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Harvard College
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“Oh,” she showed the edge of her teeth in a flashing smile,
“ you did have the nerve to follow it up?” FRONTISPIECE.
See page 17.


THE
HORNET'S NEST
BY
MRS. WILSON WOODROW
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
PAUL STAHR
NON:REET

BONOS:HABEASZ
EQVAM.MVLTOSA
LWVAD.aasl
BOSTON
LI. I'LE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1917


ARVARD COLTE
SJUL 17 1918")
LIBRARY
By exchange
Copyright, 1917,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
All rights reserved
Published, March, 1917


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“Oh,” she showed the edge of her teeth in a flashing
smile,"you did have the nerve to follow it
up?" . . . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece
PAGE
He gripped Ashe's arm with his long, slender, uncan-
nily efficient fingers . . . . . . . . . .
90
For the first time he could scan his antagonist of this
cloak-and-lantern duel · · · 159
Her glance was full of a quizzical mockery . . . . 233





THE HORNET’S NEST
CHAPTER I
THE Girl walked down Fifth Avenue from Fifty-
ninth street, while the Ghost walked up from Four-
teenth. Since they were on the same side of the
street, their passing was as inevitable as it was un-
premeditated. Converging rays from widely differ-
ing spheres, they were destined by the sheer logic of
direction to meet.
The Girl's name was Muriel Fletcher, and she was
about twenty years old. Now and then as she walked,
some one would turn to look at her. Her individual-
ity was even more arresting and vivid than her looks,
and yet upon that mere question of looks she was not
easily to be ignored. There was a sort of vital glow
about her, but it was the glow of fire not of sunshine,
and it had its contrasting - one might better say, its
corresponding - gloom, a gloom with an edge on it.
No matter from what point of view one took her,
whether mental or physical, one quality always seemed
to contradict another. Her melody had its dis-
sonances.
To get the purely physical presentment of her then,
it may have been her hair — deep, thick auburn-brown
in some lights, red in others — which helped most in
producing that effect of dark splendor. Her face was
square rather than oval, but it took a second glance to


THE HORNET'S NEST
note that her chin, so whitely round, was tilted at a
particularly defiant angle. Her mouth, not small, was
sullen and secretive; but being softly and richly red,
this passed unregarded.
Her eyes were remarkable, a dense, dusky green -
olive almost — with a long sweep of the brows and
lids which gave a languid subtlety to her expression;
yet this was but a matter of line, for when she really
opened them, the impression of mystery and romance
vanished. They were almost disconcertingly intelli-
gent.
Her skin was of the smooth, thick whiteness of the
camellia, and it was only when the color rose in her
cheeks that she was obviously beautiful.
New York is the city of a thousand worlds, each
distinct and yet oddly interpenetrating; but each has
its own particular hallmark with which it stamps in-
delibly its denizens. On Muriel Fletcher was the seal
of the world of leisure and enjoyment. She moved in
the atmosphere of its supreme confidence. It was the
only world she had ever known or could imagine, and
yet for days, for weeks, now, she had been vaguely
aware that she was on the verge of an excursion into
far different and wider ones. She thrilled to the call
of the unknown.
The material aspect of the Avenue, with its splendid
offerings of rugs and silks, its mosaic of flowers and
jewels behind the broad, plate-glass windows, and its
crowding procession of shining motors in the roadway,
was too familiar to impress her. Objects did not
interest her; people did. She scrutinized the passers-
by as if she were looking for some one. And, indeed,
she was. This afternoon walk was no aimless stroll,
but a quest — a secret, definite quest.


