocket for something.
A key! The hand came out now and reached for the
door.
Dozy started forward. He had not known before
what he meant to do. He hardly knew now. At the
foot of the stoop he halted. The man had turned at
sound of the running steps and was peering down at
him curiously.
"Brown!” whispered the boy.
The man started, and his head shot forward as he
bent for a closer view. Then, as Dozy took a step
upward, he stepped down.
“Oh, it's you!” he exclaimed in pleased surprise.
“I could n't make out who you were. I never dreamed
of meeting you so soon again.”
Dozy swallowed hard.
“I live up the block,” he managed to pant out.
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“Saw you get off the car, but — but I was n't sure it
was you."
“Well, I'm glad you ran me down."
An awkward pause followed for Dozy while Brown
smiled down at him, his blue eyes frank and friendly,
evidently expectant of a response to his cordial speech.
But the boy was dumb; he could only stare fixedly
at the face before him. This was really Brown -
his Brown - he was telling himself, not the Brown
he had encountered in the Welles-Hewitt house, the
one who had fled from Mrs. Malone's.
But even as he reached this verdict his eyes shifted
from Brown's face to his hand with the key in it.
“How was your dinner? Speech all right?"
Brown inquired pleasantly, but with a puzzled look.
“Yes, thanks — everything was all right,” Dozy
replied mechanically. He could not take his eyes off
that key — the key to Mrs. Malone's house. But they
must not stay there; it was dangerous. Some one
who lived in the boarding-house might come along
and recognize Brown; or a policeman might come out
of the Welles-Hewitts'.
“ Wish you 'd come home with me for a little while,"
said the boy on a sudden inspiration, trying to speak
lightly, though aware that his voice trembled. “I'm
wide awake and feel like chinning; I'll dig up some-
thing to eat and -”
“To eat!” Brown laughed. “You've just come
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For Brown asked no questions; he said nothing.
And Dozy did not speak again until they were inside
his home. When he had made a light in the dining-
room he turned to close the door so that their talk
might not awaken any one in the house, and now for
the first time he saw Brown's face distinctly. It was
drawn and gray even under the deep sunburn. He
looked ill.
“Better have a drink,” said Dozy quickly, moving
toward the sideboard.
Brown stopped him.
“No, thank you; I'm all right,” he said. He
looked squarely at the boy for a moment. “What
are you going to do?” he asked.
“Do?”
“ About me."
“Why — nothing,” said Dozy, confused by the
question. “You 're safe here. I just thought we
could talk things over."
""How did you find out — what you told me ?”
“That they ’re after you?”
“No— the other."
Dozy hesitated. To say that he had been present,
that he had seen the man accused of the murder, would
be to imply that he knew whether or not that man was
the man before him. And he did not know.
“Sit down, won't you?” he invited instead, pulling
a chair out from the table.
Brown made no move to accept it. “ What did
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you mean when you said you knew it was n't I - that
you understood? What do you understand ? "
Again Dozy was at a loss. What he had meant
by that impetuous assertion he knew well enough; and
his guest's manner and every word strengthened the
belief in the boy that his theory was the right one.
For it was clear that his companion knew nothing of
what had occurred in the Welles-Hewitt house and
was trying by indirect questions to find out. His
position was too horrible!
"Sit down; I 'll tell you,” said Dozy impulsively,
and dropping into a chair himself, he began to recount
simply and rapidly his strange experience. It was
easy going at first, but nearing the crucial point in his
narrative, his voice became unsteady despite his ef-
forts to control it.
Brown was listening intently, his face rigid, his
eyes on Dozy's with a straight, searching gaze that
the latter could not avoid.
"I rang the bell, and when I came in, I heard the
folding doors open and shut and I rushed into the
room and — and I saw a man there and — I said,
'Hello, Brown!' – You see, I thought it was you.
Then I saw it was n't because you — that is, he
did n't seem to know mę -" Unconsciously the boy
paused.
Brown leaned forward a little.
“What did — he say?"
“ Nothing. He ran out into the hall and up the
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steps and then a woman up there screamed — an old
Spanish woman —” He broke off, stopped by the ex-
pression of his listener's face.
“Is she dead too?” There was tense horror in
the question.
Dozy shook his head. “She had fainted — from
fright, Tim Scarbrough thought.”
“Scarbrough?”
“He was there. He happened to be passing the
house and heard the scream. Then we found the body
of Welles-Hewitt in the back room and got the police.
Of course I had to tell what I had seen, but I did n’t
tell that I had called the man by name, because I was
sure I had made a mistake. But — afterwards the
police found out that the man had escaped by the roof
and got away through another house where he was
living and —”
“Well? Go on," urged Brown.
“ And they found out his name was — Brown.”
“ What else? What else did they find out ? "
“Nothing. He had taken all his things away, and
nobody in the house knew anything —”
“ Then they have no clue? They know nothing
except his name and what he looks like? "
“ That's all — as far as I _”
“ And you are the only person who saw him in the
Welles-Hewitt house?”
“Well — the Spanish woman must have seen him.
But she says she did n't.”
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Brown straightened slightly and seemed to consider
carefully his next question.
“ Did n't you see — any one else of the family?”.
Dozy hesitated. He understood the drift of the
question, but he was beginning to wonder if he had
done right in speaking so freely. His sympathetic im-
pulse had carried him farther than he had intended,
and he now experienced a sudden revulsion of feeling.
Brown's manner and appearance had changed; his
color had come back; his voice was firm; he had him-
self well in hand.
“Well?” he asked expectantly when Dozy did not
reply.
The boy looked at him hard. The blue eyes did not
flinch; they gazed back with the frank, honest ex-
pression that had so attracted Dozy in the dining-car.
And now, as then, he could not resist it. After all,
why not tell about the girl? It could do no harm, and
if, as Tim thought, there was a love affair —”.
“I did n't see anybody else myself," he began, not
waiting for further analysis of the matter, “but Scar-
brough saw — Miss Yznaga. She admitted know-
ing a man named Brown, but would n't talk — defied
the police — would n't let them say a word against
him.”
As he spoke Dozy was saying to himself that that
was all Brown was going to get out of him. It would
have been heartless not to tell the poor fellow that
much; but it was all he would tell him. He would not
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THE OTHER BROWN
say one word about the maid and what was known
of her part in the affair. However, to his surprise,
no further questions followed. The news of Miss
Yznaga's attitude had affected its hearer visibly; he
seemed to realize the fact and, rising, turned away as
if to hide his face; and then, as though to cover that
movement, he walked over to the sideboard and poured
himself a glass of stale water from a pitcher standing
there, keeping his back to his host. When the glass
was drained, he finally turned, his face calm again.
"I can never thank you, Cullop, for what you did
to-night. I wish I could explain, but — I can't.
Good-night.” He held out his hand.
Dozy stared at him, astonished at this abrupt leave-
taking, affronted by it.
“I'm afraid I shall have to insist that you do ex-
plain,” he said, Aushing. “ You must see how the
thing looks — the position it puts me in. The reason
I've tried to help you is that I thought the case was
— was exceptional. I was n't just trying to help a
murderer to escape!”.
“But you said —” Brown stopped in his protest
and studied Dozy's face. “You said you knew I was
not the man.”
"I did n't mean it the way you 're taking it! I
can't help knowing you must have had something to
do with it. Can I? And I think you owe it to me to
explain.”
“For what you ’ve done for me to-night?” Brown
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THE OTHER BROWN
asked. “I'm sorry you feel that way about it, Cul-
lop, because, you see, I can't explain; that's just what
I can't do. But, of course, if you feel that you've
got yourself into an uncomfortable position trying to
help me, there's an easy way out for you. Call the
police.”
Dozy reddened indignantly.
“Of course I would n't! I don't believe you 're
guilty — no matter how it looks. I can't believe it!
But what I do believe —” He stopped for breath,
then blurted out the thought in his mind. “When
you told Scarbrough and me about that case of dual
personality in your family, were n't you talking about
yourself? ”
The room was very still; for a moment there was
only the sound of Dozy's excited breathing. Into
Brown's face had come an icy rigidity, just the look,
thought Dozy, with which he had silenced Scarbrough's
discussion on the train. At last he spoke.
"If I admit that, will you be satisfied? Will you
keep my secret?”
“I—I can't promise that,” faltered Dozy. “I
don't think I ought to. But I 'll do anything in the
world I can to help you. That's why I brought you
here. That's what I meant when I said I knew it
was n't you — the real you. And I can't see how you
could be held responsible — even — even if you killed
him. Why, you did n't know he was dead until I told
you!”
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Brown did not answer. He was listening watch-
fully with alert eyes.
“You did n't!” repeated Dozy. “I'd swear to
it. And you did n't know me — there in the house —
I'd swear to that, too. And you must have a family
and friends who know your — secret —”.
"I see — you think I ought to give myself up to the
police ? " said Brown.
“Well — running away is a confession of guilt,
is n't it? And is n't it foolish when you could n't be
considered guilty — in the ordinary sense — because
you were not yourself — not normal. Why, it's as
if you were insane —”
"Ah, I knew you 'd say that before you got through.
I was waiting for it!” Brown interrupted harshly.
“And what is done with the insane? They're locked
up!” He hunched his shoulders as with an intoler-
able irritation. “ No, thank you,” he went on. “I'll
follow my own advice. I may be in your debt, but not
to that extent, I think. Good-night.” Catching up
his hat, he strode to the door.
“For God's sake, Brown, don't go!” cried Dozy,
following. “Don't run away! I don't believe you
killed him anyhow. I can't believe it. And they are
sure to get you in the end. Anyhow, stay here to-
night — just to-night. Let me get Scarbrough. I 'll
'phone him. He 'll know what you ought to do. Just
stay till he comes.”
“You're a good sort, Cullop.” Brown thrust his
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THE OTHER BROWN
as though undecided how to continue. “You must
see how the thing looks,—for her, I mean,—taking
my part, refusing to tell what she knows—all that,”
he went on anxiously. “You see how it looks. You
know what people will think. Well, tell her she must
not try to shield me, that she must tell the police every-
thing she knows about me, that I want her to. Un-
derstand?"
Dozy nodded.
“If there's nothing to hide,” he said, “I think she
ought to tell. Keeping still makes it look as if you
were guilty.”
“That's it! That's the tack to take! That will
influence her more than anything you can say — the
idea that she is hurting me. Of course, it's herself
she's hurting, and I can't have that.”
"Of course not. No decent fellow would let a
girl get herself in wrong for him.”
“And you 'll see her soon? To-morrow morning?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks, old man. I don't suppose I need tell
you how I feel about her. I wish I could be as frank
about the — rest. But I can't. I'll just have to ask
you to trust me.”
“And I do, Brown, I do!” Dozy held out his
hand, and it was caught with an eloquent grip.“ And
if there is anything else I can ever do, will you let me
know?” He pulled a pencil and card from his pocket.
“I'll put down my 'phone number and address," he
137


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said, writing. “If you need me at any time, 'phone.
Will you, Brown? I 'll do anything I can."
Brown nodded as he took the card. It was plain
that he did not dare risk speech; he was too deeply
moved. Wringing his companion's hand again, he
turned and hurried out of the house. From the din-
ing-room where he had remained, Dozy heard the
front door close softly after him.
138


CHAPTER XIII
" A GENTLEMAN asking for the young lady,
A ma'am.”
“For me?” Alba Yznaga questioned the maid in
her doorway, wonderingly.
“Did n't he give you his card or name? ” inquired
Mrs. Gil, rising from the sofa on which she had been
sitting beside her young guest.
“No, ma'am, but he said it was very important."
“It's probably a reporter,” Mrs. Gil said to Alba.
“They have found out already that you are here. Of
course, you won't see him.”
“Of course not!” agreed the girl.
But the maid lingered. She was a buxom young
woman with an honest face, and tucked away up the
sleeve of her neat uniform was a two-dollar bill that
she desired to earn.
"I don't think he can be a reporter, ma'am,” she
said with careful deference, addressing her mistress.
“ He said it was private — a message from a friend.”
“A friend! Who? Did n't he tell you ?”.
“No, miss. He said you would know who.”
“I would know!”
Alba regarded the woman in astonishment for sev-
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.
must hear it. Then, sweeping the fear aside as ab-
surd, she crossed the threshold, there to halt again in
surprise at sight of the strange man she found waiting
for her.
“ Miss Yznaga ?” Dozier Cullop inquired formally,
although he felt sure the minute he saw her great
velvety eyes that it was she.
At the question Alba inclined her head, and drew
back, on guard instantly.
He hesitated then, because his tongue was itching
to tell her his name, and he was forcibly restraining
it.
“I'd like to tell you who I am, but I really don't
think I'd better,” he began apologetically. “You 'll
see why in a minute. I was asked to come to you by
— by somebody you know.” He waited here, hopeful
of some sort of encouraging response, but getting none
went on. “He asked me to tell you something.
Would you mind coming over to the other side of
the room? I—I'm afraid some one might hear us."
As he made his request he started forward, and she
followed a little way involuntarily before checking
herself. “No one will hear us,” she said coldly then.
“What is it you wish to tell me?"
"It's this,” Dozy answered, lowering his voice,
convinced after a glance at her pale, watchful face that
she was determined not to advance another step.
“This friend of yours asked me — you see, I'm his
friend too — he asked me to tell you how much he ap-
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preciates your standing up for him to the police last
night —”
Alba made a quick movement of surprise.
“How did he know?” she asked. “How does he
know what I did last night? The papers this morning
did n't mention it.”
"No," Dozy admitted hesitantly. “But — I told
him.”
“You? How did you know ? "
“Why — I heard about it from — from a police-
man. There were a lot of them there, you know,”
he concluded with more assurance.
“When did you see him — your friend ?”
“Why — last night.”
“Where?”
“At — my house.”
A short silence followed while he waited for her to
speak and she stared at him, her dark eyes narrowed
slightly.
“Well?” she said at last, reverting suddenly to her
former noncommittal tone. “I don't think you fin-
ished your message?”.
“Oh — that's so,” he stammered, very ill at ease.
He did not know what to make of her manner. It
was not at all what he had expected. According to
Tim she had behaved as if she were in love with
Brown ; Brown, too, had implied that there was some-
thing between them; but here she was acting as if the
poor chap and his troubles were nothing to her. How-
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ever, reflecting that he had promised Brown to deliver
his message, Dozy was determined to do it or die.
“He asked me to say,” he explained, “ that he thinks
you had better tell what you know about him — if the
police ask you; because if you don't, it will look as if
you believed him guilty and were trying to shield him.
Don't you see?” he added, wondering why she stared
at him so hard.
“Oh, yes,” she replied in the same indifferent tone.
“But why should I tell the police anything? Why
does n't he tell them? If he is innocent of my step-
father's death, why does n't he come forward and clear
himself?”
“Why — there's a reason he can't — yet,” Dozy
faltered. Gee! but she was a frigid proposition!
“What reason?”
“I don't know.”
She gave a little shrug.
“And I'm not sure that I know whom you are
talking about,”she announced coolly. “You are cer-
tainly not talking about the man that I defended to
the police last night, because he would not have sent
me such a message. In the first place I hardly know
him. I met him in Mexico a short time ago — quite
by chance. It was a very fortunate chance for me,
because it saved my life and that of several other
people. Naturally I felt grateful, and did n't want to
repay his great service to me by allowing him to be
arrested for a crime I knew he had not committed. I
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THE OTHER BROWN
knew the police were making an absurd mistake, so I
just refused to answer their silly questions.” And she
shrugged her shoulders again as though the matter
was all perfectly simple.
“Of course,” she resumed, “this friend of yours
may be some one I have met — Brown is a very com-
mon name; but he is not the man I have just been
telling you about, because ” — her head lifted proudly
-“he would never have sent me the message you
brought.”
“Oh!” cried Dozy, a glimmer of light suddenly
piercing his darkness, “but he did n't — exactly.
That is, he did n't put it just that way.”
“ Indeed? ” she queried carelessly. “ And how did
he put it?”
“He was thinking of you, not himself, when he
asked me to come. Don't you see? He was afraid
of how it would look to people, your taking up for
him; but we thought that if I told you you were hurt-
ing him by keeping still — Oh, don't you see?”
That she did was plain now from the change in her.
She leaned toward Dozy eagerly as if to speak, her
eyes shining; then abruptly she drew back again.
“How do I know you are telling me the truth?”
she asked.
“I- I beg your pardon?”
“How can I tell,” she explained, “that you come
from him at all — that you were not sent here by the
police ? "
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“Why —” The word ended in a limp laugh as
understanding struck the boy. So that was what she
had been suspicious of all along? “I see what you
mean,” he said, “ and, of course, you could n't tell. I
guess I ought to have brought his seal ring or his
sword or something —” He broke off again with a
grin. “Wait,” he added.“ Just give me a minute
or two. Maybe I can think of something he said that
will convince you.”
“Never mind; I 'll trust you without it,” she de-
clared. “If you were not genuine, you would n't
have dared to come without credentials."
“That's so." Dozy gave her an admiring glance.
“Somebody's home in that pretty dome,” thought he.
“But if I trust you, I think you should trust me.”
“ Tell you who I am, you mean? Well, it's like
this, Miss Yznaga,” Dozy said in his engagingly con-
fidential way. “If I told you, I'd have to ask you not
to tell, and it will be lots easier for you not to tell if
you don't know. Won't it?”
An involuntary smile lighted Alba's eyes.
“What I mean," Dozy interpreted himself hastily,
perceiving that he had said something idiotic, “is that
you ought to seem to the police to be perfectly frank,
and it's so awfully hard to appear frank when you are
hiding something. Now I think it would be better for
you not to tell them about my coming here at all, but
you can if you like; only they must n't find out who
I am. You see, I'm in a position now to be of help
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THE OTHER BROWN
to — to our friend, if he should need me — in fact,
he 's promised _”
Dozy broke off with an apprehensive glance toward
the door, and, without a spoken suggestion from
either, both moved to the far side of the room. There
he continued :
“He's promised to call on me if anything comes
up that I can do, and you can see how much good I'd
be with the police watching me. And they'd certainly
keep an eye on me day and night if they knew about
my coming here.”
“They shall never know of it from me,” Alba as-
sured him in an eager whisper. “But — does he
really want me to tell them about him? Would that
be best for him? ” she questioned anxiously.
“Sure. Can't you see it would ? ”.
She nodded after a moment's thought. “Yes, I
“I—I don't know. Of course he is n't guilty; he
could n't have done such a thing; and at the right time
he 'll come forward and clear himself," Dozy answered,
expressing the comforting view with which he had
quieted his own misgivings.
“ Please!” Her hand shot out in a little gesture of
arrest. “You don't need to defend him to me. I
know him. He is the bravest man in the world. If
you are his friend you know that too.”.
“Of course I do,” the boy agreed readily. “But
you don't want to be too enthusiastic to the police,
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THE OTHER BROWN
you know," he warned. “What you want to give
them is some of that blasé talk you handed me at the
start, as if it was all nothing to you, one way or the
other. See?"
“Yes; I thought you might be from the police.”
“I know; and that's what you want to hand them.
You can do it, too, right down to the ground.”
“Oh, but it does mean everything to me!”
A tremor passed over the black sweep of her lashes,
a tear pushed its way out, another followed, and her
throat worked; then she swallowed hard, and brushed
the tears from her eyes, impatiently.
“Everything's going to come out all right,” said
Dozy, trying to cheer her ; but at the thought of all that
the outcome must entail he felt his own heart sink.
“We must trust and wait,” she said tremulously.
“He has a reason for not speaking now. Since you
are his friend, you must know that there is some-
thing that prevents him from — from having a life
like other men."
He murmured an assent and looked at her sharply.
But she was gazing past him into space, her eyes still
moist and wistful. Did she know, he wondered ?
“He told you everything, of course?” he ventured
to ask.
She shook her head with a glance that questioned
in return.
“ Just hinted,” he replied and, turning, picked up
his hat.
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THE OTHER BROWN
“There is nothing more he said ? ” she asked, tak-
ing the hand he offered.
“No; that was all; that, and how much he appre-
ciated your defending him last night.”
“If you should see him again, will — will you tell
me ? "
“ That would n't be wise, I'm afraid — wise for
me to come here again, I mean.” He hesitated a mo-
ment, then added : “But I may see him again and if
you would like to send some word —”
She considered the suggestion, shook her head, then
as he turned away,
“Only that I trust him," she said in a tone so low
that it barely reached him. As Dozy left the house
and hurried away from the zone of danger, the pa-
thetic message sounded repeatedly in his ears.
“Trust was n't all she meant,” he thought.
148