THE HORNET'S NEST
3
The Ghost and she were constantly drawing nearer.
Only a block or so separated them now; and for her
with a present and no past, and for him with a past
but no present, the future was at hand. She was
ready for it. As she walked, her hand clutched the
more tightly something in her muff — a small, hard
package wrapped in white paper.
When the Ghost in his walk up the Avenue had
reached Madison Square, he paused to gaze uncer-
tainly at the northward perspective.
The years and change are synonymous. The last
time Ashe Colvin had gazed at Madison Square and
its environs, the Dewey Arch still spanned the road-
way, somewhat battered and discolored, it is true, with
its mermaids and Tritons sadly in need of a bath, and
great holes knocked in its base to expose the hollow
mockery of its lath and plaster construction, yet im-
pressive even in its decay, worthy of a better fate than
merely to grace a single holiday.
Over to the east of the Park, Colvin saw now, in-
stead of the brown stone houses he remembered, a
huddle of skyscrapers, and a great dominating clock-
tower of white marble. Ahead of him, the old Bruns-
wick Hotel had given way to a lofty structure of red
brick; across on the Broadway side, the Albemarle
and the Hoffman House were in course of demolition,
and the famous Fifth Avenue with its porticoed front
had been supplanted by a modern office building, while
on the site of the former dingy Flatiron had risen a
soaring triangle, which even a ghost could hardly fail
to recognize. Surely Hades must have picture post-
cards — else it would not be Hades.
Searching for some familiar landmark, Colvin could


THE HORNET'S NEST
5
cave man from the West or South who comes in to
knock New York over the head with his club, and win
her adoring submission; but Colvin was a New Yorker
born and bred with a pedigree so cross-hatched with
Rhinelanders, and DePeysters, and Livingstons, and
Van Cortlandts, that it read like a down-town street
directory. He had been acquainted with finger bowls
from his youth up, and took a butler as much for
granted as a house cat.
With his Harvard accent, and his Thirty-seventh
Street tailor, and his habit of getting what he wanted,
they sent him up to Albany as a member of the Gen-
eral Assembly, and he had made good.
He was a lawyer who had sat at the feet of Joseph
Choate, and had crossed swords, not unsuccessfully,
with DeLancy Nicoll. He could stroll into the Fifth
Avenue Hotel, and sit down on a red plush bench
beside Platt in the Amen Corner without any one
raising a question — and those were the days when
a nod from the “Easy Boss” was like an accolade
from Royalty.
You might see him on first nights at the Empire,
or at Daly's chatting in the foyer with Gebhardt or
Stanford White, stopping to congratulate Clyde Fitch
on his latest success, or bending down to listen to
Marshall Wilder's newest joke.
In the paddock at Sheepshead Bay, he would be
hobnobbing with John Madden, or Rogers, or some
of the other big trainers, or sauntering over for a
word with Tod Sloane or George Odom, as they
waited in their silks for the bugle call; and then, in
front of the clubhouse, he would, as likely as not,
watch the race in company with Keene or Whitney,
or a group of other great men of the turf.


THE HORNET'S NEST
At the Opera House, one would be sure to see him
in the box of either Mrs. Fish or Mrs. Astor. No
Matriarch's, Patriarch's, or Junior Assembly was
quite complete without him; and although he was no
gambler, the doors of Canfield's peachblow palace
were always open to him. From Harlem to the
Battery, and from Chuck Conners to Bishop Potter,
he knew everybody, and everybody knew him.
Before him he saw nothing but plain sailing.
Albany and the General Assembly for a few years,
and then Congress. So far as that he was prom-
ised.
And then, as by a prearranged signal, the lights
went out suddenly in his house of mirth; and upon the
brilliant spectacle of his popularity, the curtain was
rung sharply down.
Nearer and nearer drew the Girl and the Ghost;
and now the moment had come in which he with a
past and no future, and she with a future and no past
must meet.
She, seeking constantly for the one who was to
serve her purpose, saw him first. A tall man, with
the hopelessness of failure in his vague, sad eyes,
appearing dull and shabby in comparison with the
vivid burnish of the Avenue folk; and yet, in spite
of the shadow in which he walked — a metaphorical
shadow, but none the less perceptible — his inherent
distinction, his unsubduable individuality still had
power to reduce the crowds about him to a mere
blurred background.
Muriel, as she saw him, half-lifted one hand as if
to brush a perplexing cobweb from her eyes. In a
vivid flash of memory, she seemed to see a picture of