CHAPTER XIV
W H EN her caller had gone, Alba lingered in
the drawing-room. Sympathetic and consid-
erate as her hostess was, she did not want to see her
or any one else just then. She felt unnerved, uncer-
tain; she needed time to accustom herself to her new
outlook. All morning she had been telling herself
that either Eric Brown was not in New York, or if
he were, he would at once prove his innocence; but
now —
Where was he? Why could he not speak out and
clear himself of the terrible suspicion that had fallen
upon him? Why could he not come to her himself
instead of sending a stranger ? These questions she
thrust from her mind again and again. She must not
question anything. She believed in him, and that at
the right time he would come forward. That was
what his friend had said, and was she to have less
faith, less patience, than a friend ?
At last she went up-stairs. It was necessary that
she should explain to her hostess about the call she
had received. Since she was to tell the police what
she knew of Eric Brown she must first tell the Señora.
She must have told her in any case. When one ac-
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THE OTHER BROWN
cepted hospitality, one gave confidence in return. Be-
sides the Señora was a real friend to whom she could
tell anything
“ Señora!” she called softly on reaching the top of
the steps.
At once a door opened, and Bianca Gil appeared,
hurrying forward solicitously.
“Will you come into my room again? ” Alba asked.
“I want to tell you about the young man who was
here. Oh, I want to tell you, really," she added when
Bianca hesitated. “ Please come in.” As soon as
they were seated in the pretty guest-room she began.
“I don't know the name of the young man who was
here — he did n't tell me. But it does n't matter about
him. He only came to bring me a message from
Señor Brown.”
At the astonishing name, so calmly spoken, Mrs. Gil
gave a start, then stared blankly, doubtful that she had
understood.
“ You 're surprised,” said Alba. “ But, of course,
you did n't hear about last night — about the police
questioning me?”
"No," said Bianca. “I have heard nothing. I
had no idea that you even knew this young man."
“Yes, I know him — I know him very well.” A
faint blush rose to the girl's cheeks. “That is — I
have n't known him long," she corrected herself, the
color deepening. “But,” she ended simply, “we love
each other.”
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• Oh — my dear child!”
Bianca leaned forward, half-rising from her seat,
her expressive hands outstretched as if to snatch the
young creature from the suffering her avowal por-
tended; then she sank back again with a helpless ges-
ture.
“Oh, my dear — my dear!” was all she found to
say.
“I know how it must seem to you,” Alba answered
with quiet earnestness. “But if you knew him, you
would know that he is innocent of my stepfather's
murder. Last night when I refused to talk to the
police about him it was not because of any doubt of
that, though I realize now that it must have looked
that way; it was only because I was afraid they would
arrest him on suspicion and keep him in jail for months
and months, as they do often, and I could n't bear the
thought of it."
“I see,” said Bianca, who during the calm recital
had recovered her own composure. “And he sent you
a message, you say?”.
“Yes, by a friend. He had heard about last night,
and sent word that it was not necessary for me to
shield him, that everything would be all right.”
“And where is he now?”
“I don't know. Oh, Señora, I realize how it all
looks!” the young voice cried in sudden distress.
“But he will explain soon. He will clear himself of
this terrible suspicion. I'm sure of it! He can't
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THE OTHER BROWN
now. There's some reason. I don't know what it is.
But there's something in his life — some secret —”
She broke off and, rising, moved off in a sudden ac-
cess of emotion. “ It's that. I know it's that,” she
repeated in an insistent, anguished tone, as if arguing
with herself. “ The same thing that is keeping us
apart.”
The older woman stood up, took an impulsive step
forward, then paused. The astonished look which
her guest's words had brought to her face gave way
to one of affectionate concern, but the girl's back was
toward her, and she felt that to advance now might
be an intrusion. Her own presence, she thought, was
forgotten, and after a moment she sat down again
on a low chintz settee near which she found herself.
“Where did you meet him, dear?” she asked when
she saw Alba turning back to her.
“In Mexico; just a little while ago. I'd like to
tell you about it. I know you would understand then
what he is — how brave he is — that he is n't a mur-
derer — that he could n't be. I'd like to tell you about
it,” Alba repeated eagerly..
“And of course I'd like to hear.” Bianca ex-
tended an inviting hand toward the seat beside her.
"Oh, Señora!” Alba cried, seizing the hand, and
for a time said nothing more, just held the warm
hand tightly as though feeling that some of her own
faith in the man she loved must pass thus to her
friend.
152



28
“And where is he now?”





THE OTHER BROWN
“You met in Mexico City ?” the señora finally
prompted.
Alba shook her head. “No; it was at the O'Hara
rancho,” she said. She and Dolores O'Hara had been
together at Santa Ysobel's. Dolores was ill, and she
had gone to stay with her for a few days before leav-
ing for New York. In that section of the country,
near Arrazas, there had been no trouble from band-
its, and Dolores and her mother had not been afraid
to stay alone with the children and the peons. But
that night a rumor had suddenly reached them that
there was a band of Zapatistas in the neighborhood.
The peons deserted; the telephone wires were cut;
they had no means of summoning help. And they
were women — foreign women. They could only pray.
“Then he came."
Alba spoke the words with a quick breath, as though
that arrival were still to her a miraculous event, and
her eyes had the look Elsa's must have had when the
magic swan-boat appeared.
He had been at Arrazas and, hearing that they were
women alone, had come to guard them until the aid he
had sent for should arrive. But they must find a bet-
ter shelter than the ranch-house, he insisted, and so
they had fled to the hills, to a narrow, rocky passage
into which only two men at a time could penetrate.
However, with Dolores sick and the children to carry,
their flight had been slow; their crawling figures had
been seen from a distance and followed.
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THE OTHER BROWN
“For hours and hours we crouched there. Little
Tony O'Hara and I loaded the rifles we had brought,
and he shot down the men as they tried to reach us."
There was no mistaking in the utterance of the pro-
noun whom she meant, and it was so she continued to
designate him, like a wonder-knight without a name.
And, indeed, it had not been until later that she had
learned his name. This had come about after their
besiegers had withdrawn at the approach of the Con-
stitutional troopers sent to their rescue. They heard
the hot exchange of bullets from the valley below,
where the rancho lay, and then the hoof beats of the
bandits' horses growing fainter and fainter. Then
he had ventured from cover and she had followed,
and for a little while they had been alone together.
“The moon was shining,” said the girl softly and
said nothing more. But for her friendly listener noth-
ing else was needed. It was clear that the night had
been one of romance such as can happen only in times
of danger, and that on the fresh young mind there had
been impressed an image of heroism and gallantry
that could hardly be obliterated in a lifetime. Any
view of her lover discordant with that memory could
have no meaning for her.
“Then,” she went on, as if she had put into words
what had gone before, “he asked: “What is your
name? Mine is Eric Brown.'
“'I am Alba Yznaga,' I answered.
“'Yenaga!'- he said it just like that, Señora,
156


THE OTHER BROWN
and he dropped my hands, and stared at me as if what
I had said were impossible — horrible. And then —
then —"
Bianca Gil leaned forward.
“ Yes? Go on,” she said.
“Then little Tony and his mother came out and -
we were not alone again - until next day in Mexico
City, in the Alameda. He wrote asking me to meet
him, there. He could not come to my home, he said.
And he told me that he loved me, but — could not
marry me. There was something in his life that made
it impossible for him to marry now — or ever, per-
haps. But he would love me always. And he said
he was coming to New York, too, and that perhaps
we could meet sometimes, like that, in a park but that
he could never, never come to see me.”
“ Why?"
"I don't know — I don't know! And now this
terrible thing has come to us!” Alba suddenly cov-
ered her face with her hands and sat in dumb misery.
Bianca Gil watched her silently for a time before
she asked:
“Did n't he tell you anything about himself — or
his family?"
“NoI don't know anything about him,” Alba
answered sadly. “But I know what he is!” she ex-
claimed, looking up. “Don't you understand now
that he could n't be a mur—”
The question was cut off by a tap at the door, where-
157


THE OTHER BROWN
upon the señora rose quickly as if glad of the inter-
ruption. It was the maid who had come to announce
Dr. Tierney. He had asked for both ladies, she said.
“Go down, my dear; I will come in a few minutes,"
said Bianca, and Alba obeyed.
158


CHAPTER XV
“ D UT Alba,” the doctor reproached her affection-
D ately as soon as he had satisfied himself of
her physical well-being, “you should n't have come
here without consulting me."
“ To Señora Gil? Why, I've known her since I was
a child," Alba protested. “She used to be Father's
secretary, and we were great friends. And she has
been wonderful to me — I can't tell you! I could n't
refuse to come, doctor dear, even if I had wanted to.”
“I see,” Dr. Tierney said, reassured.
“ But how is Nana ?” Alba asked. “Have you
seen her this morning?”
“Yes, and she is not as well as I expected to find
her. Your father's death gave her a very serious
shock. But that is only natural, I suppose, consider-
ing the nature of it. That inspector — Cooley — was
there this morning trying to see her. Of course, I did
not permit it, but —”
He broke off and gave the girl before him a sharp
glance.
“ The inspector thinks that Nana knows this man
Brown.”
“Nana? Why, she has never even seen him!”
Before his keen scrutiny Alba had straightened her-
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THE OTHER BROWN
self involuntarily. She knew what was coming and
was ready. The doctor had asked no questions the
previous night because of her excitement, but he was
going to ask them now. However, she had made up
her mind what to say. To the señora she had given
her full confidence, shown all her heart; but she would
do that with no one else. Dr. Tierney was a dear,
but he was a man. And as for that inspector!
She told her story very calmly, the same story
she had told Mrs. Gil — with a difference. It ended,
for one thing, at just the point at which her previous
listener had begun to find it most interesting, and there
was no moon in it, and no mystery.
“Now, you can't believe, doctor dear," she chal-
lenged in conclusion, “ that that man is a murderer!”
Dr, Tierney did not reply at once. His shrewd eyes
were still busy. After his long, full life he had not
needed the moon to perceive certain things not indi-
cated to him. The most brilliant illumination is made
by the light of experience.
“ And when did you meet the young man next?” he
inquired as if it were the most obvious question in the
world.
“I have never met him again.”
She said it without the flicker of an eyelash. She
had planned to say it. To say anything else would
have led she could not tell where.
“Oh,” murmured her hearer with a little sigh of
relief. It was not as bad then as he had feared. Yet
160


THE OTHER BROWN
it was inevitable, he felt, that such a spectacular per-
formance should catch a young girl's interest. She
could not know that some of the greatest scoundrels
of history had been romantic daredevils. Before,
however, he had had time to drop a hint to this effect,
as an antidote for any lurking poison in her mind,
Bianca Gil appeared and the words on his lips gave
place to a greeting and thanks for her kindness to their
young friend.
The talk then shifted to Mexico. He had heard
from Alba, he said, that Mrs. Gil had formerly lived
there. He, too, had spent some years there — in
Mexico City — but that was long ago, and he had
never been back. Oh, yes, in some respects he had
liked Mexico — life there had its charm. But on the
whole he had been glad to leave and come to New
York, to a wider field of opportunity. Had Mrs. Gil
been long in New York ?
As his nimble tongue ran on, his eyes, glancing over
now and then, to include Alba in a remark, or darting
here and there about the room, came back always with
a puzzled, searching gaze to Bianca Gil. Where had
he seen her before, this slender, graceful, charmning
woman with the pale, delicate face? Twice he half
rose from his chair to leave, but curiosity had him in
its grip, and he again subsided.
In the end he surrendered completely.
“Dear lady," he said abruptly, “where have we
met before?”
ІбI


THE OTHER BROWN
There was a moment's hesitation before she an-
swered him; then her dark eyes widened slightly, and
she asked with a faint note of surprise:
"Why — have we met ? ”
“We have,” he returned, smilingly emphatic.
“What was your maiden name?”.
“ Bianca Grassi.”
“Grassi!” He gave her a sharp look as he echoed
her. “Tell me, was your mother American, and did
she have a boarding house in Mexico City ?"
“Why — yes. Perhaps it was there you saw me.”
“Perhaps. But that was twenty years ago, and
more.” He paused, appraising the slim figure and
smooth brow. “You could not have been much more
than a child then.”
She smiled in deprecation of the compliment.
“ Twenty years ago I was seventeen,” she told him
frankly.
“Not really!” he answered. After a moment he
added, “I think I heard that your mother died —
some years ago.”
She assented.
“When I was twenty. I gave up the house then.
I could n't go on with it — a young girl alone. It
was just afterwards that I went to Mr. Welles-Hewitt
as his secretary.”
“Yes, Alba has told me of that. It is very fortu-
nate for her to have found you again.” He was
162


THE OTHER BROWN
watching her closely now. “There are no friends
like the old ones, you know."
“ It is very fortunate for me to have found her,"
Bianca said warmly as she extended an affectionate
hand toward her young guest.
Alba responded to the gesture eagerly, allowing
herself to be drawn into the embrace of the inviting
arm. “I don't intend ever to let you lose me again,”
she declared.
A short pause followed while the physician's glance
moved from one to the other of the two dark heads
now so close together. Then Alba spoke.
“I think it was wonderful of you to recognize the
señora after such a long time,” she said. “ Fancy —
twenty years! Why, you may have known each other
before I was born!”
At that the doctor's glance shot back again to the
face of the older woman; but instantly, as if to veil
his scrutiny, he smiled and gave a bantering reply.
“ But she did n't return the compliment.”
Bianca Gil had met his gaze squarely each time, and
now her reply to his jest was serious.
“In a house like ours, with strangers coming and
going constantly, different doctors were called in. I
must have seen so many of them!”
“And I had so few patients !”
“Oh, I did n't mean that!”
“Of course not, dear lady; but it happens to have
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THE OTHER BROWN
been true all the same. That was why I finally left."
He changed the subject then, touching for a minute
or two on such matters as required Alba's immediate
attention in connection with her stepfather's death,
after which he took his departure.
A little later Bianca Gil, alone in her own room,
stood for a long time staring fixedly at her image in
a mirror. Had she changed so little in all these years,
she wondered. The chance that she might be recog-
nized by Dr. Tierney had not seriously troubled her.
She had realized that sooner or later he might hear her
unmarried name from Alba and so learn her identity;
but that he would recall her face had not seemed pos-
sible.
“And he suspects,” she said to herself. “He sus-
pects that I know.”
How strangely, she thought, things sometimes came
about in life, how unaccountably! Years of separa-
tion; then suddenly they were all together again. It
was she who had first broken the long silence. But
for that her husband would not have gone to the
Welles-Hewitt house last night; she would not have
brought Alba from the convent; she and Tierney would
not have met to-day — or ever, perhaps. One thing
had followed the other quite naturally, inevitably.
The ball had been set rolling. Where would it stop?
Suddenly an impulse seized her, and crossing to her
desk she took from a locked drawer a bunch of keys
and with them left the room and hurried up to the
164


CHAPTER XVI
M IL clue wrong. Not in Mexican plot. Welles-
J Hewitt not a British agent. Place all informa-
tion in hands of district attorney and return to Wash-
ington.”
Tim Scarbrough contemplated with a wry smile, the
message which he had just decoded.
“It was coming to me,” he told himself disgustedly.
He had committed the folly of jumping at conclu-
sions and had deservedly landed on his head. If the
chief said Gil had nothing to do with the Mexican
plot, it was because he had positive information to that
effect. And the announcement as to Welles-Hewitt
could be based on nothing less final than the British
embassy's own statement. The two facts together
put the Englishman's murder outside the range of Fed-
eral concern; the rest of the telegram followed as in-
evitably as a corollary.
Nevertheless, Tim resented it. To turn over his
information to the district attorney was to turn it over
to Cooley, to leave the big blunderer all the excitement
and fun while he went back to dull routine. But or-
ders were orders, and putting his telegram away, Tim
started dejectedly for the office of the district attor-
ney.
166


THE OTHER BROWN
It was then three o'clock in the afternoon. The
time since morning, while awaiting the instructions
that had just arrived in answer to his report on the
events of the preceding night, Scarbrough had spent
in keeping in touch with Cooley's work on the case.
So far there had been no important developments, a
fact due, perhaps, to Cooley's having for some inscru-
table reason kept Brown's name and other details out
of the papers. Miss Yznaga, to be sure, had found
her tongue; but her account of her meeting in Mex-
ico with Brown – Eric Brown, she said his name
was — had thrown no light whatever on the mur-
der.
It had, however, cast a most favorable light on
Brown And Cooley, in relating to Tim his inter-
view with the girl that morning, had voiced a doubt
that a man capable of such splendid heroism could
have been guilty of cold blooded murder.
“We're nowheres near the bottom of this affair,
Scarbrough,” the inspector had declared. “It's plain
as anything the girl's in love with the young fellow
- and you can't blame her, either, if what she says
is so. I guessed last night there was something be-
tween 'em, the way she acted. Thinking it over, I
guess she saw she was n't doing either of 'em any
good keeping still. But there was one thing I could n't
get out of her — what there is between her and that
French maid. She says there ain't anything; but you
know how suspicious the two of 'em acted, don't you?
167


THE OTHER BROWN
I'll bet if we ever catch that girl, we 'll find out a
thing or two."
" You've no clue as yet?” Tim had asked. And
the answer had been a negative.
“I'm going to give the whole story — every de-
tail of it — to the papers to-night. Been working
on a different tack. You see, I had Miss Yznaga go
through the papers in that wallet to see if any were
missing; but she could n't tell; did n't know what the
old man had in it. And then that old housekeeper —
I was counting on getting something out of her, too.
But she's up at the convent in bed, and Dr. Tierney
won't let anybody see her — says it would endanger
her health. Her health! Huh! I guess so. I 'll bet
if she told all she knows about this affair, it would n't
be her health would be in danger, but her neck!
“Anyhow, I see I ain't going to get anything out
of her or the girl," the inspector had concluded. “So
now I'm going to try what publicity will do. Of
course, I've asked London and Mexico City what
they know about these people, but with war going on
everywhere there's no telling when we 'll hear any-
thing."
This talk with Cooley had occurred about noon and
had supplied Tim with information he had no other
way of obtaining. For he had no warrant, as the
inspector had, for exacting an interview from Miss
Yznaga, much as he wished for it. Her removal from.
the convent to the home of the Gils had surprised him
168


THE OTHER BROWN
“I've had no reports from these men as yet,” he
said in conclusion. “And unless you wish to retain
them, I will discharge them before I go back to Wash-
ington.”
“You are not going back!” said the district at-
torney decisively. “I'm going to borrow you.”
He wheeled his chair around and unhooked his tele-
phone receiver.
“Get me Washington,” he ordered. “What is
your chief's number?” he inquired of Tim, then re-
peated the figures into the telephone and hung up. .
“I need you, Scarbrough,” he explained. “You 're
primed on the case, for one thing; and for another you
know this man Brown by sight. No objection to stay-
ing, have you?”
“None at all, Mr. Redding,” said Tim in a quiet
tone that gave no hint that his heart was leaping joy-
ously. “But as for knowing Brown by sight, you
must remember that we don't yet know positively that
the man I saw on the train is the one you are after.
Cullop, who saw them both, insists that they are not
the same."
“But they look enough alike for him to have mis-
taken one for the other. Then they are the same
man or brothers. I'm inclined to believe the former.
Your friend Cullop was so taken by surprise that his
opinion is not reliable. My point is this. You have
actually seen Brown - or his brother. That's your
big advantage over the other men on the case. They
170


THE OTHER BROWN
can't have any real impression of how he looks. I
have n't, though you have given me a detailed descrip-
tion of him. That 's another reason I want you —
you catch details and remember them — you 're keen.
And for still another —”
The district attorney paused and, thrusting his head
out, gave Tim a close stare. “You 're very much in-
terested in the case, are n't you?”
Tim smiled.
“ You're pretty keen yourself. I admit I'd like to
see the case through.”
" And that's what I want you for — to see it
through!” Redding whipped out his words with the
sharp emphasis characteristic of his speech. “I want
this murder cleared up. There are too many un-
solved mysteries floating around this town. But this
is a premeditated, cold blooded, dastardly crime in
which the murderer was all but seen in the act.
There's no getting around the evidence. What you
have to do is to find the man. Then I 'll do my part!
Understand?"
“I'll do my best.”
“As for those men of yours, keep the ones trail-
ing Gil. Let the others go. Your suspicions of Mr.
Johansen were quite justified by the circumstances, but
there is no question about him. I've known him for
years. I'll find out from him what Gil was doing at
his house. I'll call him up now.”
“He has gone to Spitzen," said Tim. “ I inquired
. 171