THE HORNET'S NEST
7
a Christmas party in their old Long Island house,
and she, a tiny child, sitting on the knee of a hand-
some young man with eyes full of laughter, who was
making her repeat “ The Night before Christmas "
after him.
“The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave a luster of mid-day to objects below. ..."
She remembered how her baby lips had twisted and
tangled the unfamiliar words.
On his side, Colvin, wandering along in the haze
of a thousand recollections, only occasionally sight-
ing some landmark like the Holland House, or the
Waldorf to assure him that this was still Fifth Ave-
nue, became suddenly conscious of the gaze that was
fixed on him. Their glances held for a moment; then
he saw her give a quick nod of decision, and move
toward him.
Her face had paled, her eyes stormed him, be-
sought him. She drew her hand from her muff, and
in it he saw the small white parcel. Then, as she held
it out toward him, he halted and half drew back. But
the girl gave him no opportunity to refuse.
“ Take it, please," she murmured, and thrusting it
into his hand, pushed on to lose herself immediately
in the crowd.
Half a block farther on, Colvin cautiously opened
his hand. The package was wrapped in white paper,
and tied with a cord. He was before the Library.
Hesitating a moment, he mounted the broad, white
steps between the smug, grinning lions, until he
reached the flagged walk; there he saw a stone bench
unoccupied. He sat down and cautiously unwrapped
the parcel. It contained a visiting card and a small,


THE HORNET'S NEST
gold coin purse. Upon the card was engraved the
name:
Miss MURIEL FLETCHER
4 East Seventy-Sixth Street
There was also scribbled upon it in pencil this
request :
“Will you call at the address on this card at nine
o'clock this evening for the purpose of returning the
purse and its contents. Ask for Miss Fletcher. It is
a matter of the utmost importance to me.
M. F.”
Frowning, puzzled, he turned the purse over in his
hand, and then opened it. It held a few coins, an-
other visiting card, the duplicate of the first, but with-
out the penciled note, and a beautiful diamond and
pearl pendant.
He stared at this for a dazed moment, and then,
suddenly mindful of the passers-by, slipped it into the
breast pocket of his coat. He drew a pipe and some
tobacco from another pocket, filled and lighted the
pipe, and then sat gazing down at the broken bricks
in the walk before him.
The one emotion of which he was conscious for a
long time was a passive sort of astonishment, mingled
with an obstinate incredulity, and an inability to grasp
the facts of the situation in which he found himself.
The early autumn dusk had begun to fall, the Octo-
ber chill was in the air, the film of gray was rapidly
obscuring the gold of the streets; but Colvin never
saw it. His mind worked slowly nowadays. He had
lived for long what might be called the cloistered life
and had unconsciously suffered the gradual condensa-


THE HORNET'S NEST
tion and narrowing of his few indifferent interests —
these, since an income which he had inherited from
his mother relieved him of the necessity of earning his
living, the public reading rooms of the East Side
where he browsed for hours a day, and long walks,
sometimes through the sordid and uninspiring streets
to which he had hitherto confined himself, and some-
times into the open country, provided his only occu-
pation. He gave less time to the few acquaintances
he had made in the course of his exile. With not one
of them was there any bond of congeniality. He and
they were too widely separated by an entirely opposite
social consciousness, and were merely drawn together
by the gregarious instinct into a purely superficial
comradeship.
Then there were his little charities, the amusement
of telling stories to the children who clustered about
him in the public parks, a spell of nursing now and
then, a little legal or medical advice.
Destiny — the whole question of fate — he re-
garded, if he thought of it at all, with amused skep-
ticism. Why waste time on childish abstractions ?
There were laws of cause and effect in the mental as
well as in the physical realm. A belief in any infrac-
tion of them was pure superstition. And yet, this
very afternoon, the impossible, the incredible, the un-
explainable had happened.
Gradually, as his mind accustomed itself to the un-
believable situation in which he found himself in-
volved, his thoughts reverted more and more insist-
ently to the girl.
Was it not plausible to consider her mentally un-
balanced ? Some daughter of wealth — evidently
that — who had succeeded in temporarily evading her