THE OTHER BROWN
this morning. He is expected back about eight
o'clock.”
“ Then I'll see him to-night. I want to get things
moving. Want to strike while public interest is hot.
That's the way to score with the mob. The reason
for the criticism the police have come in for lately is
that they have shown no snap, no speed. They have
done good work — plenty of it; but they have been
getting results too late — after the public had got
tired -"
The telephone bell cut him off.
“It's Washington!” he threw back as he answered.
Tim took a quick breath. He had little doubt that
the request for his services would be granted, but he
wanted the matter settled. There was nothing he so
much desired as to see this case through.
" It's all right,” Redding announced presently,
snapping the receiver back on its hook. “Now how
do you propose to work? Can you get along with
Cooley ?” He eyed his new employee quizzically.
“Oh, the inspector 's all right,” drawled Tim with
a smile of understanding. “I was talking to him a
while ago, and he said he was going to give the whole
story to the papers to-night. I think that's a good
move. There may be people who know Brown.”
He paused as a new thought came to him. “Mr.
Johansen may know who Brown is,” he suggested.
“He may know why Brown went to Spitzen.”
The district attorney nodded.
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THE OTHER BROWN
“I've thought of that. I'm counting a lot on
Johansen. But I can't see him until to-night. And
we can't get any results from the newspaper story until
to-morrow. And it's only three-thirty to-day. What
are you going to do now?”
“Well, if it's up to me," said Tim, “I'm going
to Spitzen."
“Good idea!”
“I think Miss Yznaga has told all she knows —
anyhow all she means to tell. And Mrs. Martinez,
the housekeeper, is sick, and the doctor won't let her
talk, and I don't think she would talk, anyway. That
narrows our available sources of information at the
present moment to Valentin Gil.”
“ Yes, but I don't want to go after him until I have
had a talk with Johansen. In the meantime your
men must keep him under constant observation,”
said Redding. “But the housekeeper, Scarbrough, —
what's your opinion about her?”.
“Well, I don't agree with the inspector — alto-
gether," Tim replied. “I don't believe she is actually
implicated in the murder. But I think she knows who
did it. And I think she knows why. In fact, Mr.
Redding, it's my opinion that if we could somehow
find out all she knows about the affair, our job would
be done.”
173


CHAPTER XVII
"M R. JOHANSEN will be down in a few minutes,
M sir."
Miles Redding nodded to the servant that had
brought the message, and from his roomy arm-chair
continued to inspect his surroundings, his quick eyes
darting from one object to another curiously.
He had never been in the room before, or in
the house. His acquaintance with Lars Johansen,
though long and cordial, had not extended to the lat-
ter's home or social life. Indeed, it had seemed to
him that the old man had no social life. One never
heard of him apart from his various business interests,
his philanthropies, or his art collections. For many
years now — ever since the tragic death of his son and
his wife's death, which had followed soon after the
other — he had lived alone in his handsome home, built
in the first full flush of his fortunes.
This was the library. It was a smallish room for
so large a house, despite its rich furnishings, simple
in effect and very livable. Whatever art treasures it
contained — the whole house was said to be crammed
with them — there was no evidence here that space
had gone merely for exhibition purposes. Topping
the long, low book-shelves were half a dozen land-
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Just graduated as a mining engineer, young Johan-
sen had announced his intention of prospecting for
gold, and he and his father had quarreled in conse-
quence. The boy had then left home without warn-
ing and without a word as to his destination, and
his father, knowing that he was very short of funds,
had waited calmly for his return in a more tractable
mood. But Carl had not come back, and for four
years no trace of him could be found. Then sud-
denly the news came that he was dead. His body had
been found by some American prospectors in a shack
on his Mexican mining claim, where it had been left
by the Indians who had murdered and robbed him.
Among his letters one had revealed the fact that he
was married, and Lars Johansen had at once sent to
Mexico to find the wife. After several months of
searching — for the letter provided neither address
nor postmark as guide — it was learned that the wife
had died a few days after giving birth to a child. She
had been a very young Indian girl whom Carl Johan-
sen had met and married in a boarding-house in Mex-
ico City and had left there for her own safety on re-
turning to his work in the mountains.
With the burial of her and the child beside the son's
body, all that Lars Johansen's great wealth could do
was finished. And stricken with sorrow and regret,
he had next to stand by helpless and see his wife
grieve herself into her grave, leaving him to go through
the long years alone. For he had never again formed
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any close human relationships. His sympathies, how-
ever, had reached out in many directions, and though
for the most part impersonal, his life was varied, busy
and effective. Every one who knew him yielded him
unqualified respect and confidence.
In the light of that fact, Scarbrough's mistake
struck Redding as almost ludicrous. Lars Johansen
in a plot to bring on war with Mexico! Redding
wished that Scarbrough had heard Johansen's reply
when he had one day expressed disapproval of the har-
rowing pictures the newspapers were showing of bat-
tle-fields with mangled bodies lying about. “They are
all dead, Miles,” Johansen had said. “What I can't
bear to think of is the living, the mothers and fathers,
the empty homes.”
Recalling that answer now, in the speaker's own
empty home — empty for so many years — and with
the face of the dead son there before him, the words
took on a new poignancy.
“Good evening, Miles.”
Redding spun round with a start. In his absorp-
tion he had failed to hear his host's approach. They
shook hands and after a few inconsequential inquiries
about each other's health and what not, Johansen
said :
“Sit down, Miles. I'm glad you've come. It's
about that murder case, your note said.”
Despite his half century of residence in the United
States, Lars Johansen still spoke English with a trace
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of accent. He was nearing seventy, but was physi-
cally and mentally vigorous and showed it in every
action and every word. As he dropped into a seat
opposite the district attorney, he leaned forward with
alert expectancy.
"I wanted to talk to you about that Mexican lawyer,
Valentin Gil,” Redding began, going on with entire
frankness to explain the situation. “I have not con-
fronted Gil yet with our knowledge of his first call
at the Welles-Hewitt house," he said in conclusion.
“I wanted to talk with you before bringing the mat-
ter to an issue, because of his coming here last night.”
"I see,” said Johansen, who had been listening with
the closest attention, his blue eyes intent on Redding,
his white head inclined a little. “I'm glad you came.
In fact, I had just about made up my mind to go to
you.”
“To me!” Redding sat up." Then you know
something?”
“No; I can't say that I do. It is possible that
what I shall tell you will only add a fresh complica-
tion,” Johansen returned. “But first let me explain
my connection with this affair. This lawyer, Gil, was
arranging for my purchase of a mine from Welles-
Hewitt, and his reason for coming here last night was
to tell me of the murder and the consequent interrup-
tion of negotiations. He stayed barely ten minutes.
Of his earlier call at the Welles-Hewitt house I know
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nothing. And I don't know who this Brown is, or
what took him to Spitzen. It was not business with
me or for me. And, let me add, I know nothing what-
ever of Welles-Hewitt's affairs. I am entirely an out-
sider, you understand.”
“Of course," said Redding. “But 'what have you
to tell me?” he added, growing a little impatient at
this preamble.
"I'm coming to that presently,” replied Johansen,
who never permitted anybody to hurry him. “It is
necessary first to make certain facts clear. One of
these is that Gil bears an excellent reputation, both as
a man and a lawyer. I know, because I have recently
taken the trouble to look him up. And you must not
forget that although he fell under suspicion of the
Federal authorities, they were not long in finding them-
selves mistaken. After all, a man's record should
count for him, Miles.”
“Of course!” Redding agreed again. “And if
Gil had not lied — if he had admitted his first call to
the police last night, and explained it, we'd have no
cause to suspect him. Brown is the murderer; that's
clear enough, and the Mexican may not be concerned
in any way with the crime or with him. But he is
hiding something. What is it?”
There was a pause. The older man regarded the
younger with a quizzical look. “You're a lawyer,
and I am a business man,” he replied presently, “and
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I dare say you, as well as I, can recall occasions when
you would n't have found it agreeable or expedient to
take the police into your confidence ---"
“Exactly, sir, exactly!” Redding interrupted. “I
realize that Gil may have had a perfectly innocent rea-
son for his silence. That is why I decided to come to
you before dragging him into the case. I have a very
strong feeling about personal liberty and the rights of
the private citizen to privacy – I get it from my fa-
ther, as you may know. But — would Gil take the
risk his silence involves for any innocent reasons ?
He must realize that there is every chance of that
first call coming to light, through his taxi-driver —”
“But is n't the very fact that he went to the house
in a taxi evidence that it was for no guilty pur-
pose?”
“Yes — it is," admitted Redding with a troubled
frown. “I give you my word, Mr. Johansen, I don't
know what to think! But you have something to tell
me, you said. Is it about Gil?”
Johansen nodded.
“I don't know that it has any value. But I had
decided to go down and thresh my suspicions out with
you to find out if there was anything in them. You
see, I have had an odd feeling about Gil ever since he
came to me some days ago with the proposition to sell
me the Rosalba mine."
“Rosalba ? That's Miss Yznaga's name also.”
“ Indeed!” said Johansen. “It is Spanish and
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means White Rose. The Rosalba is a small silver
mine in Mexico. The girl must have been named for
it and not it for her; because I happen to know that
it was named by its first owner and passed into the
hands of Miss Yznaga's father before she was born.
I am informed about its history because I have been
trying for years to buy it. My wanting it was largely
a matter of sentiment. It is not very valuable, and
I had offered an exceedingly liberal price. But it was
always refused. And I could never understand why.
Welles-Hewitt gambled notoriously and was often
hard pressed for money, and had never had the means
to work the mine properly. The refusal of my offer
looked like sheer idiocy. But when Gil told me that
he and his stepdaughter had finally changed their
minds owing to the unsettled conditions in Mexico,
the explanation was plausible enough. I agreed to the
terms, though I thought them excessive, and I also
agreed to keep the transaction a secret until it had been
fully settled.”
“A secret?” Redding questioned, surprised.
“It was an odd condition, but I had got the im-
pression that Welles-Hewitt was erratic, and I inter-
preted this demand as merely another evidence of it.
Besides, I was very anxious to get the mine and was
not disposed to put difficulties in my own way.”
“You said you had a sentimental reason for want-
ing it —” Redding began tentatively.
“ Yes."
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changed her mind. The Rosalba, you understand, was
hers and her daughter's, left them by the father. I
attributed her refusal to feminine caprice, and bided
my time. And when, two years later, she died, leav-
ing her share in the mine to her husband, I renewed
my offer, fully expecting it to be accepted, because
Welles-Hewitt had been made executor and his step-
daughter's guardian, and had absolute control. But
again I was refused; my offer was not even consid-
ered. Since then, from time to time, when I have
learned that Welles-Hewitt was losing heavily at
cards, I have again broached the matter — always with
the same result. I had finally given up hope, when
suddenly Gil appears with his offer. I accept it. The
details are agreed upon. And then, on the very eve of
the sale, comes the murder."
“To prevent the sale, you think? ”
“Oh, I don't say that! I merely offer you these
suggestions for what you think they may be worth.”
“I think they may be worth a great deal,” said
Redding emphatically. “I am very glad I came to
you; you have started me thinking along new lines.
But have you no idea what the reason was for the
previous refusal to sell the mine?”.
“None whatever. It was the most unaccountable
obstacle I have ever met with. For, mind you, these
people were sometimes in actual straits. And, as I
have said, the mine was never worked to advantage.
For a few years they realized fairly well from it
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through a profit-sharing arrangement they had with
a mining company, and these years they spent abroad.
But the company did not renew the contract when it
expired, and then political troubles started in Mexico,
and the mine was shut down altogether. It was then
that I made my last offer to buy it. Welles-Hewitt
was in Europe at the time, living a hand to mouth ex-
istence by gambling. He had the girl with him. She
was old enough then to be of use, I suppose, as a lure..
She is good-looking, I believe.”
“ Very beautiful, they say."
“Yes, so I have heard; I have never seen her,"
said Johansen, indifferently. “But I saw her mother
once. She was handsome, a dark, voluptuous creature
with bold black eyes, very attractive to a certain type
of man. They ran what was practically a gambling-
house in Mexico City before her death. After it,
Welles-Hewitt tried his hand at legitimate business for
a few years. But when he went abroad after making
the arrangement I have spoken of with the mining
company, he returned to his favorite occupation. And
I have n't a doubt of his purpose in taking a house in
New York.”
“Well,” said the district attorney, “ you are giving
me news!”
"Oh, this will all come out in the police investiga-
tion. Of course, I am not talking for publication,
Miles. I only want you to understand the sort of man
this Englishman was, and why, considering that, his
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refusal of my offer for his mine has been so incompre-
hensible to me."
There was silence for a time. The district attor-
ney sat frowning thoughtfully until, rousing himself
at last and realizing that his host was waiting for an
answer, he said :
“I was thinking of the girl. It seems so horrible
for her — all you have been telling me. Because I
understand from the men who have seen her that she
is very refined, charming, and modest.”
“Is that so?” said Johansen. “That is a pity.
But of course, Welles-Hewitt was a gentleman — at
least he was born one, in the English sense. And I
dare say she has had advantages. But her father,
Luis Yznaga, ran a small, select gambling-house in
London. In fact, he was killed in a quarrel over a
card game. Then the mother went to Mexico City
where the girl was born a few months later. But
these facts you will get in the reports from Mexico and
London."
“I am very glad to have them to-night,” Redding
declared, rising to go. “As I have said, you have
started me on a new line of thought. There's an-
other question I'd like to ask, however. Since you
have been in touch with Welles-Hewitt so long, per-
haps you know something of his housekeeper, Mrs.
Martinez? She seems to have been with the family
for years, and both Inspector Cooley and the detec-
tive, Scarbrough, think she knows more about the case
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than any one. Scarbrough, in fact, thinks she knows
who Brown is, and that, of course, is the very crux of
the mystery."
But Lars Johansen shook his head.
“I don't believe I ever heard of her,” he said.
186