10
THE HORNET'S NEST
attendants, and had chosen this fantastic method of
apparently losing her purse containing a little money,
a valuable jewel, and a visiting card with her name
and address on it, in an attempt to enlist aid in effect-
ing her final escape?
Plausible and reasonable; yes. But his mind re-
jected the hypothesis. He had looked into her eyes,
and he did not believe that she was crazy. Her mo-
tive? Well, that enigma was for the evening to un-
ravel. He was on the threshold of the new, the
unexpected. He had no idea of what awaited him on
the other side; but he meant to see.
He had come upon that door in the wall of Fate
which every man with a drop of red blood in his veins
longs to open. And while he sat considering it, there
began to tingle in his nerves and sing in his brain
the most alluring and provocative strain that the heart
of man has ever listened to — the call of adventure.
He was thousands of years old. The world was
over and done for him. And yet, through all the sub-
merged and wasted manhood of him, that unspent,
dynamic energy which had been stifled and suppressed
until it was lethalized and paralyzed, there began to
wake and throb some tremendous response to that
great, primitive need which is as strong as sex or
hunger — the old, old passion, Adventure.
Colvin drew a great breath which expanded his
ribs until they seemed to crack. Maybe, maybe, there
was a chance for one good fight yet! If the gods
would give him that, let him pit his trained muscles,
which owing to some old habit of bodily discipline he
had kept in condition through the barren years, and
at the same time give him a chance to match his wits
with a tangible foe, he'd call it all quits.
same time given through the bully discipline he


THE HORNET'S NEST
II
Muriel Fletcher ? Muriel Fletcher ? He knew that
name. It had been long tucked away somewhere in
his memory. Why? It must be the same. He had
known her as a pretty child. It was all coming back
to him now. Her father had been Jask Fletcher, and
her mother was Betty Whitefield and they had both
gone down in a great disaster at sea.
This girl was related to the Whitefields. Old Wil-
liam Whitefield, who had been instrumental in putting
him through the mill and grinding him to grist, must
be her uncle.
What did they mean by letting that child wander
about the streets, and give diamond pendants to stray
tramps? Was it a ruse to get him back into the
game and into their power again some way? Well,
what if it were? That meant action — the fight his
whole body and brain ached for. And no matter what
lay before him, he meant to see it through.


CHAPTER II
The gray, October dusk had deepened until the
myriad, regular lines of electric globes had begun to
bloom like yellow flowers through the dim, purple twi-
light and still Colvin sat staring at the flags at his
feet, the broken pattern of which he could no longer
trace. The traffic — that impatient crowding traffic
of home-going motors — was growing denser every
moment. There was a sort of strident rising and fall-
ing rhythm in the hoarse honk of their horns. The
pedestrians walked more briskly, as if hastening to
escape the impending army of workers who would
pour out from the shops and offices and take posses-
sion of the Avenue and the side streets with their
solid, marching phalanxes.
As if all this in some indefinite way conveyed to
Colvin the lateness of the hour and the necessity for
haste on his part, he presently roused from his long
reverie, and lifting his head, looked anxiously, and in
an almost alarmed manner, about him.
He had forgotten time altogether as he sat there,
and now he remembered that there were many things
to be done before nine o'clock. Then his eyes
widened. A double-decked, green motor-bus lum-
bered into view — another innovation since his day
and he decided to take it, and ride down as far as it
went.
It stopped before the curb, and he hurried down the


THE HORNET'S NEST
13
Library steps to board it before the painted disks of
the semaphore at the next street intersection should
swing about with their imperative order “Go!”
That newly roused spirit of adventure was dominant
in him. He climbed the steps and narrow stairway
to the top of the bus, found a front seat vacant, and
swept off his hat, inhaling a great draught of air with
the faint and excited tingling of the nerves which still
persisted, and which roused in him an almost appre-
hensive wonder.
To one who had been dead so long as he, it was a
strange, almost awesome thing to realize that one was
still alive. It frightened him. He shrank from this
buried self in him, which stirred in its grave clothes
and threatened to rise, not lethargic from its long,
drugged slumber, but a giant refreshed, thrilling with
a new life, awake to a thousand crowding desires, on
edge to play the game.
That ride down the Avenue did more to awaken
and to free him than it was possible for him to appre-
ciate at the time. The ichor his starved impulses
craved was distilled in the spacious and splendid street
- commercialized, almost brutalized, like the great
city of which it is the main artery, and yet, like the
city, unequalled in youth, luxury, and hard, reckless
daring.
He got off under the trees of Washington Square,
and turning eastward, plunged through a mesh of
streets toward his home. He was used to them, sor-
did, dismal, with no skyscrapers to give them a stark
and violent impressiveness. And here the atmosphere
was no longer stimulating but depressing.
These streets typified that restriction of idea and
impulse which translates itself into environment, and


THE HORNET'S NEST
15
years. They must be grotesquely out-of-date, no
doubt of that. But even so, the idea of not wearing
them never entered his head.
Folding them up, he hastily wrapped them in paper,
stuffed them under his arm, hurried down-stairs and
out into the street again. He went straight to a
dingy, little basement shop, where a homemade sign
swung in the window. The sign was of white card-
board, the bottom of a box, and painted on it in
crude, straggling black letters was the notice that
“ Max" did pressing and repairing of “gents' gar-
ments.”
As Colvin opened the door, a bell jangled, and
“Max” looked up from a cashbook he was studying
behind a heap of clothes on a counter. He was an
anemic, undersized Jew, with bowlegs and protruding,
light blue eyes.
Sighing heavily, he took the bundle from Colvin.
He was hungry and wanted to close the shop and go
home to supper, but a job was a job. He held the
suit up and looked it over with searching, practiced
eyes, sighed again, and reluctantly promised to have
it ready within the hour.
“Awful fine goods,” he admitted, “but pretty near
ten, fifteen years behind the times. Well," with even
deeper reluctance, “ I have them ready when you say."
It was just on the stroke of nine when Colvin walked
up the steps to the Whitefield door. The butler's palm
still thrilled pleasantly to Muriel's honorarium; for
he presented an impassive front to any irregularities
of the situation. As Colvin stepped past him, saying
as he did so “ Mr. Vernon,” he murmured imperturb-
ably:
“Miss Fletcher is in the library, sir."


16
THE HORNET'S NEST
One of the most potent of all mental laws is the
law of association. The moment that Ashe Colvin
passed through that door, he was again in the world
which he had known so well, and from which he had
made so startling an exit. This was his natural ele-
ment. There was no difficult moment of adjust-
ment. So easily did he slip back, that it was the life
of the last fifteen years with its profound renuncia-
tions, its bitter realizations, which suddenly became to
him as the mirage on his horizon.
The admirable butler preceded him to the library
door, and stood aside for him to enter. An unneces-
sary attention in this case, as the arrangement of the
house, its geography, and general scheme of decora-
tion had not been materially altered.
There was the shadow of a hard smile on Colvin's
lips, as he reflected that it was not the first time he
had passed through that hall and hastened to the
library to meet a beautiful woman.
Had time stood still? The same clear firelight
burned on the wide hearth, and reflected itself in the
polished surfaces of the table and bookcases of carved,
old Welsh oak. A somber, handsome room, with its
faded beautiful rugs, its books, its atmosphere of re-
pose. Yes; everything was the same, even to that
faint, unforgettable fragrance of fresh roses, but —
he drew a quick breath of relief — the woman was
different.
Muriel was leaning - lounging, one might better
say — against the mantelpiece, her eyes fixed eagerly
upon the door. She wore a short, white dinner frock,
very simple, very girlish, and particularly unsuited to
her. It looked as if some one else had chosen it, this
sweet, little débutante frock, destined, if it had fulfilled