HE district attorney's first waking thought next
I morning was of Valentin Gil. It came with
a hazy memory of having dreamed of the Mexican,
though what the dream was about he could not recall.
But the dark face, with which he was fairly familiar,
had not yet vanished from his mental vision when he
awoke, and he lay for several moments with tightened
lids trying to retain it, while he searched the long, In-
dian eyes that seemed to stare back at him narrowly
from under their coal-black brows.
That the man should have occupied his subcon-
scious thoughts seemed natural enough to Redding,
for he remembered thinking attentively of him be-
fore going to sleep; but it did rather surprise him
that the word to meet his first glance at the morning
papers should be the Mexican's name.
It sprang at him as if from ambush, out of the body
expected any mention of it in the reports of the case,-
his eyes flew to the head-lines:
“NEW SUSPECT IN MURDER CASE
THE ‘TRUMPET’ MAKES AMAZING
DISCOVERY”
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Welles-Hewitt. I wished to avoid that. It was a
private matter in no possible way connected with his
death, as you will see. I had arranged with him to
purchase a small mine in Mexico, belonging to him
and his stepdaughter. Everything was settled.
When I telephoned him the night before on leaving
for Washington, he told me the papers had been drawn
up, and we could close the deal immediately on my
return. It was for that purpose I went to his house.
He himself admitted me. He had dismissed his serv-
ants, he said, because he was closing the house to go
to Mexico. We talked a short time. He showed me
the papers. They were all ready, signed by his daugh-
ter and himself. No doubt they are among the papers
which the police have. The reason they are not in
my possession is that at the last moment a slight dis-
pute over a small point in our agreement arose, and
he insisted on having time to consider the matter.
"So I went away. I was much annoyed, I con-
fess, by the delay; and if I changed my orders to my
driver several times, it was because I found it hard
to decide how to use the time of waiting to advan-
tage; that is all. Where I went when I took the ele-
vated, I decline to say. That is a private matter which
cannot fairly be construed to concern the police or the
public. An hour later I returned to the Welles-
Hewitt house and to my astonishment found the po-
lice there. Of the cause and circumstances of the
murder I know nothing — nothing whatever."
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Gil's statemeni ended there, but the “ Trumpet” re-
sumed in its own person:
“An immediate inquiry at police headquarters and
a careful examination of the dead man's papers re-
vealed none such as Gil had described. But it is the
opinion of Inspector Cooley, who is in charge of the
case, that the motive of the crime was the theft of
papers of some sort. This theory is based partly on
the fact that money and jewelry in substantial amount
were left untouched in the wallet found beside the
body, while the disordered condition of the papers
showed that they must have been taken out and re-
placed hurriedly. However, the question at once
arises as to what possible value the papers Gil described
would be to any one?”
The district attorney did not pause in his reading
to consider this point. Systematically and swiftly he
went through the rest of the space devoted by the
“Trumpet” to the case, then repeated the process with
the other papers at hand. It was evident that Cooley
had more than kept his word. He had taken the pub-
lic into his confidence, not only as to what he knew, but
as to what he imagined. It remained now to see what
the results would be.
The first appeared with unexpected promptness,
calling Redding bruskly from his breakfast to the tele-
phone.
“This is Mexican Mines Incorporated,” announced
a very nasal masculine voice as soon as the district
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attorney's identity was declared. “Seen the morn-
ing papers, Mr. Redding ?”
“I have.”
“See what that lawyer, Gil, says about his buying
a mine from that Englishman who was killed the other
night? That everything was fixed up for the deal —
papers signed ? ”
“Yes.”
“Well, that's a lie.”
“Who is this speaking?” demanded Redding
sharply.
“ Chief counsel for Mexican Mines. My name 's
Adkins. We bought that mine ourselves, Mr. Red-
ding. And we not only have our papers, but we've
a canceled check for the first payment. That's what
I wanted to tell you. It's not only that Gil's story
is a lie; but all this newspaper talk about the murderer
being after papers of some kind is rot. He was after
money. We closed our deal with Welles-Hewitt day
before yesterday morning — the day he was killed.
And we gave him a check for twenty-five thousand
dollars. And he cashed it. The bank 'phoned over
to the office to ask if it was all right. The man had
twenty-five thousand dollars on him when he was mur-
dered. That was what I wanted to tell you.”
Redding took a moment to recover from his surprise
before answering.
“ And why did n't you tell me this yesterday? ”
“We thought you knew!” came back at once.
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“The newspaper accounts yesterday showed the police
were holding back something, and we thought it was
this. We thought Miss Yznaga knew about the
money. Besides, we had agreed with Welles-Hewitt
not to announce the sale for a couple of weeks. He
was going to Mexico to settle up his affairs there, and
he said it would be to his advantage not to have the
sale of the mine known until afterwards. And it hap-
pened to fall in with our plans too. The reason I'm
telling you now is to nail Gil's lie.”
“What do you think was his motive for such a
story?” asked Redding, curious as to the viewpoint
of the Mexican Mines Incorporated.
This, its spokesman was not reluctant to furnish.
“He had to say something, did n't he, to explain
his presence in the house? And he'd have put the
story over all right if the M. M. had n't happened to
know better. Oh, the story is plausible enough. It's
well known that Gil has been handling deals of this
kind for the past year, and he may have been dick-
ering with Welles-Hewitt. But as for the papers be-
ing drawn up and signed — the police have n't found
them and they are n't going to!”
Redding questioned further, but elicited no facts
of value except the name of the bank at which Welles-
Hewitt had cashed the twenty-five-thousand dollar
check. It was the Pan-American Trust Company, a
popular institution with Latin Americans in New
York.
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THE OTHER BROWN
Vices.
As soon as he got Adkins off the wire, he called
police headquarters for confirmation of the “Trum-
pet's ” story. It was true, he was told, that the
papers of the murdered man had been carefully exam-
ined and none found concerning Gil. Satisfied on that
point, he rang off. He had a just complaint against
Cooley for not informing him the night before of the
new turn in the Welles-Hewitt case, but he let that go.
His election to his office had been on a platform call-
ing for suppression of graft among the police, and he
did not look for their hearty support in any direction.
That was why he had seized so eagerly on Tim Scar-
brough's services.
Scarbrough was in Spitzen now, on Brown's trail.
There, he had felt, lay the best chance of progress.
And thinking of him, Redding fervently hoped he
might not have the trip in vain. But in the mean-
time there was the story of the check to be investi-
gated. If the “ Trumpet” had had that, it might, in-
deed, have heralded an amazing discovery.
The doors of the Pan-American Trust Company
were hardly. well opened when the district attorney
passed through them to be ushered to the private of-
fice of the cashier, who chanced to be the highest
official visible. But he, apparently, knew nothing
about the check, the matter not having been brought to
his attention. He seemed frankly surprised when
Redding stated his errand.
His desk telephone put him readily in touch with the
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THE OTHER BROWN
paying tellers, and after several questions he ended his
inquiries with the request:
“ Just come round here, Baker, will you ? "
Baker came at once. He was a young man of
twenty-eight or nine, quite commonplace in appear-
ance, but with an agreeable manner. He had cashed
the check for Mr. Welles-Hewitt, who was a customer
of the bank, after calling up the Mexican Mines' of-
fice, he replied to the cashier's questioning. Mr.
Welles-Hewitt had said he was going to Mexico that
night and might find so large a check, or any check,
hard to cash down there, with the country in its un-
settled state. The bills, which were of large denomi-
nation, the teller had made into a fairly small package,
and this the Englishman had stowed away in an inner
pocket. That was all Baker knew of the matter.
“You should have told me this yesterday — when
you heard of the murder,” snapped the cashier irri-
tably, not pleased to have been caught uninformed on
the subject.
"I did n't think it important, sir," replied the
teller, very deferentially. “The newspapers said no
money was taken —only papers of some kind. Was
the money stolen, sir?”.
The cashier frowned at the question; but Redding
answered it.
“We don't know yet.”
“ That's all, Baker,” said the cashier.
The young man turned at once and walked to the
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THE OTHER BROWN
door. There, however, he faced about again and,
after a wavering glance at the district attorney, said
hesitatingly:
“ Perhaps I ought to tell you, sir, that — Mr. Val-
entin Gil deposited twenty thousand dollars in cash
yesterday morning, just -"
“What!”
The interruption came like the drop of a trigger,
and the scandalized cashier glared furiously at his
subordinate. The unfortunate young man in his anx-
iety to avoid further sins of omission had committed
a heinous offense. Was he a fool? Did n't he know
that a customer's affairs, if discussed at all, were to
be discussed in the bosom of the bank family? How
many customers did he think the Pan-American could
retain if it took to babbling?
These inquiries with appropriate expletives clam-
ored for utterance at the set lips of the cashier. But
he was no fool, if his teller was. His look, had it
worked his will, would have ground the offender to
powder; but all he permitted himself to say in the
presence of the outsider was the sharp question:
“How do you know this?”.
Poor Baker swallowed before he answered. Ap-
parently he had realized his mistake.
"I was at the receiving window, sir. It was just
after we opened, and Wallace had n't come up from
the vaults."
Here Redding spoke. He appreciated the cashier's
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THE OTHER BROWN
feelings, even sympathized with them; but the teller's
indiscretion was grist for his mill, and he meant to
use it.
“Is that an unusual deposit for Gil? ” he inquired.
“Not at all.”
It was the cashier who replied, but, not having put
the question to him, Redding continued to look ex-
pectantly at Baker.
The latter's position was obviously uncomfortable.
He had either to contradict an official of the bank or
allow his own imprudent disclosures about Gil to go
unjustified. It was no wonder he hesitated before he
answered. But when he did he achieved, Redding
thought, a rather clever compromise.
“No, it is n't unusual, sir — except for one thing,"
he said, with a respectful inclusion of the cashier in
his glance. “Mr. Gil often handles quite large sums,
but — but not cash.”
“I see. And this twenty thousand was all cash? ”
“ Yes, sir.”
“How about the denominations? "
“They were — large, sir,” Baker replied with frank
reluctance.
There was a pause then. The cashier squirmed in
his chair, but did not speak. And Redding, watching
the teller's face, hesitated to ask the question on his
lips.
At last he brought it out.
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THE OTHER BROWN
“I don't suppose you could have — identified
this —"
“Oh, no, sir,” Baker said quickly. Then after a
moment he added: “It was yesterday morning, you
see, and I did n't know then that - I mean, it was n't
till this morning when I saw the ‘Trumpet'_"
Again he stopped, as though he shrank, as Redding
had, from putting into words the thought in both their
minds.
“I see.” Through his big shell-rimmed lenses the
district attorney once more studied the face of the
younger man. He had a notion that, reluctant as the
latter had been to disclose the facts about Gil, he had
made the revelation purposely and not through a stupid
inadvertence, as had at first appeared. In the pupils
of the pale gray eyes there was a look of tension; and
on the high forehead, from which the brown hair was
brushed backward in a slick pompadour, the blue veins
stood out. The man had done a difficult and ungrate-
ful task from an impelling sense of duty. He was
just the type for that sort of sacrifice. No doubt the
whole bank was agog about Gil. And if one could
get this chap alone — or some of the other clerks, per-
haps — one might get hold of valuable information.
But to press his inquiry now might do more harm than
good.
“ Thank you,” said Redding finally with a slight
nod of dismissal, and Baker, without waiting for the
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THE OTHER BROWN
cashier's word, turned and hurried from the room as
though eager to get away.
Returning to his own office, the district attorney
sent for Gil. The Mexican came promptly, having
no doubt expected the summons. He took the seat
to which he was invited silently, his narrow, black eyes
fixed on Redding.
“Mr. Gil,” began the latter, “to come at once to the
point, how do you explain the fact that no papers can
be found showing a transfer of the Rosalba mine to
you?”
“Explain it?” There was a belligerent note in the
echo. “I don't explain it. I know the agreements
had been signed and were on Welles-Hewitt's desk
when I was there; I saw them — had them in my hand.
That's all I know. When I returned to the house, it
was full of policemen — and there were two men there
alone before they came — the men who found the
body. Is n't that so?”.
“ Are you implying that the papers were stolen?”
“ Stolen? No. Why should any one steal them?
But with that crowd in the house it is n't surprising,
is it, that something should go astray ? The papers
were there. Have the police made a thorough
search? ”
“They claim to, both through everything found
in the library and on the body, and also through the
dead man's hand baggage which was in his bed-
room.”
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THE OTHER BROWN
There was a slight pause, then Gil shrugged his
heavy shoulders. “I've told you all I know,” he said.
“Not quite, I think,” returned Redding quietly.
“You told the police that you and Welles-Hewitt had
a dispute about something that prevented the sale of
the mine from going through then and there. What
was it?”
“ It was about the — the terms of payment.”
“I see. Well?”
“That's all,” said Gil with another shrug.
“ You don't care to be more explicit?”
“ No.”
“ And do you care to tell now where you went when
you left your taxi at the elevated station?”
“ No."
Redding waited a moment before remarking in the
same even, inquiring tone:
“There's one more question I want to ask you,
Mr. Gil. That is this. Where did you get the twenty
thousand dollars in cash that you deposited yesterday
morning in the Pan-American Trust Company?”
For a startled instant the black eyes of the Mexican
widened. Then he recovered himself, laughing
shortly.
.“ Oh — you know that, do you?” he said. “ Then
I'll have to tell, I guess. That was what the dispute
was about. I had a certified check that I had gone to
Washington to get. A client of mine there was
financing the deal for me — I can prove that!” He
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THE OTHER BROWN
paused to give this assertion due weight. “But when
I offered Welles-Hewitt the check he refused it, said
he had to have cash, was going to Mexico at midnight
and unless I could get the money by that time, the deal
was off.”
Again Gil stopped, frowning.
“I was indignant — naturally. And — we had
words."
“You quarreled ? ”
“Well — we had words. But when I saw that he
meant what he said, I went off to get the money. The
deal was a good one for me, and I was determined to
put it through. My first idea was to go to a rich client
who, I thought, might manage somehow to get me the
cash. Then I realized the hopelessness of that, at
such an hour, and started back to try to reason with
Welles-Hewitt again. Then — then I thought of a
business man downtown - he was once a client of
mine — who lives over his business and — keeps con-
siderable cash on hand in a safe he's got. So I went
to him. There was a chance — my one chance — of
getting the money there. And I got it. But, as you
know, Welles-Hewitt was dead when I returned to his
house. So this morning I took the money to the bank
- naturally.”
“ And this man you got it from — what is his name
and business?"
"I can't tell you that, Mr. Redding,” said Gil. “It
is n't generally known that he keeps large sums of
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THE OTHER BROWN
money at his place, and it would be dangerous for him
to have it known. I've got to protect him.”
"I see,” replied Redding as if he had accepted the
excuse as adequate. “And may I ask you why you
left your cab and took the elevated ?”
The Mexican's shoulders again shot up.
“Because it's about as quick as a taxi and cheaper."
“I see. And what you have now told me is all you
have to say in explanation of your presence in the
Welles-Hewitt house a few minutes before the discov-
ery of his dead body?”
“ Yes."
“In that case," the district attorney said quietly,
his gaze intent on the other's face, “I take it you have
not heard that on the morning of the day of his murder
Welles-Hewitt sold the Rosalba mine to the Mexican
Mines Company and received from them a check for
a first payment of twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Before he had reached the end of his speech Red-
ding knew he had accomplished his purpose and given
his hearer a surprise. For an instant the latter's jaw
sagged helplessly. Then it snapped up, and the
swarthy face became a murkish red from which the
temple veins stood out like purple cords. But it was
not fear or confusion that spoke from the Indian eyes.
It was fury.
Yet not a word came from him. He just sat rigid,
staring at Redding until the latter added, still in the
same quietly significant way:
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THE OTHER BROWN
“ And he cashed the check.”
This shot seemed to miss fire. Gil appeared not to
hear it or not to catch its drift, for in replying he ig-
nored it.
“No, I had n't heard anything about this sale you
speak of," he began slowly and constrainedly. “But
what I have told you is true — every word. I was
buying the Rosalba mine for Lars Johansen — he 'll
tell you so.”
“ Indeed ? ” said Redding as if the announcement
were news to him. “Then his name was on the pa-
pers you speak of, not yours? Perhaps that is
why —”
“No; I was buying it to resell to him.” Gil stopped
an instant, then went on with a more determined set
to his lean jaw. “Welles-Hewitt did n't know any-
thing about my deal with Johansen. He was willing
to sell cheap, and Johansen to pay high. It was all
right for me to make the difference, was n't it?”
“ Gil, do you expect me to believe you?” said Red-
ding sharply, discarding his deliberate manner. “ Do
you expect me to believe that Welles-Hewitt, after
selling his mine and taking the money for it, was going
to sell it again?”
The face of the Mexican was strained and hard.
The wave of angry blood had ebbed, leaving it gray
under its pale copper surface.
“That's exactly what he was going to do,” he said
harshly. “If you had known him, you'd believe it.
202



“Ycu’re under arrest,” he said





THE OTHER BROWN
That was why he wanted cash. Nothing but his death
saved my money. But I don't know who killed him
or why. Every word I've told you is the truth.”
“ All right,” snapped Redding. “Then tell the
truth now. Where did you get the money ? '
“I can't give you the man's name," Gil answered
doggedly.
“He's a business man, you said. Then the money
was in small bills, I suppose.”
Gil hesitated, staring at his questioner.
“ Yes; mostly small," he replied finally. “Some
hundreds, but mostly twenties.”
Instantly Redding's hand shot out and pressed a
button on his desk. At the signal the door opened and
two policemen appeared. The district attorney nod-
ded to them, then looked at Gil.
“You're under arrest,” he said.
205


CHAPTER XIX
THE announcement of Gil's arrest appeared in
1 the early editions of the afternoon papers with
details of the events leading up to it. These Redding
had supplied, partly to justify a step he had been loath
to take and partly because he considered publicity ex-
pedient. One fact alone he withheld — Baker's name.
To publish it he felt would be hardly fair. He was
indebted to the teller for a service, rendered obviously
against the latter's personal inclination. To direct the
eyes of the town upon him would be a thankless return
for the performance of a hard duty. Besides, it was
not necessary that the public should know which par-
ticular employee of the Pan-American Trust Com-
pany had furnished the information about the Mexi-
can's suspicious deposit.
Of the thousands of people in New York who saw
that first report of the arrest, probably none read it
with keener interest than a certain young man who
bought his copy of a paper containing it from a news-
boy in the bar of a prominent downtown hotel, about
two o'clock.
As his glance fell on the headlines of the account,
this young man gave a perceptible start, after which
his blue eyes settled on the printed column below and
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THE OTHER BROWN
perused it with the closest attention. That done, he
let the paper drop to the bar at which he stood, and as
he continued for a time to stare vacantly before him,
one hand rose involuntarily and removed his hat from
his head while with the fingers of the other, he began
nervously combing his mop of wavy blond hair.
Suddenly, an accidental jostle by a new arrival re-
calling him from his abstraction, he hastily replaced
his hat and pulled it well down over his very sun-
burned forehead. With a quick look around, he
caught up his half-empty glass and drained it. Then
leaving his newspaper on the bar, he went out to the
street, frowning heavily as he walked with quick,
nervous strides.
His face still wore a frown when he arrived a little
later at the Pan-American Trust Company. There,
pausing, he gave an odd, upward jerk of one shoulder,
whereby he seemed to bring himself to order, for his
brow cleared, and his grim mouth relaxed. His coun-
tenance was serene enough when he presently showed
it at the window of the paying teller.
“Will you change that, please?” he requested
courteously, passing in a hundred-dollar bill.
The teller, Baker, took the money with a mechan-
ical glance of inquiry.
“How do you want it?” he asked.
“Oh, any way at all,” replied the young man indif-
ferently, and, as indifferently, put a question a moment
later when the teller was selecting his change.
"How e of inquirti, took the red-dollar
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THE OTHER BROWN
“This is the bank where that Mexican deposited the
twenty thousand dollars, is n't it?”
At the words the muscles of Baker's high, pale fore-
head contracted a little, and he inclined his head
slightly in assent without looking up.
The young man at the window leaned nearer.'
“ Which of you men was it that told?” Then, as
if Baker's expression was answer enough, he said,
“Ah it was you!” And after another silence he
added, “How could you do it - put a man in such a
hole?”
The teller flushed.
“It was my duty, was n't it? ” he returned, with a
touch of resentment.
“Duty?" the stranger repeated in surprise, pro-
nouncing the word “jooty,” after the English fash-
ion. “Why? You don't know that he is guilty.”
Baker's response was to shove his inquisitor's change
out to him.
The latter ignored it. He bent his head still nearer
the grilled window-guard, and his eyes fixed the tell-
er's sternly. An angry red darkened his face. He
clenched the hand that lay on the marble ledge. Then,
in an instant, before the words he seemed about to
speak were out, he altered his purpose. He drew back
and, taking up his money, counted it deliberately.
As he was putting it in his pocket, he con-
tented himself with saying, in his first careless man-
ner:
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THE OTHER BROWN
ay.
“ It is my opinion that you made a mistake.” With
that he walked away.
Looking after him, the teller's face underwent an
abrupt and extraordinary change. His eyes, which
were gazing sullenly at the rough fringe of blond hair
beneath the stranger's hat, suddenly popped open in a
wild stare. He clutched dizzily at his desk. Then,
when the young man was out of sight, he turned and
caught up a newspaper lying near him on the floor,
opened it with shaking hands, and, having found the
passage he sought, he read it through again.
“ The description of Brown given to the police by
the occupants of Mrs. Malone's boarding-house is
more positive and detailed than that supplied by Dozier
Cullop, who saw the murderer only for a moment as
the latter was escaping from the scene of his crime.
Brown is said to be in his early twenties, above the
average height, and slender. He is of a dark com-
plexion, or tanned, has regular features, blue eyes and
blond hair, the last very thick and wavy. He speaks
with an English accent, and both his speech and man-
ner are those of a person of education and breeding."
When he had completed the paragraph, Baker con-
tinued to stare at it, as though fascinated, until a new-
comer at his window brought him back to the business
of the moment.
It was past six that evening when the day's work
released him from the bank. Hurrying to the sub-
way, he sank into a corner seat and hid his pale, wor-
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THE OTHER BROWN
ried face behind a newspaper, quite unaware that the
man with whom his alarmed thoughts were busy stood
at that moment on the crowded platform of the car,
not five feet away. Equally ignorant was he of a girl
across the aisle, whose soft eyes peered cautiously at
him now and then above the screen of her evening
paper.
At his station she rose also, picked up the small
black traveling bag at her feet, and fell in behind him
as he left the train. The man on the platform fol-
lowed her, at a distance.
Eastward the teller turned, then down Third Ave-
nue, and the girl, who was short and somewhat plump,
found it hard to keep up with his brisk gait. At last
he stopped and entered a pawn shop. She slackened
her pace a little and looked around. The man behind
her had halted.
At the pawnbroker's window the girl loitered, idly
examining some jewelry displayed there. Beyond in
the shop she could see the teller, and when she sud-
denly made out the nature of his business, her shoulders
came together with a startled jerk. Involuntarily she
drew away from the window and looked back at the
other man. Her pretty, dimpled face had grown very
pale.
A minute later Baker swung by her, unseeingly.
Westward he went now, the girl following again, a
little breathless from the speed.
The house to which she finally saw the teller admit
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THE OTHER BROWN
himself stood in a neighborhood that had known
better days. All the houses in the block, once hand-
some private dwellings, had been converted by steady
encroachment into places of business — shops, dress-
making establishments, and boarding-houses. One or
two had even sunk to the level of a sign in the win-
dow, “Rooms.”
Carefully noting the house into which the teller had
disappeared, the girl at once turned and retraced her
steps. The man behind her turned also. Just around
the corner in the doorway of a closed-up store she
found him waiting.
“You must have frightened him," she announced
at once, alarm in her voice. “He bought a pistol!”
“Is that so?” He looked down into her troubled
eyes, his own anxious, and as if mechanically, he lifted
his hat and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair.
"It's a boarding-house. That makes it easy,” the
girl said at last, again the first to speak.
But he shook his head.
“I'm not going to let you do it,” he declared
nervously. “It's too dangerous.”
“Not for me," she answered. “Besides, it's the
only way. We've got to go through with it now.”
“Not you. I'll never forgive myself for letting
you go into the other. I'll do this job alone."
“ You can't — you can't! You know that! He's
seen you!” expostulated the girl. Then noticing that
her excited tones had attracted to them the curious
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THE OTHER BROWN
room, where dinner was in progress, at the first avail-
able parlor chair; and there, like a fleshly mountain,
she waited for Mahomet to draw near.
“What kind of room do you want?” she asked
when the approach had been effected. Then, while
her ears listened to the reply to her question, her prac-
tised eyes appraised the applicant's inconspicuous
clothes, orderly hair, and untinted cheeks.
Yes, there was a room, just what was required, she
thought. For how long would it be wanted ?
The applicant was not sure. She had come to New
York to take a course in stenography and typewriting
at a business college and hoped later to secure a posi-
tion, and of course that was a little uncertain. One
never could tell.
The landlady conceded this truth without discussion.
She had herself had a wide experience in uncertainty.
“Stenography ? ” she murmured with perfunctory
interest, her eyes on the young and pretty face before
her — just another in the long line of young and pretty
faces she had seen come and go. “Well, they ’re all
taking it up nowadays, seems like. It used to be the
stage; now it's business. Anybody send you to me?”
Indeed, yes; some one had sent the applicant; a girl
at the Young Women's Christian Association — such
a nice girl. She could n't remember the girl's name;
but she had said such lovely things about the house —
“ You ’re English.".
It was a statement rather than an inquiry that
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THE OTHER BROWN
stopped the flow of compliments, and it seemed to take
the girl somewhat aback.
“Why — I have lived in England," she confessed.
“How clever of you to guess it!”
“ Anybody 'd guess it right off — if they heard you
talk. Sigrid!”
At the authoritative summons there was a momen- .
tary hush in the dining-room, followed by hurrying
steps toward the parlor.
"Sigrid, show this young lady the room on the top
floor.”
The maid's curly brown head gave a quick bob, and
she started for the stairs.
But the applicant lingered.
“If the room is satisfactory, I wish to take it at
once,” she said. “So I may as well take my bag up
with me.”
The landlady nodded.
“Sigrid, carry the bag,” she ordered.
Bag in hand, the maid now scurried ahead, prodigal
of the energy she had recently brought with her from
the Finnish farm which had also grown her tight, red
cheeks. Arrived at the top-floor room, she lit the gas
and turned to the newcomer expectantly.
“You like?” she inquired with the full-throated
vowels of her native tongue.
“Yes, it is very nice. I'll take it.” The speaker
looked at the maid with an inviting smile. There were
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THE OTHER BROWN
several questions she wished to ask her — very casu-
ally.
But Sigrid, aware that her energy was badly needed
in the dining-room, was not disposed to tarry. “I go
now. Excuse, please?” she said and departed, paus-
ing a moment in her downward flight to call back hos-
pitably, “Dinner ready!”.
Left alone, the girl in the room walked to the door
and stood listening. No sounds came from the neigh-
boring rooms, nor from anywhere nearer than the din-
ing-room, as far as she could determine. She seemed
to be alone up there - a thing not likely to occur again
that night. Taking no chances, however, she made
the round of the closed doors, listening at each in turn,
then knocking. No one answered.
Extracting a pocket flash from her wrist-bag, she
next opened one of the doors and peered into the dark-
ness of the closet into which it led her. Finding what
she sought, the roof egress, she closed the door behind
her, mounted the steps, and unbolted the scuttle. She
lifted it an inch or two, to satisfy herself that it opened
readily, then lowered it again, and leaving it unlocked,
returned to her room.
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THE OTHER BROWN
member always that her friend was too unhappy to
know that she was being unkind. “ And I was fright-
ened. I knew that if she told then I should have to
explain. But I have explained, to you. Surely you
remember, Señora. I thought I had seen Mr. Brown
go into a hotel as I was passing it the day before. I
wanted to be sure — to know if he was in New York.
But they told me there was no one of the name staying
at that hotel. I only telephoned to ask that. I did n't
mean to speak to him if he had been there. I only
wanted to be sure that he was in New York and that
I should see him soon. But how could I explain that
to strangers ? I told you because I trusted you, but
- no girl wants all the world to know she is in love
with a man who — can't marry her.”
At the end Alba's voice was hardly audible. She
had forced herself to repeat the confession of an act
of which she was a little ashamed. It seemed to her
a bold thing for a girl to telephone to a hotel to make
inquiries about a man, and she had been driven to it
by the fear that at the convent the message she was
expecting from Eric Brown might not reach her.
All this Bianca Gil understood; but obsessed by her
own trouble, she saw everything only in its relation
to that. And now it occurred to her that in the girl's
modesty and sensitive pride she might find aids to her
purpose.
“ You're not a silly child, Alba — I know that,”
she said. “ Can you believe that man's absurd story?
218


THE OTHER BROWN
For it is absurd — all that about a secret in his life
that makes it impossible for him to marry. He was
playing with you. Can't you see that? He is utterly
unworthy of you. If you have any pride you will put
him out of your mind and — think of others.”
“ Others?” Alba echoed, not catching the drift of
the plea. “You don't understand, Señora,” she con-
tinued, with quiet dignity. “You — you are mis-
taken in what you say. He was not playing with me.
And as for thinking of others — I shall never love any
one else.”
“ Love! What do you know about love? ” Bianca
exclaimed bitterly, disheartened by her failure to goad
the other to a betrayal of the man who filled her heart.
“You meet a man twice — a few hours all told. He
tells you he cares for you, kisses you, and you think
you know what love is. But wait!” She faced
round again excitedly. “Wait until you have been
married for years, living all your days and nights with
the man you care for — until his hands seem like your
hands - his body closer to you than your own. And
let trouble come to him — injustice and disgrace -
and then then you can talk about love!”
“Señora!” Alba sprang forward with a cry of pity.
For the other, the outburst over, had suddenly suc-
cumbed to her emotion and despair, and was sobbing
violently.
“Oh, don't - don't!” begged the girl, taking the
shaking form in her arms. “Oh, don't, Señora! I
219


THE OTHER BROWN
can't bear to see you like this. If there is anything I
can do, I will. I do want to help you!”
“There is only one way you can help me," sobbed
Bianca. “Tell me that man's name."
“But I don't know it — I have said so again and
again. You must believe me,” protested Alba.
Bianca drew back with a sudden movement and
fixed the girl with a keen glance, the light of a new
idea in her eyes.
“Describe him then," she said quickly. “ Perhaps
that will help us to find him. How old was he?
What kind of hair and eyes had he? How was he
dressed?” She waited. “Well?” she said then;
and, when Alba still hesitated, her face white and
alarmed, she cried out: “You see you see! You
do know that and you won't tell! Then all you have
said about wanting to help me was only pretense -”
“ Señora!”
For a minute following the little cry of reproach
neither spoke. Then suddenly Bianca caught the girl's
hands and drew her to a chair.'
“Sit down, child; I want to talk to you very seri-
ously,” she said, pulling up a chair for herself. “I
was only testing you just now. I know what that
young man looks like. Margaret told me. You for-
get that she saw him when she let him in. But I see
now that you are determined to shield this man, Brown,
at any cost. So I am going to tell you something that
for your sake I have been keeping to myself. I be-
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THE OTHER BROWN
would not stay to answer questions. Alba stared
about the room with a feeling of terrible helplessness.
It came to her then that there might be many things
she did not know, things that were being kept from
her, because she was a child. A child!
She began to pace the floor excitedly. If only there
were something she could do! To sit and wait — it
was horrible! She must do something! She would
not be treated like a child! They must tell her every-
thing. No doubt they were all deceiving her, the
señora, the doctor, Nana even. · Nana? She halted,
arrested by a sudden thought. What had Dr. Tierney
said about Nana — that the police believed she knew
Eric Brown? Did she — she, too, as well as the
señora ? Did they all know him?
Well, about Nana she could find out. That, at
least, was a thing she could do.
Rapidly she began packing her small traveling-bag
and making herself ready for the street. Then bag
in hand she hurried downstairs, where she left her
message for Mrs. Gil with the maid, Margaret.
“ Please say,” she directed, “ that I have gone to
the convent to spend the night with Mrs. Martinez.”
222


CHAPTER XXI
I ARS JOHANSEN sat in his library waiting. It
I was past eight, the hour of his appointment with
Mrs. Gil, and she had not appeared. Perhaps she
would not come. He hoped so, fervently. The in-
terview would doubtless be a painful one for him and
quite without value for her. For, of course, she was
coming to insist that he uphold her husband's state-
ment about the sale of the Rosalba mine to him. And
that he could not do. All he could assert positively
about the matter was that Gil, claiming to be the agent
of Welles-Hewitt, had offered to sell him the mine at
a certain price and on certain conditions. For the
genuineness of the offer he had no proof except
the Mexican's word. He had not communicated di-
rectly with the owners. Gil had opposed his sugges-
tion of a meeting. That was against him now, though
at the time it had been charged to the Englishman's
erraticism. Against him, too, was Miss Yznaga's ap-
parent ignorance of the entire affair. The refusal to
give the name and business of the man from whom
the money had been obtained, Johansen found easy to
explain. The “ business” was obviously gambling.
No one but a gambler would have had twenty thou-
223


THE OTHER BROWN
and the background of sunlit tennis court made the
canvas a high light in the somber room.
But it was not of that the father thought as he
looked at it. He was thinking of the circumstances,
distant in time and small, to which was due his present
connection with the Welles-Hewitt murder case. A
few lines in an old letter found among his dead son's
papers had inspired his wish to own the Rosalba mine.
And now thinking of it brought other memories in its
train. He was soon far away from the present, re-
living his time of tragedy and loss — a loss that the
long years had hardly assuaged, leaving him still a
lonely man in a great, lonely house.
Suddenly he turned with a start. Some one had
spoken. Ah, yes, a servant to say that the lady who
was expected had come. He nodded. He would see
her at once.
When she entered, he met her with outstretched
hand. The memory of his own hours of anguish had
driven from his mind everything but pity for her un-
happiness. All fear of the discomfort he must feel
at sight of her distress was gone; he thought only of
what he might find to say to cheer and comfort her.
" It's very good of you to see me,” she murmured,
yielding him her hand mechanically and allowing him
to lead her to a chair before the fire.
“Sit here,” he said. “You seem to be cold.”
Cold ? She looked up at him vaguely, then follow-
ing his thought, her glanced dropped to the ungloved
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THE OTHER BROWN
hand that he had touched. Was it cold? Letting
her gloves, crushed and twisted, fall into her lap, she
obediently leaned toward the blaze.
“I suppose you know why I have come.”
Returning a mere sympathetic assent he sat down.
It was better to let her talk, to say everything just as
she had planned to say it. That would be easier for
her, shorter for both of them. He could see that
she was distraught and maintained her calm with
effort.
“I've come to ask you to help me,” she said at once.
“You know that what my husband says about the
mine is true. Tell them so. You are rich and influ-
ential — they will believe you."
“But — I don't know," he forced himself to reply
after a moment's pause; for with her pleading eyes
and haggard face before him it was not easy to deny
her. “I have only your husband's word for it. I
never saw the papers; they were not made out to me —
you know that.”
She turned away with a nervous catch of her
breath.
"I see,” she said, her voice breaking a little. “You
won't help me because you think my husband had no
right to buy the mine and then sell it to you for a
higher price —”
“No, no!” Johansen interrupted to protest. “You
are entirely mistaken. He had every right to do that.
It was quite legitimate as a business deal. He was
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THE OTHER BROWN
quite justified in doing it — if he could.” He hesi-
tated an instant, adding on an impulse of curiosity :
“But I don't see how he could. I mean I don't un-
derstand why Mr. Welles-Hewitt agreed to it — to
sell the mine to him for less than he knew he could
get from me.”
He caught the sudden dilatation of her pupils be-
fore she dropped her lids and looked off toward the
fire. So there was some secret underlying the deal.
And she knew it.
“ Perhaps you can explain,” he suggested when she
did not speak.
She shook her head and stretched her hands again
to the warmth of the grate, chafing them together
nervously.
He watched her in silence for several seconds, then
decided to let the subject drop. Curious about it as he
was, he had no taste for startling a distraught woman
into betrayal of her husband's affairs.
“Mrs. Gil,” he said at last, speaking very gently.
“I sympathize with you with all my heart. I believe
your husband is innocent — and I am not saying it
just because it is you I am talking to —"
“He is — he is!” she put in eagerly.
“ Then urge him to speak out, to be frank about his
relations with Welles-Hewitt and about the person
from whom he got the money."
“He 'll never tell that,” she replied dejectedly.
“I've begged him. But you see, he's not afraid -
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THE OTHER BROWN
because he's innocent. He's sure he will be cleared
in the end. He knows Brown did it.”
“Knows!”
“Oh, not that way — not as the police think?" she
denied quickly. “They believe he and Brown acted
together. But that is not true — I've told them so.
I've told them how we came to meet Brown, and how
he hated Welles-Hewitt. But they don't believe
me —"
“ What! You know this Brown? ” Johansen ex-
claimed in surprise.
“Yes; we met him in Mexico only a few weeks
ago. I 'll tell you about it.” She leaned toward him,
her eyes lighting up with the hope of arousing new in-
terest. “It was in Mexico City. We were there at
a hotel, and this young man — Fred Brown, he called
himself - came to see my husband about the Rosalba
mine, which he said he had heard was for sale. We
thought nothing of the matter then — my husband be-
ing agent for various mine owners — and I don't sup-
pose we should ever have seen Mr. Brown again if he
had not happened to find out that I had once been
Mr. Welles-Hewitt's secretary. He used to call then
quite often when Valentin was busy, and he would
talk to me; sometimes he took me motoring; and al-
ways, always, he would question me about the Welles-
Hewitt family and the mine."
“ Indeed! He was interested in the mine?”
" Very much, At first I thought he might be in
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love with Miss Yznaga, or after her money. But he
said he had never seen her. At the time I doubted
that, but now I believe that she had nothing to do with
the matter at all. His interest must have been for
quite a different reason — I don't know what. My
husband thought he had perhaps been fleeced by
Welles-Hewitt at cards and hated him because of that.
For he did hate him, Mr. Johansen! And it is n't only
now, after the murder, that I have discovered it. I
suspected it at the time and spoke of it to my husband.
It was nothing he said — he never talked against him;
but every time he spoke of Welles-Hewitt there was
a look in his eyes, something in his voice, that was
unmistakable. And he tried to pump me — he had
heard the stories — knew about the gambling.
You've heard of that, of course?”
“Yes. Go on.” .
“Well — that's all. But if Welles-Hewitt had
cheated him, he had a motive for robbery, did n't he?”
“You've told the police this, you say?"
She sank back with a despairing moan.
“ They don't believe me. And they don't care!
They have some one now to fasten the crime to —
that's all they want. They don't care whether he is
the murderer or not !!!!
“You ’re unjust,” said Johansen gently. “ You
must n't let your distress distort your judgment. The
district attorney is working personally on the case.
He is deeply interested. And I happen to know that
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he was very reluctant to arrest Mr. Gil. Why don't
you go to him? Tell him what you have just told
me”
“ Then you won't help me?”
“But, Mrs. Gil — what can I do?” he protested
kindly.
“ Money can do anything,” she pleaded. “And
you have so much. Think how often it saves guilty
men. Why should n't it be used for the innocent?
And Valentin is innocent! You believe that; you said
so. Then how can you refuse to help him? You
could make them find Brown; your money could do it.
You give away thousands every year to the poor and
sick, and surely no one could be in worse need of help
than we are now.” She broke down at the end and
began to sob.
He rose and stood for a moment looking at her
while he tried to find words of comfort, for her tears
were harrowing to him.
“You must be brave," he urged at last. “This
Brown will certainly be caught. The police of the
whole country is on the lookout. But my interference
would only do harm; surely you must see that. Your
husband will have full justice. You know he is inno-
cent and that should sustain you, as it does him. His
vindication is only a question of time.”
“ Time!" she cried hysterically, rising and facing
him. “Yes, weeks and months and years, perhaps !
And all that time he will be kept in jail, like a thief
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“ Your son!” She stared incredulously. “What
was his name?”
“ Carl.”
“ Carl Johansen?” She seemed to listen to the
sound the name made. “ Carl Johan – Oh!-
Oh!”
“What is it?” He took a step toward her.
“ What's the matter?”
She waved him back.
“Wait!” she commanded. “Wait! Don't speak
to me. Let me think — let me think.”
Motionless again, with half-closed eyes, she stood
in thought. Now and then her face changed swiftly,
and suddenly, to his amazement, she laughed — not
with mirth, but excitement. So much was apparent
from the look she gave him the next instant. There
was even a hint of triumph in the erectness of her
body, her lifted head.
“Twenty-one years ago your son was in Mexico -
going by the name of Charles Johnson.”
It was an assertion, not a question; but involuntarily
the man answered:
“Yes."
She went on at once; she had, indeed, not paused
for a reply. Her eyes were fixed on his; she spoke
quickly, eagerly.
“He stayed for a while at a boarding-house kept
by a Mrs. Grassi. He met an Italian girl there and
married her. Afterwards he went to the mountains
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to mine. He never came back — he was killed.
Then you sent down to find his wife — you had a let-
ter to Charlie.”
“You knew my son?” Johansen exclaimed, sur-
prised at her use of the given name.
“Yes.” Her glance became suddenly puzzled.
“Why did n't the people you sent say he was your
son? Why did n't they tell my mother that?”
“Your mother!”
“Mrs. Grassi. They should have told us the
truth,” she said indignantly. “Why did n't they?”
“Because,” said Johansen, after an astonished si-
lence during which he sought vainly to catch her drift,
"we knew if it became known that we were looking
for the wife and child of a rich man's son all sorts of
claimants would spring up.”
“I see.” She nodded understandingly. “But they
should have told us. That could have done no
harm."
“No- and no good either."
" It - might have.”
“What do you mean?” He gave her a sharp
stare.
Her insistent hold on his eyes did not waver.
“I mean,” she answered, “that it might have made
- a difference.”
“A difference!” he echoed. “What difference
could it have made? The girl and the child were
dead.”
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At the bald question she half rose in startled sur-
prise, but dropped back into her chair again without
speaking
"I won't answer that,” she said, after a moment.
“ Then you admit that he was forcing him?”.
“I don't admit it - no," she stammered. “But
I can't discuss my husband's affairs. Besides, all this
has nothing to do with the murder and with finding
Brown.”
“But surely you must see —” He broke off and,
taking the chair opposite her, leaned forward. “Our
interests are the same now,” he went on. “You have
promised that, if I succeed in clearing your husband,
you will do something for me in return. What your
promise means to me I think you can guess. It means
more than anything in the world. Do you imagine,
then, that I am prompted by any other motive than to
serve both our ends? I am not questioning you out
of curiosity. But I can't help wondering why Welles-
Hewitt should have been willing to sell his mine to
your husband — or to the Mexican Mines Company
— for less than he knew I would give for it. You
see, I have several times made him very handsome
offers.”
He had spoken in a kindly, explanatory tone, and
when after a slight wait no answer came, he added:
“Surely you must see why the thing seems so in-
explicable to me.”
“But — this has nothing to do with the murder,"
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Bianca repeated nervously. “My husband admits
that he had business dealings with Mr. Welles-Hewitt;
but he had no more to do with his death than you."
"He had found out something about Welles-Hewitt
— something that he threatened to tell. Was that
it?”
“I—I can't discuss it."
“ It was something criminal, of course.”
“I can't tell you that I can't talk about it. My
husband has done nothing wrong. You said yourself
that he had a right to buy the mine.”
Johansen assented soothingly. It was hardly worth
while, he reflected, to point out to her the difference
between legitimate business and blackmail.
“ According to Mr. Gil,” he said, “ Welles-Hewitt's
intention was to take his twenty thousand and the
twenty-five thousand from the Mexican Mines and, un-
der cover of the secrecy he had enjoined as to both
sales, to escape to Mexico.”
“Yes. He sold the Rosalba to the Mexican Mines
to keep Valentin from getting it. And if he had
not been killed, he would have taken Valentin's money
too. Oh, he was quite capable of that!” she declared,
quick anger lighting her black eyes. “I was his sec-
retary. I know what sort of man he was."
“In that case,” said Johansen, seizing the opening
for which he had been waiting, “ perhaps you can tell
me why he refused for years to sell me the mine?”
"I did not know he had refused to sell," she an-
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swered, and from her tone and manner it was clear
that she could throw no light on this perplexing ques-
tion.
Disappointed, her host dropped the subject. There
was nothing further to be gained by continuing it.
Of one thing, at least, he had satisfied himself; he had
been right in his conclusion that Gil had been able to
dictate terms to Welles-Hewitt. Mrs. Gil's demeanor
when questioned on the point had been tantamount to
an admission. It might, indeed, have been from her
that her husband had secured the knowledge which he
had held over the Englishman's head. However,
Johansen felt it to be unwise to push his inquiry into
the matter any further at that time.
"Now, as to Brown,” he said. “Do you think Miss
Yznaga knows where he is ? "
“No; I am sure she does not,” said Bianca. “In
fact, I believe Brown and that woman — the French
maid — simply used the poor child."
“Indeed! But the police seem to think there was
some secret understanding between Miss Yznaga and
the maid.”
“There's nothing in that, at all,” Bianca declared
with conviction. “ Alba has explained that. The
cause of her nervousness when questioned by the po-
lice the night of her stepfather's death was a girlish
fear that she might have to confess that she had left
the church for a few minutes to telephone to a hotel
that she thought she had seen Brown entering the
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day before. He was n't there, they told her, and she
returned to the church. The French woman, who had
not gone to the moving picture theater, as Alba sup-
posed, must have seen her leave the church and fol-
lowed her, and later very cleverly used her knowledge
to throw suspicion on Alba. That is all there was to
that. I am sure of it. But there is one thing I can't
make Alba tell me. She says she does n't know; per-
haps, she does n't. That is the name of the man who
brought Brown's message to her."
Into her listener's astonished ears, Bianca poured the
story of the mysterious caller.
“ About nineteen, a Southerner, slim, and of me-
dium height, and has red hair — that is how my maid
describes him," she said, in conclusion. “But I am
afraid it won't help us much.”
“It may. It may be just the clue we need."
“ Please God!” she murmured fervently, and the
prayer found its echo in Lars Johansen's heart.
“And this message was that she was not to worry
about him, that he would soon be able to clear him-
self?” he asked.
“ Yes; that 's what it amounted to."
“ What do you make of it?"
“I don't know," she answered after a pause,
“I hardly —” She stopped there and again hesitated,
frowning down perplexedly into her lap; then sud-
denly, and as if impulsively, she looked up and said:
“Mr. Johansen, I believe there are two Browns."
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“ Two!”
His surprised echo was genuine enough, although
the idea she had expressed was not entirely new to
him. In his first talk with the district attorney the
latter had touched on the point. The detective Scar-
brough, it seemed, was of the opinion that there might
be two men involved, who closely resembled each other
– brothers, perhaps; — because young Cullop was so
positive that the man he had encountered just after
the murder was not the one they had met on the train.
But these facts, Johansen was sure, had not as yet
been made public. There had been no suggestion in
any of the papers that there might be a second Brown
concerned in the case. Redding had not considered it
expedient to announce such a theory until he had
further evidence to sustain it. How then had Mrs.
Gil heard of it?
Apparently she had not heard of it, but had reached
her conclusion independently; for she had made her
announcement with the air of one disclosing a discov-
ery.
“My husband told me something this afternoon that
set me thinking,” she said slowly. “ It was something
he had forgotten – in all the confusion and trouble
— and only remembered when we were speaking of
Fred Brown. He says he saw a man on the train from
Washington the other night, who looked so much like
Fred Brown that he spoke to him. But the minute
he had spoken he realized that he had made a mis-
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take, so he apologized and passed on, and that was
all there was to the incident. But now he thinks the
man may have been a brother of Fred Brown, he looked
so like him.”
“He is sure then that it was not Fred Brown him-
self, absolutely sure?” Johansen asked.
“No; not absolutely sure,” Mrs. Gil admitted, as
if reluctantly. “He thinks it may have been Fred
Brown, who for some reason did not wish to speak
to him. Valentin's memory for faces is not particu-
larly good, and he did not know Fred Brown as well
as I did,” she added. “But his very uncertainty set
me thinking; and the more I think, the more convinced
I become that there must be two men. To begin with
there are the two names, Fred and Eric; although a
man named Frederick might be called Eric, I suppose;
so the names are n't really proof. But there's Alba's
story of the rescue of herself and her friends — I can't
understand that, at all.”
“Don't you believe it?”.
“Yes; but I don't believe the man was Fred Brown
- the Brown I met. I can't imagine him doing any-
thing like that. There are men capable of that sort
of heroism, but he is not one of them. I'm sure of
that. I had an experience with him that makes me
sure. I told you, you remember, that he took me mo-
toring several times? Well, the last time we were
out we had an accident. I don't know just what went
wrong, but he lost control of the car, and then of him-
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self. Oh, I suppose it is n't fair to blame him; we
are all made as we are and can't change ourselves
much,” she broke off to remark with a shrug. “He
was high-strung, nervous, and excitable, and — well,
I think he drank too much at times, which did n't im-
prove his nerves. At any rate, he jumped and left
me to my fate. As it happened, I got off with a
wrench and a few bruises — but that's not the point.
The point is that the story does n't square with Alba's,
that it could n't have been the same man in both. And
if it were not for that message from Eric Brown to
Alba, I should feel sure that the two men were in no
way connected. But —”.
She broke off again with a gesture expressive of
hopeless perplexity.
“I should n't worry about it,” said Johansen, dis-
appointed by what, to him, seemed trivial evidence.
“ The question as to whether we have to deal with one
man or two does not seem to me a vital one just now.
I am inclined to think, however, that we may have a
clue in the description of that young man with the red
hair and southern accent.”
He made a tentative effort then to broach again the
subject of Gil's relations with the murdered man, hop-
ing that he had won Mrs. Gil's confidence sufficiently
for her to be entirely frank with him. But her man-
ner altered at once, and he presently found himself
thrust back to the footing on which they had started.
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She would not speak about that matter. It had no
bearing on the case, was all she would say.
In this mood she rose to go, and it was not until
he was opening her taxicab door for her that it oc-
curred to him to mention Mrs. Martinez.
“ The man that found her fainting just after the
murder is convinced that she not only saw Brown when
he was escaping, but recognized him," he said.
“ Alba insists that she never saw him," said Bianca.
“It 's unfortunate that she can't be made to talk.”
“Made to talk?"
“I understand that she is ill from shock, and the
doctor won't permit her to be questioned.”
“ The doctor? Dr. Tierney, of course," Bianca
murmured, and as she seemed in thought, her compan-
ion waited. Quite suddenly she spoke again and in
a tone of authority that astonished him. “I will have
her brought from the convent to my house. Then we
shall find out very quickly what she knows."
“An excellent idea,” he agreed, staring a little.
“ But will her physician permit that?”
“Oh, yes, I think so," she answered quietly, though
he noticed that she avoided his eyes. “In fact, I'm
sure of it,” she added, as she turned and entered the
cab.
245