THE HORNET'S NEST
17
its mission, to subdue and eclipse its wearer; but the
girl, while accepting it, had countered audaciously and
triumphantly, as Colvin, who had intuitions about
women, fancied that she always would.
It was accomplished, polished, this countering, with
a naïveté which silenced criticism. No one could
object to a young girl wearing a few flowers. And
Muriel, with three or four red carnations on her
breast, and two in the dense, auburn hair above her
ear, achieved one of those studies in contrast most
intriguing to the masculine imagination.
“Oh,” she showed the edge of her teeth in a flash-
ing smile, “ you did have the nerve to follow it up?
Well, then, I shan't need this.” She tossed a sealed
envelope into the fire. “My confession.” Again she
smiled audaciously. “I had it all prepared to slip to
you, in case Uncle William and Aunt Freda should
change their minds at the last minute, and not dine out.
Won't you sit there?”
She indicated a chair on one side of the table, and
herself took another on the opposite side. There was
a bowl of full-blown, saffron roses between them. He
remembered that Freda had always adored yellow
roses.
“You can imagine how anxious I am to have the
confession,” he said, smiling, too.
She gave a short laugh.
“I had a sort of a bet with myself that you wouldn't
come, that you might think me crazy; almost any one
would, wouldn't he? Or else seeking some sort of
notoriety.” She grimaced at the idea.
“ You certainly took your chances when you gave
a valuable jewel to a passer-by whom you had never
seen before."


THE HORNET'S NEST
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I put it to the touch to win or lose it all. I had
reached that point —"a shadow fell over her rebellious
face,-“ but there was more method in my madness
than you think.” She gave him one of her odd
glances. “I guess I'll plunge right into my story, and
it's a queer, mixed-up one, I warn you."
“I should fancy it might be," he returned, still
studying her.
“Mr.—” she began, and then hesitated, looking at
him inquiringly.
“ Vernon. That's not my real name, but it's the
one by which I am known now, and which I gave the
man at the door."
There was a little sparkle of excitement in her eyes.
"Now I feel as if I were really beginning to live.
To know a man who isn't called by his real name!”
He laughed outright. He had had considerable
knowledge of the various types of debutante in his day,
among them the kind who wished to appear reckless
and sophisticated and daring, but this girl was new; it
didn't seem a pose with her. He decided that she was
something of a savage, but an interesting one.
“Why does an assumed name strike you as a part of
living ?” he asked.
"It's so different from anything in my experience,”
she answered frankly. “It belongs to a sort of fas-
cinating, adventurous world one reads about. We are
the strictest sect of the Pharisees.”
But she didn't laugh as she said it. Her mouth
twitched, and her eyes grew sullen.
“Mr. Vernon, did you ever hear of my uncle, Wil-
liam Whitefield, who owns this house ? ” she asked
abruptly.


THE HORNET'S NEST
19
William Whitefield. If she had been looking at
him, she would have seen that his eyes grew a shade
more alert, while his face set and hardened; but there
was no perceptible change in his tone.
“Yes. Every one has heard of him. He's rather a .
unique personality. A great politician. A great finan-
cier. One of our truly successful Americans." There
was a sudden edge on his voice.
She nodded.
“He's all that,” she said, “ but that is not explaining
my action of this afternoon, although dear Uncle
William in a way explains it; and no doubt you're as
nervous as can be, sitting alone in the room with an
able-bodied lunatic.” She threw back her head and
laughed.
“So I'm going to try to make the whole thing clear
to you, although it's terribly mixed up. You see, the
story of my life begins a long time before I was born.”
“Most of us could say the same thing,” he interpo-
wed laughing. Well, if your father, old
“Naturally. Well, if you know of my uncle, you've
probably heard of my grandfather, old Amasa White-
field.”
"A character in his day,” he answered readily;" he
piled up a great fortune."
“Yes. He intended, I've been told, to divide his
money equally between his three children, my uncle
William, my aunt, Mrs. Warren Hempstead, and my
mother, Mrs. Fletcher; but before he died, my mother
and my father had been drowned at sea. Aunt Elea-
nor Hempstead had also died, so my mother's and my
aunt Eleanor's shares of my grandfather's estate were
left in trust for my cousin, Fletcher Hempstead, Aunt
Eleanor's son, and myself. I was about two at the


20
THE HORNET'S NEST
time of my grandfather's death, and Fletcher was
fifteen.
“ There!” She paused to take breath. “Have
you got that all straight in your head ? ”
“Quite," he smiled; “I have an indistinct impres-
sion of having heard it all before.”
She looked at him with that subtle, narrowed gaze
of hers. Her face was impassive as an Indian's, but
her eyes were speculative.
“ The will,” she continued, “was an odd one,
largely, I fancy, because grandfather detested Fletcher's
father, Warren Hempstead.” Her quick eye caught
the smile which fitted over Colvin's face. “A bril-
liant but unscrupulous and dissipated man, and grand-
father feared his getting some control over his son's
inheritance.
"By the terms of the will, our property, Fletcher's
and mine, was to remain undivided until I was twenty-
five. By that time, if you will stop to calculate, Flet-
cher would be almost forty. In the meantime, we
were to receive such an income as our trustees, Uncle
William Whitefield and Cousin Samuel Cruger,
though suitable, and we were to be educated and to live
after the manner decided upon by those two."
She paused to give one of those short laughs of hers.
He had been tremendously interested in watching her
expression while she was speaking. It was as if a sur-
face mockery played over depths of bitter and sup-
pressed resentment.
“Delightful arrangement, don't you think? Only
unfortunate thing about it was that it didn't work in
Fletcher's case, at least." There was a touch of pride
and admiration in her voice.
“ When he was about seventeen, his father died,


THE HORNET'S NEST
21
and from that time he was in one quarrel after another
with Uncle William. There were frightful scenes
between them. I have a very dim remembrance of
Fletcher, but I love him like a brother, when I think of
the dance he led Uncle William.
“Of course, dear Uncle William could, and did re-
taliate. He cut Fletcher's spending money down to
nothing, and humiliated him in every way that he
could, but it simply didn't work. He's tried the same
thing with me in another way," she had clasped her
hands behind her head and was smiling with vindictive
and feline enjoyment, “but I'm giving him a run for
his money, and I've got plenty of wind yet.”
Colvin reflected that this was highly probable.
“ Then Fletcher did something - oh, quite beyond
everything — dreadfully disgraceful, and disappeared..
They made every effort to find him, but unsuccessfully,
and it was taken for granted that he was dead. But
during the last year, as I have gathered from various
significant hints that Cousin Samuel has from time to
time let fall, there is reason to believe that he has
returned from wherever he went and is now here in
New York."
She had turned while speaking and leaned her arms
upon the table between them. His eyes were on the
fire, but hers, no longer shadowed by their heavy lids,
were on his contemplative profile.
“Ever hear of Cousin Samuel Cruger?" she broke
off to ask most casually.
“ Tubby?” At last he was caught off guard. “Oh,
yes."
She gave the faintest of satisfied nods and went on
before he noticed his slip.
“He'd let me do as I please,” she said, “but Uncle


22
THE HORNET'S NEST
William rules him with a rod of iron. Well. From
what I can gather from Cousin Sammy's rather fright-
ened confidences, Fletcher has been seen more than
once, and is supposed to be living in or near town.”
“I see,” said Colvin in a sudden enlightened flash,
turning quickly to face her. “ You have been looking
for him yourself, and you thought that I might be he.”
"No," she said slowly, “not exactly that. I did
have a curious feeling when I saw you as if — as if,”
she frowned. “Oh, it gives me a sort of confused
feeling to think of it, but as if I had known you some-
where — It's something about my childhood, but I
can't remember.
“Of course, on every opportunity I got, I've looked
for Fletcher ; but barring finding him, I hoped to meet
some one else who would help me in my search.”
He looked at her in amazement.
“ And so you have wandered about the streets ready
to give jewels into the keeping of any strange tramp!”
The fantasy, the recklessness of the thing appalled
him, and he showed it.
“ It sounds like Haroun Al Raschid, or Prince Flori-
zel of Bohemia.”
Her face darkened.
“Oh,” she cried angrily, “ I'm not such a fool as it
sounds. I had a plan, although you may not think it.
I couldn't employ detectives. I haven't enough free-
dom for that. I had to be my own detective. And
I never had any intention of giving jewels to stray
tramps.
“You are not very flattering to yourself, Mr. Ver-
non. I've carried that purse and the pendant in my
muff for weeks now. But," and here she leaned for-
ward and struck the table lightly with her fingers, as