CHAPTER XXII
AS the taxi bore her away, Johansen, turning to re-
M enter his house, lingered a moment to look up at
it. Its aspect seemed to him to have changed. Cer-
tainly it was not the dull, gray pile of stones to which
he had come from his office only a few hours ago; to
which for years he had returned when the best hours
of his days, the energy and thought absorbing ones of
business, were over. He glanced down the avenue.
It too seemed changed. And the park opposite.
Everything — the world was changed.
Carl's child alive! His grandchild! A young
woman now and his — his by right of blood, of na-
ture. He could not realize it yet, hardly dared to
let himself try. After all the story might not be true.
Still, the woman herself had believed it — he could
not doubt that. And as far as her story had gone, it
had been straightforward. Her mother had given the
baby away -- that, of course, was what had happened
— for its own good, she had thought, while its mother
lay dying or dead, and its father's return was dubious.
Yielding to an impulse as he reëntered the house,
he turned aside for a moment and switched on the
lights in the drawing-room. It was a remarkable
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to me as possible, or I would have told you last night
of Welles-Hewitt's part in the other case. You are
at home now, are you? I can see you at once?”.
“As soon as you like,” said Redding. “And thank
you for coming."
Johansen hung up and after a moment called his
garage for a car. He was waiting when it arrived,
and as he started on the short run to Redding's home
he was frowning rather worriedly. Spitzen? What
could that detective Scarbrough have found out there?
He had gone to discover, if possible, what the mys-
terious Brown had been doing in the place. Evidently
he had succeeded. And what he had learned had to do
with the ill-fated Roderick McRae. But how?
This question was answered by the detective him-
self, whom Johansen found with the district attorney.
At the latter's request Scarbrough repeated his report
of his day in Spitzen. He had had no difficulty in
tracing Brown's movements there, he said. The
young man had registered at the main hotel and had
spent his time afterwards in a house to house canvass
of the older residents, the remnants of the Swedish
settlement in which the town had had its origin.
Most of them were quite old people, and their lives
being uneventful, they had willingly talked to the
young man, who had wanted to know what they knew,
if anything, about a family named McRae that had
spent a year or two among them about thirty-five years
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else that seemed strange? Could they remember any-
thing the other children had said about him? Had
they liked him? Was he a good-natured boy? Was
he quick-tempered? A thousand such questions
young Brown had asked, only to receive the vaguest
of replies. No one was able to recall any incident that
threw light on the character and disposition of
Roderick McRae. How could they be expected to, in-
deed, after thirty-five years?
"Now that is what we got in Spitzen," said the
district attorney when Scarbrough had finished.
“I'd like to discuss it with you in a minute; but first
I want you to hear this. It's the London cable.”
He opened a paper taken from his desk and read
aloud:
"Lionel Welles-Hewitt, fifty-six years old; English
birth, good family; disinherited by father, drifted to
Continent and lived by gambling. Returned to Eng-
land and figured soon after as witness against Roderick
McRae, American, convicted and hung for murder of
Luis Yznaga. Afterwards went to Mexico, and later
married Yznaga's widow. Returned to England; in-
volved in gambling scandal; ordered out of country
and forbidden to return."
Laying aside the report Redding turned to Johan-
sen.
“When I read that, I remembered your telling me
last night that Miss Yznaga's father had been killed
in a quarrel over a card game, and I thought it pos-
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sible you knew some of the details of the case. If
so, I'd like very much to have them. We need facts
badly.”
Johansen nodded.
“I think I can give you a few," he said, but he
glanced doubtfully at Scarbrough.
Tim sprang up instantly.
“I think Mr. Johansen would rather see you alone,”
he said to Redding, turning to leave the room.
But Johansen detained him.
“Not unless Mr. Redding prefers it,” said he.
“I'd rather have him stay, if you don't object,”
the district attorney replied. “He's working for me
personally, and anything you wish to be considered
confidential, will be. I can promise that for him, as
well as for myself.”
Johansen again nodded, and motioned Scarbrough
back to his chair.
“ The only thing I shall say that I don't want to
go further is how I happen to know about the case at
all,” he explained. “That grew out of my son's ac-
quaintance with Roderick McRae. They were friends
as children in Spitzen. I can remember hearing the
name; but I don't recall seeing the boy or his peo-
ple. Those were very busy years for me. Later,
when I had occasion to take an interest in the McRae
family, I found that my wife knew as little as I
about them. The boy had come to our house with
Carl, but his parents had kept to themselves. They
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were considered eccentric. The truth was that the fa-
ther was a genius in his way; he did finally achieve
an invention and a small fortune. That was how the
son got his money. He had come into it just about the
time my boy went away.”
The speaker paused a moment; it was not easy for
him, even after so many years, to touch lightly on that
home-leaving
“Of course,” he presently went on, "you under-
stand that what I am telling you I did not find out
until later after my son's death. Six months be-
fore that, when the McRae trial was going on in Lon-
don, I read about it with no thought that it would ever
remotely concern me. Not much attention was paid
to it over here despite McRae's being an American.
There was no doubt of his guilt — he did n't deny it,
and there were, eye-witnesses. The trial was very
short, as is usual in England, and I feel sure my son
never heard of it. He was in the mountains at the
time and, probably, seldom saw a newspaper. Other-
wise, I am sure he would have made an effort to save
his friend — would, perhaps, have appealed to me.”
Again there was a slight wait. Lars Johansen
sighed. The thought of such an appeal and the dif-
ference it would have made, was a familiar one and
always brought with it a pang for what had come to
pass instead. Understanding something of this, Miles
Redding kept silent.
“My son was in McRae's debt for a considerable
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from people who knew who they were, and I had to
respect that desire. My private search was unsuc-
cessful, but I have always had the feeling that some
day I should run across them. That is why I tried
so hard to buy the Rosalba mine. I wanted to give it
back to them in payment of Carl's debt.”
“The Rosalba ? The Yznaga mine was once Mc-
Rae's?” asked Redding, surprised. “And he sold it
to Yznaga ?”
“Sold it? No. He lost it at cards. That was
what led to the killing of the Spaniard.”
“Oh - I see!”
The district attorney sat forward in his chair in
quickened interest. Scarbrough's attention, too, grew
keener. Johansen looked from one to the other won-
deringly.
“You did n't know that?” he asked.
“Know it? We don't know anything except what
I read you in the cable and what you've told us,” an-
swered Redding. “Please tell all you know.”
“Well, I don't know much; but I did look into the
case at the time I was hunting for Mrs. McRae. As
I told you last night, Miles, Luis Yznaga ran a small,
select gambling place at his home. McRae played
there a good deal and was said to be infatuated with
Mrs. Yznaga. He had no business, was living on his
inheritance and going through it pretty fast. When
his losses to Yznaga got beyond him, he signed over
the Rosalba. This seemed to prey on his mind. I
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imagine that he was looking to his mine to rebuild
his fortunes. At any rate it was testified at the trial
that on the night in question he had won a large sum
and demanded that Yznaga accept it and give him a
quit claim deed for the mine. When the Spaniard re-
fused, there was a quarrel, and suddenly McRae, who
had been drinking freely, struck Yznaga on the tem-
ple with a heavy cane — and killed him.”
“ And Welles-Hewitt was a witness against him?"
“ Yes, he saw the blow struck.”
For a minute there was silence in the room. At last
Redding spoke.
“Mr. Johansen, has it occurred to you that this
Brown may be McRae's son?”
Lars Johansen smiled faintly.
“Well, I know it has occurred to you, Miles.”
“Of course! Look at the evidence! There's Mrs.
Gil's story of his hatred of Welles-Hewitt. You've
heard that? If Welles-Hewitt's testimony convicted
his father, he would naturally hate him, would n't he?
Then there's Miss Yznaga's story of her meeting with
him and of his refusal to come to her home for a
reason he would not explain. If his father killed her
father, was n't that reason enough? And why should
he go to Spitzen to look up the history of the Mc-
Raes if he is not the son?”
Here Scarbrough volunteered his opinion.
“The point I think important about that Spitzen
inquiry is Brown's interest in the mentality of the two
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THE OTHER BROWN
SOITTI
McRaes — in their queerness. There are the ques-
tions he asked about the boy, Roderick. Was he dif-
ferent from other boys? Did he act strangely? And
so on. Is n't it possible that he may have been trying
to trace some — well, some mental eccentricity of his
own in his father and grandfather?”
Redding looked puzzled.
“I don't believe I follow you,” he said.
“What I mean is this. I met Brown the other eve-
ning on the train, as I have told you, and we had some
conversation --”
“And he acted queerly?”
"Well, not exactly that, but —” Tim paused, glanc-
ing at his listeners. He was on the point of telling
them of his talk with Brown about dual personality,
and of Dozy's theory that Brown himself had a sec-
ond personality. All the way back from Spitzen he
had toyed with the bizarre hypothesis until it no
longer appeared impossibly fantastic. But the words
he was about to speak seemed suddenly to slip down
his throat. He saw the idea now as he had seen it
first and as the two shrewd, practical men before him
would see it. So to cover his false start he merely
added: “What I mean is that having talked with
Brown, I can't quite bring myself to believe he is the
murderer.”
“Is that so?” Johansen asked in quick interest.
“ Why?"
“I hardly know," said Tim frankly. “It seems
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unreasonable to doubt it in face of the evidence;
and at first I believed it. At that time I thought the
murder might have had a political or patriotic motive;
but now that it appears to be just a cold blooded crime
— well, I have to count Brown out. He was there —
of course —”
Once more the impulse to speak his thoughts died
abruptly, but he was spared the need of a retreat by
Johansen's saying:
“How do you know he was there? How do you
know the man you met on the train and who impressed
you so favorably is the man your friend Cullop saw
after the murder? I understood from Mr. Redding
that Cullop himself denies that."
“Yes, I-I believe he does,” began Tim hesi-
tantly, tempted again to be frank, yet fearful of being
ridiculous and in the end accomplishing nothing.
“ It seems to me,” Johansen continued, “ that we
have a good deal of evidence that Cullop is right, that
there are two Browns.”
“ But that is after all a detail — if you will pardon
my saying so, Mr. Johansen — since, if there are two
men, they are both mixed up in the case,” said Red-
ding. “We've had that idea in mind from the first,
but it has n't helped us at all. Now this new lead,
this McRae clue — may get us somewhere. I shall
publish the London cable and the suggestion that
Brown is the son of Roderick McRae in the papers to-
morrow morning, and see what happens.”
258


CHAPTER XXIII
“VOU is wanted at de telephome, Mister Dozy.”.
1 “Who is it?”
“I don't know, sah. I done ax him who is it, and
he ain' answer me. He des say it's ve’y impo'tant.”
Dozier Cullop frowned at his uncle's dusky major-
domo.
“Is it Mr. Scarbrough?” he questioned.
“No, sah — I don’ sca'cely think so.” Mose's tone
was uncertain.
“I'll bet it is.”
Dozy's remark was to himself, and laying aside the
eye-shade which he had just donned preparatory to
some belated hours of study, he started reluctantly for
the telephone. Of course it was Tim! All afternoon
- ever since he had known of Valentin Gil's arrest -
Dozy had been expecting and dreading to hear from
Scarbrough. Following his call on Miss Yznaga the
morning after the murder, he had been summoned to
police headquarters to describe again his meeting with
the murderer; but since then had been left alone, the
inquest having been postponed to give time for further
investigation. But Gil's arrest had worried him
greatly, bringing him the first misgivings he had felt
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THE OTHER BROWN
about his attitude toward Brown. Until then his
knowledge of Brown's secret had seemed to justify
any help he could give the poor fellow. But now, with
another man — innocent perhaps — under suspicion,
he was not sure that it did.
He sat for a time beating a nervous tattoo on the
telephone desk. What would Tim say, and what ought
he to answer? Ought he not tell the whole truth
about his meeting Brown on Mrs. Malone's steps and
their talk afterwards, and about the message to Miss
Yznaga? Perhaps so; but he would hate it like forty.
Tim would not believe the dual personality part of the
story, anyhow, and while Dozy had distinctly refused
to promise Brown not to tell about that, he had prom-
ised that if there was anything he could do for him, he
would do it.
“Good Lord!” groaned the boy in his perplexity.
Then succumbing to a habit he had of leaving difficult
decisions to the inspiration of the moment, he caught
up the receiver.
“Well, what is it?” he said, a trifle belligerently.
Why could n't Tim leave him alone anyhow?
There was silence on the wire, a stillness that was
like a tense waiting.
“Hello there!” said Dozy.
“Hello,” answered a voice. “Is that you, Cullop ? "
Dozy jumped. Without his volition his lips replied.
“Do you know who I am?” came back at once.
“Y es, I — think so."
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THE OTHER BROWN
“Don't speak my name, please.” A short wait,
then, as if hesitantly: “You told me the other night
that if anything came up that you could do for me
you would do it. Does that still hold ? "
“Why — yes.”
“Quite sure?”
“Why — yes,” Dozy faltered again.
“ If not, I'd much prefer you'd say so," said the
voice calmly though with a note of disappointment.
“Of course I'll do it,” Dozy answered at once,
catching the note. What was he hesitating for?
Had n't he given his word ?
“Thanks,” came the relieved response. “Could
you meet me somewhere to-night ? ”
“Why — yes. Where?”
“Over by the park will be best, I think. If you
leave your house in five minutes and walk north, I 'll
walk south. Understand?”
“ Yes."
“ You won't fail me?”
“No; I'll come.”
“ Thanks.” The word was followed by a discon-
necting click, and mechanically Dozy put up his own
receiver.
What was he in for now? He looked at the time.
Ten-forty. Thank heaven it was raining and there
would be no one out, and with the raincoat collar up
and his hat brim down, he would hardly be recognized
if seen.
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THE OTHER BROWN
who happened to notice. He could see the big form
of one now in the entrance of an apartment house
across the street, and there would be others along the
way. The thing to do was to act naturally and, when
he met Brown, pretend to be surprised. Accordingly
he quickened his pace again.
The meeting occurred near a lamp-post, to Dozy's
disgust; but at sight of Brown's face, so haggard and
gray and strange that under other conditions Dozy
would hardly have known it for Brown's, he forgot
his plans for caution and silently reached out an eager,
sympathetic hand, which the other silently gripped.
The next moment, however, remembering the man be-
hind him, Dozy said anxiously:
“Come on. We can't stand here in the rain; it 'll
look funny.” Turning, he started on again.
For a dozen paces neither spoke; then Brown him-
self broke the awkward pause.
"I felt sure you'd come, Cullop,” he said grate-
fully. “But before I ask you to do anything more
I want to tell you something. I can imagine that you
have n't had a very comfortable time of it these last
two days - especially since the arrest to-day. I know
how you must feel about that. So - I want to tell
you that I did not kill Welles-Hewitt.”
“Oh,” said Dozy faintly, taken aback by the calm-
ness of the announcement. “You — know now?”
he added, with sudden interest, giving his companion
a curious glance.
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THE OTHER BROWN
ne
to keep you. What I want to ask you to do for me
is this. I have some papers that I would like to have
put in a safe place. They ’re private papers, and I
should hate to have the police or the newspapers get
them if — I should be arrested — or give myself up.”
He waited for a moment, hoping, perhaps, for a re-
sponse, but getting none went on again a little falter-
ingly. “I thought you — might be willing to put
them away for me somewhere -- where they would be
safe and — I could get them — later."
He stopped again, and it was plain now that he
expected an answer; but for a time none came. The
word “papers " had startled Dozy. It was ominous
after all Gil's talk about his papers.
“I can give you my word of honor that the papers
are mine," Brown said suddenly.
“Of course!” Dozy exclaimed, embarrassed at hav-
ing been read, yet relieved by the assurance. "I-I
guess I can do that all right,” he added.
At once Brown's hand went into an inner pocket
and brought out a thick white package and held it out
to Dozy, who took it from him and placed it in a
pocket of his own.
“It's no use my trying to thank you, Cullop —”
Brown began, speaking in a firmer, somewhat louder
tone, which Dozy instantly hushed with a warning
whisper.
“Sh! Don't talk so loud! That man's right be-
hind us.”
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THE OTHER BROWN
“What!” Involuntarily Brown turned his head,
and the next moment they had both wheeled and sprung
back, for from the man following them there came
a sharp order:
“ Hands up!"
It was Tim! Even the two quick words were
enough to tell Dozy that.
“ Hands up!” Scarbrough repeated.
But nothing was farther from Dozy's thoughts
than to obey. Almost automatically he turned and
ran.
“Stop!” Scarbrough called. “Or I'll shoot!"
Dozy did not stop; he knew Tim would not fire at
him. And even had he not been sure of it he would
have kept on. For the horrible fear had come to him
that Brown must think he had betrayed him. What
else could he think? And the one way to prove him-
self was to save those papers from the police. That
he would do at any cost!
To his consternation Scarborough's threat was fol-
lowed by a whistled call for help. Good Lord! If
Tim meant to set the police on him, he might as well
have fired! Dozy sprang for the park wall, vaulted
it, and dashed for a black clump of evergreens. There
he stopped to listen. A trolley car clanged by, then
another; but even their racket, he knew, would not
have drowned a police call had there been a second
one. And there had not. Tim's first whistle must
have been on Brown's account, not his. Good old
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THE OTHER BROWN
Columbia University. For he knew from experience
that it would lie in his box there until doomsday un-
less he went and got it.
When the slide of the mail-box fell shut upon the
papers, Dozy breathed a sigh of relief and turned his
steps toward home.
270


CHAPTER XXIV
ALBA awoke with a frightened start, but even be-
11 fore regaining consciousness, she recognized the
touch that had roused her as Mrs. Martinez', and mur-
mured, “Nana," drowsily, as if reassured, her eyes
still closed. When she opened them on coming fully
to herself, however, the sight of the figure by her bed
startled her anew, and she sprang up in alarm.
“Nana! What's the matter? What has hap-
pened?” she cried.
“Sh!” The old woman raised a warning hand.
“Be quiet. I want to talk to you — to tell you some-
thing." She glanced apprehensively toward the one
door of the narrow, cell-like room, listening intently,
after which, satisfied apparently that no one had been
awakened, she turned again to the girl who sat
crouched upon the edge of the bed, watching her.
In one hand Juana Martinez carried a lighted candle,
and her first action now was to set the candlestick on
a table, from which the light mounted faintly to the
crucifix hanging above it on the wall; then she sank
heavily down beside Alba on the bed. Over her night-
dress she wore a faded flannel wrapper, and her coarse
gray hair hung loosely about her face which, too,
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THE OTHER BROWN
did Nana mean? From her vacant eyes it was plain
that she had spoken unwittingly.
“Who will come?” Alba questioned after a long
pause, not daring more than the softest whisper.
There was no answer; the other seemed not to hear.
“Who will come?" the girl repeated after another
wait. “Who was it that came before?" she ventured
then, more insistently. “Whom did you see?”.
But at that, as if the final question by its familiarity
had stirred her dormant cautiousness and brought her
back to a sense of her surroundings, Juana's eyes re-
gained focus and narrowed a little.
“I saw nobody — I saw nothing,” she declared, re-
verting to the exasperating formula.
Alba sighed with disappointment.
“What do you want to tell me then?” she de-
manded.
“I want to tell you what you must do when I am
dead,” was the reply, and there was no doubt now that
the speaker knew what she was saying, that every
word was uttered with deliberation. “ Are you listen-
ing?" she questioned, fixing her black eyes sharply on
the girl's face, and added after an answering nod:
“ You must not sell the mine."
“But it is sold, Nana — I told you that."
“No. The señor did not sell it. You must not
believe what they tell you. He did not sell it. I know
that.”
“But he did, Nana dear,” Alba insisted with a tinge
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THE OTHER BROWN
of impatience, for they had argued this point in the
same way some hours ago.
“No," the old woman repeated. “He did not sell
it. I know. He — was afraid.”
“ Afraid!” Alba stared. This was something
new. “Afraid of whom?”
“Of me.”
“Of you?”
Mrs. Martinez nodded her head solemnly.
“You must not sell it, you either. Nor must you
keep it,” she said. “It is not yours. It never was
yours.”
“Not mine!” Astonishment brought the girl to
her feet again; then she gave the old woman a sharp
glance. Was Nana out of her head after all? But
no; she looked as if she knew perfectly what she was
saying!“ Nana, what do you mean? The Rosalba
was mine!” Alba cried out, raising her voice in her
excitement above the subdued tones they had both been
using. “My father left it to me and my mother —”
“Sh!” With the warning Mrs. Martinez rose and
hurried to the door to listen there, fearful lest some
sleeper in the silent house might have been awakened
and would come to see what was the matter. Reas-
sured after a moment by the unbroken stillness, she
returned to the bed, though she did not again sit down.
Pressing her hand against her thigh she glanced down
at it, then fixed her eyes on Alba.
“ The paper is here," she whispered. “I have car-
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THE OTHER BROWN
ried it on me for twenty years. But when I am dead,
you must take it to a judge and let him read it, and
he will tell you what to do. And —” she paused and
leaned closer — "you must never leave me again.
Wherever I go, you must go with me, or I might die,
and the paper would be lost. And now," she sighed
heavily, “I have told you. Go back to sleep."
“To sleep!” Alba caught at Juana's arm as the lat-
ter turned away to leave. “Nana, what does it all
mean? You must tell me,” she insisted. “What
paper is this? I don't understand. Let me see it.”
"No," said the old woman, drawing away quickly.
“No one shall see it until I am dead. Then you will
know.” She made a low moaning sound and crossed
herself. “It will not be long,” she whispered. “He
will come. It is the will of God.” Then opening the
door, she went out leaving Alba staring after her,
wild-eyed.
275


CHAPTER XXV
IT was from Mrs. Gil that Alba received next morn-
I ing the news of Eric Brown's arrest, though not
until after she had returned to the Gil home. Bianca
had appeared at the convent quite early, bringing a
note from Dr. Tierney to Alba, advising her to take
Mrs. Martinez back with her to Mrs. Gil's. Juana
was well enough to be moved, the doctor wrote, and
in his opinion the change of environment would be
good for her.
This message put Alba in a quandary, for it had
been her purpose to remain at Santa Ysobel's. To
continue to be the señora's guest under the existing
conditions, would be too difficult for both of them,
she felt. However, her attempt to express this feel-
ing to Bianca had been met by such contrite pleading
that she had had to yield. Moreover, the doctor's
statement that a change would be beneficial to his pa-
tient also weighed with her, and since she was deter-
mined not to be separated from her old nurse again, no
choice seemed left.
It was after Mrs. Martinez had been comfortably
established in her new bed, that Bianca, alone with her
younger guest, informed her as gently as she could
of the developments of the preceding night. The
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THE OTHER BROWN
child! Yet, after all, how fortunate that she was not
married to that wretched young man.
“ Señora! Is this true?”
Bianca turned instantly, struck by a strangely eager
note in the girl's voice, and, at sight of her face,
struck again by the eagerness of her questioning glance.
“ Is it true that his father killed mine?”
“ Yes — it must be. Have you never heard of it
before?” returned Mrs. Gil.
“Never — not a word,” said Alba. “Where is he
now? I'm going to him. I must see him.”
“But, my dear, do you think that quite — neces-
sary?” Bianca demurred, though aware even as she
spoke that opposition would be futile.
“Yes, yes, Señora — I must see him!”
“But not now — not at once. Wait. Let us talk
about it a little —"
“Wait? You did n't wait when Señor Gil was ar-
rested!”
“No, but —” The two cases were not parallel,
Bianca was about to say, but, realizing the uselessness
of the argument, said instead, “I will go with you
then.” It was the one course left to her, she thought.
“But you will let me speak to him alone?” Alba
insisted anxiously.
“Of course, my dear, if you wish to. But I can-
not let you go there by yourself. I should not dream
of such a thing."
In a few minutes they had started, and the journey
278


THE OTHER BROWN
was made rapidly enough even for Alba's impatience.
Delay came, however, after their arrival at their des-
tination, though Bianca's recent experience helped her
to take the shortest cut to the accomplishment of their
purpose.
But at last Alba found herself alone, staring a little
dazedly at a door through which she had been told
“the prisoner" would be brought to her. At the win-
dows of the room there were iron bars; the room itself
was bare and ugly and forbidding. Outside the door
through which she herself had entered, she knew
guards were stationed.
It seemed unreal. She in such a place! And he!
A vision of their first meeting, and the second, came
to her — the moonlit hills and the sunny Alameda.
That was reality, not this. This was a dream, gro-
tesque, horrible. She had only dreamed the murder
and the arrest, dreamed, too, the strange things Nana
had said.
Then the door opened, and he came in.
For one instant she was aware of the figure of a
guard standing behind him in the doorway; then it
disappeared, and they were alone. For another mo-
ment she waited before she started toward him, hardly
knowing that she moved. He met her half-way, and
as his arms closed round her, the room seemed sud-
denly blotted out; there were no barred windows, no
guarded doors in the world; no world, but that which
they held in their arms.
279





THE OTHER BROWN
“More than love?"
“ Yes — more than love."
" And this thing that stands between us is not that
your father killed mine?” she asked.
“No.”
He turned his eyes from her gaze as he replied, and
now she suddenly noticed how changed he was, how
worn and gaunt.
“Oh," she cried in self-reproach. “You are ill,
and I have come here and worried you about myself
when I really wanted to help you. Forgive me. I
won't be selfish again. But let me help you, let me
do something for you."
He caught her hands and drew her to his arms again.
"You help me just by loving me,” he said. “ Just
to know that you do makes me strong. But there is
nothing else that you can do — that any one can do."
“And will you do nothing to defend yourself —
nothing at all ? ” she questioned in alarm.
He shook his head.
“Oh, just trust me, dearest,” he pleaded. “And
love me — love me — no matter what comes."
"I will — no matter what comes,” she promised
solemnly.
Then as if all had been said, she turned and hurried
away.
283


CHAPTER XXVI
HE announcement of Brown's arrest in the morn-
1 ing papers had made no mention of Dozier Cul-
lop, and this fact, added to Scarbrough's generous
treatment of him the night before, made it imperative
- as Dozy viewed the situation — for him to put him-
self in his friend's hands. Moreover, he honestly be-
lieved it would be doing Brown a service to tell Tim
all he knew. He was bound by no promise not to tell,
and the chances were that Brown would stubbornly —
and mistakenly — keep silent. As for the papers,
they were safe, and Tim could not get them, no mat-
ter what he might do. Their safekeeping had been
a promise, the only one he had made poor Brown, and
nothing could force him to break it.
Tim was not surprised to see him, having felt fairly
confident that he would come. He listened first to the
account of Dozy's meeting with Brown after the mur-
der, and of their talk together.
“When I saw him start to unlock that boarding-
house door," Dozy finally declared, “I knew I'd been
right about the dual personality.”
“Did he admit it?”
“Not right at first. He wanted me to promise not
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THE OTHER BROWN
to tell if he did. But I said I could n't promise that.
And I tried to get him to give himself up. I said he'd
be caught in the end anyhow, and that if he had n't
been himself at the time they could n't hold him re-
sponsible, that it was like being insane.”
“ What did he say to that?”.
“ Went right up in the air; said that was just it,
that they would say he was insane and lock him up.”
“I thought so. That's probably the reason he
won't talk now.”
“ But he told me last night — said so positively —
that he did n't kill Welles-Hewitt. He said he knew
he did n't, Tim.”
“Knew it? How?”.
"He did n't explain, but I thought he meant he had
changed back to the way he was when he was in the
Welles-Hewitt house and remembered what he did
there."
“But in the case he described to us on the train the
man with the double personality did n't know in one
state anything he did or thought in the other. Then
how could he remember that he had remernbered?”
Dozy looked blank.
“I never thought of that,” he said.
“What was that package he handed you last night?”
demanded Scarbrough abruptly.
"I can't tell you that.” Dozy's jaw hardened and
he sat up stiffly. “It was something of his and —”
“Papers? "
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THE OTHER BROWN
"I've told you all I can.”
“What was it you gave Cullop last night? I saw
you hand him something.”
There was a pause before Brown answered.
“You've been talking to him; did n’t he tell you?”
“No; he did n't,” said Tim with assumed asperity.
“He's too young to realize that his silence makes him
your accomplice before the law.” And having let fall
this hint, Scarbrough went away, confident that it
would not fail in its effect.
The district attorney received the story of dual per-
sonality quite as the narrator expected.
“Wants to plead insanity, does he?" he snapped in
disgust. “And with a new twist, at that. Won't it
be pie for the experts? We 'll never get through with
the case."
"I doubt that he will be willing to plead insanity,"
Tim answered. “He seems to have a horror of be-
ing thought insane. When I was talking to him on
the train, before I had any idea that the case he de-
scribed was his own, I remarked that dual personality
seemed to me merely a form of insanity. And he
did n't like it a bit, I could see. But he said he knew
that was how most people would look at the matter,
and that was why a man so afflicted would do any-
thing to keep it secret, that anything was better than
being thought insane. And it is n't he who has
brought up the subject now. It 's Cullop. We both
of us had trouble getting Brown to admit it.”
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THE OTHER BROWN
Redding put the question. “No moral irresponsibil-
ity is involved; there can be no dispute among alienists
about that. The young man will be very foolish to
plead insanity on such a ground.”
“But is it possible that he actually has, as he claims,
a second individuality that alternates with his normal
one, and that neither has any direct knowledge of the
acts of the other?”
“Oh, yes, perfectly possible,” Tierney replied.
“ Alternating personality is a phase of multiple per-
sonality and is an established fact, though its ex-
planation is a moot point. Formerly cases of it were
looked upon as freaks, monstrosities of consciousness,
and were disregarded by science. But we have now
come to see in them merely an abnormal condition of
the mind, which is interesting and valuable because it
seems to reveal to us the very make-up of personality.
A man's personality, as you know, is the sum total
of the qualities and characteristics peculiar to him as
an individual, and in a normal individual these in-
gredients of his personality cohere, stick together,
forming a single whole. Sometimes — very rarely –
they do not. Sometimes the personality becomes dis-
integrated. Certain elements separate themselves
from the whole — nobody knows how or why — until,
in extreme cases, dissociation of so many kinds of
mental activity takes place as to lead to a distinct
change of personality. Do you follow me?”.
The doctor paused for a glance at his listeners;
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THE OTHER BROWN
that he knows nothing that happened while he was in
the house."
“Well — perhaps he does n't, consciously; but sub-
consciously he does — if he was there," the doctor
answered. “And we ought to be able to get it out of
him very easily by hypnotism.”
“Hypnotism!”
“ Yes; his second personality is at present sub-
merged — so to speak. But it is there, as much a
part of his mentality as the other. And it can be
aroused by hypnotism — that is, if he will agree to it.
You can't hypnotize a man against his will, you know.
But if Brown refuses, it will be proof that he is afraid
of what he might reveal. On the other hand, if he is
confident of his innocence, he will not refuse. You
might consult him, and if he consents, I will recom-
mend a good man for the case; I don't do that sort
of thing myself. But I shall be very glad to be pres-
ent, if you like. In fact,” the physician ended with a
laugh, “if I am not invited to be present, I shall never
forgive or forget."
Redding smiled with understanding.
“ It is an interesting case,” he agreed.
“ Interesting!” Tierney exclaimed. “Why, man,
dual personality is the most fascinating subject in the
world. Why? Because there is n't one of us who
does n't know that he has not only one other, but sev-
eral other selves hidden away inside him. I consider
this case of Brown's simply an extreme instance of a
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THE OTHER BROWN
poor frightened mother has brought the lesson home
to him, he sees himself there. A hideous fear comes
over him. He's afraid of himself — of every im-
pulse and desire. He questions each one. If it seems
dangerous, he stifles it. Of course, the stifling is n't
done in a day. Again and again he lets things excite
him; he loses his temper; he fights; but after each
lapse comes the vision of that dangling form. He
lives with the fear of it. It's horrible to think of —
a sensitive child growing to manhood with such a dread
forever in his heart! But he goes on like that for
years. And gradually the dangerous impulses come
less often, less strongly. He gets them all stifled at
last, all crushed down inside him, so far down finally
that he thinks they 're dead, because he never feels
them any more. He even in time forgets that he ever
felt them. He thinks he has won his battle. He has
succeeded in making himself into something he was
never meant to be. Instead of the light-hearted, high-
spirited, demonstrative man he was meant for, he has
become self-contained, grave, and unemotional. He
will never get into a drunken rage and kill a man and
hang for it, because he never loses his temper and
never drinks.
“ That is how he thinks about himself. He does
not know that he has not killed those natural tend-
encies, but has only repressed them, that they are
down in the substrata of his mind as much alive as
ever. Perhaps they 'll stay there always; perhaps
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THE OTHER BROWN
not. Some day he may have an acicdent, a violent
mental shock, or some slight incident may recall a
vivid memory of his childhood; no one knows just
what brings about these changes —
“Of course, you understand that I am only theoriz-
ing," Tierney interrupted himself to say. “I am
building, upon the few facts we know about Brown, a
hypothetical case to show you how double personality
may be explained. Brown's actual experience was
perhaps quite different. But I am confident that in
his case, and in all others of the kind, the beginning
was the suppression of certain mental elements by
which they were put out of gear with the rest of the
conscious mind. You see less extreme instances of it
every day. For one, there's the middle-aged man who
suddenly reverses a long record of hard work and
blameless conduct by discarding his respectable, mid-
dle-aged wife and putting in her place a notorious
chorus girl, a creature he would not formerly have
permitted his wife to wipe her feet on. You can name
a dozen such cases without stopping to think. Then
there's the woman who craves beautiful clothes, but
never gets a chance to satisfy the craving until she's
a grandmother, and then - well, she stops at nothing;
there's no age limit. You know the type ?”.
“I do, I do, heaven help me,” laughed Redding.
“Well, suppressed tendencies, that's what it is.
The dam has broken, that's all. Just what causes
these submerged elements of the mind to rise to the
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THE OTHER BROWN
***S
*
conscious plane, as in a case like Brown's, nobody can
say. It is possible that Brown woke up one morning
to find himself in a strange room and in a strange
town. Being still possessed of reason, he may have
thought himself insane, or been thought so by others.
Perhaps he bolted; you could hardly blame him for it.
Or he may have stayed on, kept his wits about him,
and learned, indirectly, enough about his normal self
to play the part. He was changed in disposition, man-
ner, and tastes. He may even have looked different;
a change of expression and bearing is often quite
transforming."
The doctor paused, his thick brows contracting
sharply. In his professional interest in the case un-
der discussion he had for the time being overlooked
his personal concern in it.
“I have been greatly distressed to learn that this
man you have arrested is the man Miss Yznaga
knows,” he said. “After hearing her story of his
splendid rescue of her and her friends I was very hope-
ful that there had been a mistake. Of course, as a
case of double consciousness, it becomes credible. But
think of it! A hero and a murderer existing within
the same body and the same brain.”
“There's tragedy, if you please,” said Redding.
“It's going to be a terrible ordeal for the girl. I
advise you to try hypnotism on the young man as soon
as possible. You see, when the conscious mind is put
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to sleep, you can then reach the subconscious, and it is
there that the information you want is hidden.”
“We shall try it by all means, if Brown consents,”
the district attorney answered. “ But if you are anx-
ious to expedite matters, doctor, you can help us by
letting us talk to Mrs. Martinez. Mr. Scarbrough
here thinks she knows more about the murder than she
has told.”
“ Indeed?” murmured Tierney, turning his shrewd
glance on the detective.
Tim, however, ignored the tacit inquiry.
“Doctor," he asked, “ do you know whether Mrs.
Martinez was in Mrs. Yznaga's employ at the time of
Yznaga's death?”
The doctor reflected for a moment with a puzzled
air, as though trying to guess the bearing of the ques-
tion; but when he'answered it was apparently with
entire frankness.
"I think it very likely that she was,” he said, “ be-
cause she was with Mrs. Yznaga six months later when
I attended her at the birth of her child in Mexico City.
However, neither of them ever spoke to me of the
tragedy that had occurred in London; I never heard
of it, in fact, until after I came here to New York,
and then quite by accident. Naturally I have never
since broached the subject to any of them. But I have
no objection to your questioning Mrs. Martinez now
- none whatever. I could not permit it before be-
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cause of her condition. But she is better now, so
much better, indeed, that I have allowed her to be
moved to the home of Mrs. Gil.”
“Is that so?” said Redding, surprised. “I had
not heard of it.”
“Yes, Mrs. Gil came to me last night and — sug-
gested it," the doctor answered with the barest instant
of hesitation, adding at once more smoothly: “I
thought myself that Mrs. Martinez would be happier
to be with Miss Yznaga.”
The talk then reverted to the proposed experiment
in hypnotism, and the arrangements for it were dis-
cussed. When these were settled, Redding and Scar-
brough rose to leave.
“Doctor," said Tim abruptly. “Has Mrs. Mar-
tinez a very weak heart? I ask,” he explained, in an-
swer to Tierney's puzzled stare, “because when I
found her in the hall the other night, after the murder,
I thought she must have fainted from fright at seeing
Brown dash by her. But she denied this. She said
she had seen no one at all but, hearing the door-bell
ring, was going down to attend to it when she felt a
sharp pain in her heart, and fainted from that.”
“I see,” said the physician. “ Yes, she has rather
a weak heart that goes back on her at times, especially
if she has over-exerted herself, as she had that day
with the hurried packing. And she has fainted sev-
eral times because of it.”
“But, is it dangerously weak?” Tim persisted. “I
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will be, that you are afraid of what you might reveal
while in the hypnotic state?”
“Yes.”
“Then you expect to go ahead with a plea of in-
sanity ?”
“I shall not plead insanity. I am not insane. I
have never been insane.” Brown turned to Tim.
“Mr. Scarbrough,” he said, speaking more slowly and
with a touch of formality. “Would you be so good
as to ask Mr. Cullop to come to see me? He has some
papers of mine, some private papers, that I asked him
to take care of. I wish him to return them to me."
There was no break in the speech, and the blue
eyes did not waver; but Tim knew something of the
courage and the nobility that underlay each word,
and he felt a twinge of remorse for his own part in
bringing about the result he had desired. How swiftly
and deftly Brown had acted to free Dozy from the
danger of suspicion! And at what a sacrifice! For
it meant the surrender of his papers.
“Well, he refused,” said Redding when they had
left Brown. “I thought he would. But it has just
occurred to me that in time his other self, or person-
ality, will appear of its own accord. We've only to
wait.”
Tim nodded absently. He was thinking about
Brown's papers.
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actor, entrusted at the eleventh hour with an im-
portant role.
“Forget! With all that depends on it?”
“ Very well, then," said Tim, satisfied, and at his
signal Bianca Gil led the way from the small room
where the three had been alone to a larger one in which
sat Alba Yznaga, Lars Johansen, the district attorney,
and two plain clothes policemen, all tensely silent.
Tiptoeing in behind Brown, Scarbrough crossed
noiselessly to a closed door, the knob of which he pro-
ceeded to turn with extremest care to make no sound.
Brown, whom he had beckoned to follow, stood ready
beside him, while Bianca waited nearby, her fingers
on an electric switch.
At a nod from Scarbrough her hand moved, and the
room turned black until, as Tim slowly swung back
the closed door, the wan green light from the adjoin-
ing apartment entered. And now, while Brown lin-
gered at the door, the watchers could see the gray
head of Mrs. Martinez sunk in its pillows. Then
Brown's shadowy form hid it from them as he crossed
the threshold and stole over to the foot of the bed.
There, for a taut minute, he waited. It was evident
that the old woman's eyes were closed, that she had
neither seen nor heard him. Suddenly he spoke.
“ Juana Martinez, wake up!”
At the summons, in a low, sepulchral voice, a chok-
ing scream came from the bed. Stepping back, Brown
waited once more while the housekeeper continued to
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give out short, gasping cries, and with a shaking hand
crossed and recrossed herself.
“Silence! No one can hear you or help you.
You are alone — with me!”
"A-h!” It was a toneless shriek, stifled imme-
diately.
“ Look at me,” the low, hollow voice went on.
“You know me. What is my name?”
Juana Martinez stared out in terror, but did not
speak.
“ Answer!”
The command had to be repeated several times be-
fore the woman could obey. Inarticulate sounds came
from her, but she seemed incapable of forming words.
However, at last, intelligible even to the more distant
listeners, was heard the name.
“ Señor McRae.”
“When did you see me last?”
“Three nights ago — when you killed the señor."
“And why did I kill him? ”
A tense hush. From without the house came the
night noises of the city; but in the room there was no
sound except the brushing of Mrs. Martinez' trembling
hand against her night-dress as she spasmodically
crossed herself.
" It was for what he did to you,” she answered at
last with a frightened gulp.
“ And what was that?”
Again a silence.
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yours again. It was for that they quarreled, because
the Señor wanted the mine. It was he who had
brought you to Señor Luis' house to play, and when
you lost, a half of it was always his. So it was when
he brought clients. And he wanted the mine, the
Rosalba. It was worth more than the money, he said.
And he went to the sofa where you were asleep and
took the paper from your pocket and gave it to the
Señora.”
She stopped and drew a deep breath as though the
recital cost her intense effort.
“ Was the Señora Yznaga there all the time?”
Brown questioned.
“Yes.” The reply came reluctantly.
“ She was in love with Welles-Hewitt and not with
her husband — is n't that true? Answer me."
“ Yes — it is true,” Juana Martinez admitted with
another labored breath. “She wanted to keep the
paper and put the money in its place. But the señor
said they could keep the money also. 'He will not
know,' he said. And then Señor Luis was very angry.
'I am a Spanish gentleman, not an English thief, like
you,' he said to the Señor, and then — then —”.
“Go on — go on,” urged Brown excitedly, forget-
ting the part he was playing and taking a step nearer
the bed.
The woman shrank back.
“I will tell you!” she cried out. “Don't touch
me!”
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Instantly Brown snatched it from her, stepped back
to the lamp, unfastened the worn oilcloth wrapping,
and took out the paper it contained. One glance at it
and wheeling, he hurried back to the room where the
others waited.
As if by a single impulse, they rose to receive him,
and Mrs. Gil switched on the light. But he stood be-
fore them, suddenly too excited, too moved to speak.
His eyes seemed to see nothing for a moment; then
they settled on Scarbrough.
" It was true,” he managed to articulate. “My
father was innocent.”
At the words, he turned with a start, as if coming
back suddenly to a full sense of the situation, and
looked at Alba Yznaga. And his movement brought
to the others a realization of the tragic meaning for
her of the revelation they had just heard. She, how-
ever, did not wait for any one to speak, but set her
white face toward the door and went in to Juana
Martinez
“Poor child,” exclaimed Mrs. Gil, and started to
follow, only to reconsider the impulse and close the
door instead. “Perhaps they are better alone for a
while,” she murmured.
She looked over at the district attorney. “Well? ”
she said with a note of challenge. “Was he the man
she saw? Are you sure of it now?”
“There has never been any doubt as to that, Mrs.
Gil," Redding answered. “He has never denied it,"
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this man here is not a ghost! Then what have you
gained by this test? What if you have proved that
Welles-Hewitt killed Yznaga and put the blame on this
man's father? That does n't prove him innocent of
Welles-Hewitt's death. Far from it! It proves that
his motive for revenge was even stronger than we
thought. You say there is no doubt he was the man
in the Welles-Hewitt house that night. You say he
admits it. Well? Does he admit that he is the mur-
derer ? ”
As she ended her outburst, Bianca looked at Brown,
and in her dark eyes there was a vindictive gleam,
easily interpreted. For it was his guilt that had fallen
on her husband's head, his denials that stood between
her husband and his liberty.
Eric Brown glanced questioningly at Scarbrough,
who, in turn, passed the inquiry to Redding.
“Its rather a long explanation," answered the lat-
ter. “May we sit down again?”
" Explanation ?” Bianca repeated. “Will he ex-
plain who —” She cut herself off, suddenly mindful
of her obligations as hostess. “I think it will be bet-
ter to go downstairs,” she said. “If you will excuse
me, I will join you there presently.” A gesture to-
ward the adjoining bedroom indicated the cause of her
delay, and as soon as the others had left her, she
crossed to the door, listened a moment, and went in.
Alba looked up as she entered, rising from where
she had been kneeling beside the bed, and Juana Mar-
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tinez started nervously from her pillows. The girl
spoke to her soothingly, and she sank back again, with
a little quaver of exhaustion.
“How is she?” Bianca asked. “Would you like
the doctor?”
Alba shook her head.
“She is quiet now. I told her the truth. She was
terribly frightened before; but I think she understands
now and will be all right. But if you think it would
be better to call Dr. Tierney -”
Mrs. Gil bent and felt the pulse of the sick woman,
studying her face meanwhile.
" It will not be necessary," she whispered. “I will
have Margaret come and stay with you or in the other
room. She can call me if you need me. I must go
downstairs. The others are there waiting. There is
something the district attorney wishes me to hear, some
sort of explanation.”
“From — him?"
Bianca nodded, understanding to whom the pronoun
referred.
“I'm going down, too,” said Alba slowly. “If
Margaret will stay here. I want to know — every-
thing.”
Mrs. Gil nodded without comment and left to sum-
mon the maid.
When she returned, Alba was waiting in the outer
room, gazing before her with a white, set face.
“No wonder he shrank from me, Señora, when he
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derings had prevented the making of close friends —
Roderick went to Mexico to hunt gold. That fever
was the one out-cropping of his inherited gambling
instinct to which he ever yielded consciously, and even
that he did not recognize for what it was, so disguised
was it by the glamor of adventure. In Mexico he had
encountered young Johansen,— though of this meet-
ing and its consequences Brown had never heard, -
and they had prospected together, McRae supplying
the necessary funds and Johansen the technical knowl-
edge. They had had luck and had secured two fair
mining claims, side by side. But Roderick did not
stay to develop his claim. He had married a young
English governess in Mexico City and he yielded to
her wish to go back to England to live. In London
he obtained a business position and settled down with
his wife and baby in full expectation of a long, happy,
quiet life.
His first change of personality came upon him with-
out warning of any kind. One night, about eleven
o'clock, he found himself — quite suddenly, as it
seemed to him — playing cards with several men whom
he was quite sure he had never seen until that moment.
He fancied he must be dreaming and sat for a time
staring about him silently. Then the arrival of a serv-
ant with a tray full of drinks brought him to a realiza-
tion of the fact that he was awake, that what he was
experiencing was actual. For the servant's face was
familiar to him. Some years before, when in London
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with his father, he had followed the latter to a gam-
bling place with the hope of dissuading him from en-
tering, and this servant was the man who on that
occasion had thrust him roughly from the door after
admitting his father.
And now, he himself was in the house, gambling,
drinking.
In horror, he dropped his cards and sprang to his
feet. How had he come to such a place? Not of his
own volition, surely. Something had happened to
him! He remembered now. He had been on his way
to his office, had just turned a certain corner, was pass-
ing a certain building — he recalled that perfectly.
Of course he did; it was only a minute ago — only an
instant!
But now the men at the table were staring at him
in amazement, and one of them had jumped up and
was asking him anxiously what the matter was. They
all looked like decent men — not thugs. If anything
was wrong, it must be with himself.
“I'm ill — that's all,” he muttered, sitting down
again. “I- I think I had better go home.”
“Right-o," he heard somebody answer. “I'll send
Simmons with you. You ’re as white as death. Sim-
mons, get a cab.”
It developed then that there was a score for him to
settle. He had been losing, he found, not a consid-
erable sum, but more than he had with him. Not dar-
ing to demur or to question his companions' statements,
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ment of gambling losses. He knew that he had signed
over the mine, even had Mrs. Yznaga not had a paper
with his signature as proof. He had given Yznaga
the paper at his last previous visit, six weeks before,
and had afterwards been extremely worried by the
fact. For it had been his intention to start soon for
Mexico to make arrangements for the development of
his property there. The Rosalba had been his one
hope of rebuilding his fortunes. To lose that was to
lose all, and if Yznaga had refused to let him redeem
it, there must certainly have been trouble between
them. That the ill feeling was increased by the Span-
iard's jealousy of attentions to his wife, McRae also
could not deny. He did not know. He could not
remember.
He did, in desperation, try to tell his lawyer of his
strange periods of forgetfulness, of the change in his
personality; but the man cut him short.
“You're not in America now, McRae; you 're in
England,” he said. “Insanity is a good plea in New
York, but it won't save you here. The only effect it
can possibly have will be to cast a lifelong suspicion
on the sanity of your child.”
But the night before his execution McRae's second
personality had again appeared, and learning from his
keeper of the peril in which he stood, he had written
a frantic letter to his wife, telling her all that he now
remembered. He was sure he had not killed Yznaga,
though he did not know who had. Mrs. Yznaga and
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York, I followed. I had no definite plan; but it suited
my purpose to come here, as I wished to visit several
towns nearby, where I knew my father had once lived
— still hoping, you see, to discover some one who had
known him. He had lived in Spitzen as a child, so
I went there, and it was when I was returning to New
York that I fell in with Mr. Scarbrough on the train.
But the rest of that you know.”
He came to a full stop now and looked over at Red-
ding, at whose request he had repeated his story.
“ And you remember nothing after your arrival in
New York?” the latter asked.
“Nothing."
“You remember nothing ? ” Bianca Gil questioned
sharply, speaking for the first time.
The district attorney explained.
“Mr. Brown - or McRae — claims that like his
father he has a second personality, over whose actions
he has no control. He admits being in the Welles-
Hewitt house, but does not admit committing the
murder."
“Who did it, if you did n't?" she demanded.
Eric looked at her squarely.
“I don't know," he said.
“You know it was not my husband!”
“No; I don't know that. It may have been; he was
there as well as I.”
She rose, her whole body trembling, and the move-
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of her Alight on the night of the murder until the pres-
ent moment, no clue as to her identity or whereabouts
had been obtained. Persistent questioning, both by
the district attorney and by Scarbrough, had won from
Brown only persistent declarations that he knew noth-
ing, that he knew no one who answered her descrip-
tion; and so convincing were his assurances that the
two men had finally accepted them for truth. Indeed,
as they turned to him now, he seemed to them to be
as genuinely astonished as they were. Alba Yznaga,
too, Tim noticed next, appeared to be utterly taken
aback, her pale face swept for the moment of all ex-
pression save an amazed stare at Mrs. Gil.
The latter, with an instinct for the dramatic that
seems inherent in Italian blood, held the situation for
several seconds by the mere force of her own tense
silence. Abruptly then, in the hush she had herself
created, she delivered her climax:
“ And she is your wife."
For an instant Eric Brown's gaze went blank, then
his eyes half closed in sharp, suspicious scrutiny of
Bianca's face.
“Is n't that true?” she challenged.
He did not reply at once, and again the room was
still. His eyes clung fast to Bianca's, but the light
died out of them. His throat moved violently with
an empty swallow, and he moistened his lips, as though
he were trying to make speech possible.
"I don't know," came huskily, at last.
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A low cry broke from Alba, and at the sound of it,
Eric turned sharply to Redding.
“Let us go, please,” he said. “I can't answer any
more questions — here."
“ I have no more to ask,” said Bianca Gil.
Redding looked at her, questions of his own on his
lips; but she had turned to Alba, and in presence of
the girl's distress, he could not press his inquiry. Be-
sides, it would be better, he decided, to go away and
return later for a talk with Mrs. Gil alone; for it was
evident she knew more than she had told them. Ac-
cordingly, he made his departure at once, glad to end
the trying situation, Brown, Scarbrough, and the two
plain-clothes policemen accompanying him.
The instant she had shut the door upon them Bianca
returned to the drawing-room, where Alba and Lars
Johansen were waiting, the latter having been detained
by her when the others were leaving.
“Did you understand?” she began excitedly.
“Did you see that he was lying? That girl is not his
wife. She's Fred Brown's wife. He told me about
her. She was an English girl — a young actress —
and she was coming over to New York to meet him, he
said. They have been married only a short time.
This other man had never heard of her. Could n't
you see that? But he was afraid to say so. He was
all at sea. He did n't know how much I knew.
Did n't you notice how his manner changed after I
told him that I had met Fred Brown in Mexico ? Fred
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Brown killed Welles-Hewitt, and this man knows it
and is shielding him.”
“ Then you don't believe the two men are the
same?” Lars Johansen asked.
“I know they are not,” she answered positively.
“ Eric Brown's father may have had a dual person-
ality, but he has not. He and Fred Brown look alike
— they are probably brothers — and a mere ac-
quaintance might mistake one for the other; but not
a person that had known either of them well — at any
rate, not at a second glance. Yet it was Fred that Eric
was impersonating to-night. When I saw him comb
his hair with his fingers before going into Mrs. Mar-
tinez, I began to suspect the truth. I tested him after-
wards to make sure of it; and now that we are sure,
we must think what is best to do.”
Her eager eyes had been darting back and forth
between her two listeners; now they focused for a
time on the girl.
“He is innocent, Alba, and he is n't married," she
said. “I'm sure of that, my dear. All will come
right for you some day, if only we can make him speak
out and clear himself. He is sacrificing himself and
my husband both to save a guilty man, and you must
not let him do it. You can do more than any one,
because he loves you.”
Alba shook her head sadly.
“He is innocent, Señora; I have never doubted it,”
she said. “But I cannot try to influence him or to
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“ You?” Her lips formed the word, but she was too
breathless to make a sound.
He bowed his white head, too moved himself at the
moment for speech. Recovering his self-control, he
smiled down at her gently.
“I'm so glad, so happy, to have found you at last.”
Alba tried to smile back at him.
“I'm — glad — too,” she stammered. “But — I
can't believe it — yet.” And then, turning to the
nearest chair, she sat down with a little gasp.
“I feel so queer,” she said faintly and burst into
tears.
Lars Johansen turned to Bianca with a helpless ges-
ture of appeal. With a glance of reassurance for him,
she rested her hand soothingly on the weeping girl.
"I’m all right,” sobbed Alba, looking up at them.
“I feel as if I'd just waked up — from a terrible
dream.”
" It was a dream, dear child, and you must forget
it,” said the old man tenderly. Then at a signal from
Mrs. Gil he followed her into the hall.
“We must give her time to find herself,” she said.
“She has had so many shocks these last few days.
Of course," she continued in a lower tone, “ though it
is not necessary to tell Alba, you must have guessed
that the purpose for which she was taken by Mrs.
Yznaga was that a child was wanted to inherit half the
Rosalba mine, which, according to Yznaga's will,
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would otherwise have gone to his brother in Spain.”
Johansen nodded.
“And now I'll tell you what I would n't tell you
last night — about my husband and Welles-Hewitt,"
Bianca offered.
“Never mind,” he said gently. “I have guessed
that, too."
“It was my fault,” she declared. “I had told him
this about Alba, and he was tempted — you can under-
stand that? We had been poor so long. It is only
this last year that we have known anything but inces-
sant struggle and anxiety about money. And he
wanted money so — wanted it for me. And this
meant a lump sum, real capital to go on with "
“Never mind,” Johansen protested again. “Let us
forget it. You have done me an inestimable service.
You have fulfilled your part of our agreement before
the time. Now it is for me to do my part. There is
nothing within my power that I will not do to repay
you.”
"I want only one thing — my husband's freedom,"
she said.
“I know."
“It is easy now -- after Mrs. Martinez's confession
- to understand Welles-Hewitt's motive for what he
did,” she observed, “With Valentin threatening one
exposure if he did n't sell the mine, and Mrs. Martinez
threatening another if he did, he could see no way out,
but to leave the country, taking with him as much
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accept the certified check Gil offered him, instead of
the cash on which he insisted. You see, Mr. Baker,
one of the striking features of Brown's statement is
that it confirms Gil's story in every particular. Judg-
ing from what he heard, Brown says that Welles-
Hewitt evidently did mean to take Gil's money and
give him a deed for the Rosalba mine, although he
had on his person at the time the twenty-five thousand
dollars you had paid him that day on the check of the
Mexican Mines Company."
The district attorney's tone had gradually become
more and more quiet, and more deliberate. It might
even have been called soothing, as if he were seeking
by his manner to counteract the effect of his words.
For Baker had gone white, so pale that his high fore-
head beneath the slick brown pompadour looked wax-
like. And his eyes held to Redding's with a set stare
as though bound by a spell.
“And now, Mr. Baker, I want to ask you if you
have had any trouble with counterfeit money late —".
The question was never finished. A harrowing
groan that seemed to tear its way out came from the
mouth of the teller, and the next instant his right hand
jerked an object from his hip pocket. At sight of
this object the other three men sprang to their feet;
but they were too late. Baker's hand went up to his
head; there was a shot; then his body dropped with
a thud to the floor.
At once from without came running steps, excited
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thought must have come that chance was offering him
an opportunity he would never have again. The
bronze statuette was a weapon ready to his hand, and
he must have seized it and struck just as Welles-Hewitt
turned his back to open the hall door.
“ At any rate,” Redding added, rising to end the
interview, “we know he was the murderer, and that
is the important point.”.
“But what about Brown?” protested the bank
president, voicing the general dissatisfaction at this
abrupt ending. “What was Brown doing in the
house? If he was not there to murder or rob, what
was he there for?”.
“ Exactly,” said the cashier. “And why did he
run away?”
Miles Redding glanced quizzically at the circle of
expectant faces.
“Your curiosity is very natural, gentlemen, I must
admit,” he replied. “But at present I can only assure
you that the rest of Brown's story has nothing what-
ever to do with the Pan-American Trust Company."
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“His story was rather like Hamlet with Hamlet left
out,” agreed the district attorney.
“I should say so! If I had n't taken the bold
course I did, where would we have been now?” said
Fred. “ As soon as I read that letter of my father's
and knew the Rosalba mine was ours by rights, I went
after it. I went straight to Mexico — that is, as soon
as I'd had time to get married. I did n't take any
chances about that.”
He laughed again as he turned to his young wife.
Chic and pretty and happy, she was very little like the
terrified maid that Scarbrough recalled so vividly on
the night of the murder. Possessed of poise and re-
source, as she had shown herself to be, she was, Tim
thought, just the mate for her volatile husband.
“I kept my marriage a secret from Eric,” Fred ex-
plained, “because his idea was that we were not to eat
or sleep until we had established our father's inno-
cence. For my part, I could n't see how we were
· ever to do that; but I did think that with a man with
as bad a record as Welles-Hewitt's we might get some-
thing on him and so force his hand about the mine.
When I left England, it was not Eric's intention to
go to Mexico, and I did n't even know he had been
there until we met afterwards in New York, as we had
planned. My wife met me here, too, and it was her
own idea to go into the Welles-Hewitt household as
a maid. She'd had some stage training, and could
do a French part well. As it happened, on her very
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THE OTHER BROWN
papers would have convicted me on the spot; but I
could n't destroy them, knowing they might be needed
to clear Gil. So my wife and I took turns carrying
them about. It was awful!”
As there were no more questions to ask, the district
attorney wished the brothers good luck and sent them
on their way, free men. Baker's suicide having ex-
onerated all suspects, Valentin Gil had also been re-
leased and had hurried away to his home.
The account of the restoration to Lars Johansen
of his supposedly dead grandchild appeared in the
afternoon papers, to the delight of a romantic public;
but as he read it a frown gathered on Scarbrough's
forehead, marking the sudden arrival of a doubt in
his mind. It was a very small doubt, to be sure; but
he knew he should not be entirely happy until it had
been dispelled. It was therefore with particular plea-
sure that he welcomed a call a few hours later from
Eric Brown — now Eric McRae.
“I've come,” Eric began, “to explain a little more
fully about Fred, as I could n't do in his presence.
You know that he was born in Belgium, after my
father's death, and that my mother died at his birth;
but you don't know that he was a very sickly child,
probably because of the terrible experience she had
been through, and that only the most devoted care of
our foster mother saved his life. As soon as I was
old enough to understand anything, she taught me to
look out for him, to think of him always before I
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THE OTHER BROWN
“Then it's settled,” said Eric. “And now — if
there were only something I could do or say to express
to you the gratitude I -—"
“Forget it — just forget it,” said Scarbrough.
“I'm as pleased as you can possibly be at the way
things have turned out. Don't imagine I've got noth-
ing out of it. It's put me in touch with Mr. Redding,
and that's going to help me a whole lot. I'm satis-
fied! Our meeting on the train the other evening was
luck for both of us.”
“Luck?” Eric echoed the word doubtfully. “Do
you really think all this could have been — just luck?"
“ Well,” drawled Tim. “I call it luck. You see,
luck is a shorter word than providence."
THE END
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