THE HORNET'S NEST
23
if to give emphasis to her words, “the moment I saw
you, I knew, I knew positively that my search was
· over. I could see that you, like Fletcher, had been
born a gentleman and yet — and yet —”
“It was plain also that apparently, like your Cousin
Fletcher, I too was down and out.” There was the
zest of real mirth, the first that had rung there for
years, in his laughter. The bitterness of the fact had
long passed, lost in that vast apathy which had en-
gulfed him.
“Yes, thank you," she said carelessly. “In all that
crowd, you looked as if you didn't belong, but had just
strayed there."
She appeared indifferent to his feelings.
“You seemed to have come from that big, shadowy,
submerged world which lies all about us, and of which
we know so little. And I knew that I could trust you."
A Aush rose on his cheek.
“ Thank you.”
There was sincere feeling in his voice. “That is
the first real compliment that I have ever received.
But,” he added curiously, “if you had that feeling
about knowing me long ago, why were you not equally
sure that I was your cousin Fletcher in person? You
must have been a tiny child the last time you saw him."
“Oh,” she said carelessly, “I would most certainly
know him. When he was about ten years old, he had
an accident which left a deep scar on his face, just
here," she ran her finger from her right eyelid down-
ward across her cheek.
There was the flicker of illumination in his face.
Almost he exclaimed “ The Hornet!”
He looked at her appalled and incredulous, and yet,
after the first shock, there was no doubt in his mind.


24
THE HORNET'S NEST
Fletcher Hempstead and “ The Hornet” almost surely
were the same.
A vision of this cousin she sought rose before him.
Tall, emaciated, stooping, with his quick, lithe move-
ments not devoid of grace. His haggard, cynical,
drug-haunted face, his menacing, bitter personality, his
base and disillusioned outlook, his corrosively sarcastic
wit. And that slash across the cheek, biting deep into
the flesh, and running diagonally almost to the mouth.
Colvin's memory went back almost two years. He
remembered a night dense with fog, when he had
found “The Hornet” pressed close to the wall in his
doorway. There had been a moment or so of conver-
sation, when Colvin, with a thrill of surprise, had recog-
nized the other man as of his class, and had given his
unbidden guest the freedom of his rooms until the
immediate search by the police had abated.
Once or twice after that, “ The Hornet” had drifted
in late at night and smoked Colvin's cigars and enter-
tained him with his mordant philosophies, his acid com-
ments on life. And Colvin in turn had spent an occa-
sional evening at the other's flat.
And “The Hornet" was the girl's - this girl's next
of kin!
He shifted in his chair and frowned.
"Why are you so anxious to find this cousin?” he
asked abruptly.
“Because," she answered, " I've learned from
Cousin Samuel that Fletcher and I together could take
some kind of legal steps and perhaps get a readjust-
ment of our affairs. The circumstances under which I
live make it almost impossible for me to do anything
alone."
She leaned nearer him.


THE HORNET'S NEST
25
“Mr. Vernon,” she burst out, “ I am nineteen years
old, and I am treated as if I were ten. I'm an heiress
with no money, a woman with neither rights nor
privileges. The only outlet for my energies at present
is in tormenting Uncle William and Aunt Freda ; espe-
cially Aunt Freda, and I must say she's a foeman wor-
thy of my steel.
“Oh-h!” her lips drew back from her teeth, her
eyes burned with a green fire through her lashes.
“How I hate my Aunt Freda!”.
There was a sudden leap of answering fire in his eyes.
Then he looked beyond her at the rows of books behind
her head. His voice was almost too casual as he said:
“She is considered a very beautiful woman, is she
not?”
“Oh, she has been a professional beauty for years.
And she is very sweet and terribly good.”
The ironic bitterness of her smile was reflected in his,
a thousand times intensified.
“I know."
“You've met her?” she asked quickly, her eyes
again alert and speculative.
“I know the type," he explained suavely. “But
there are surely other ways that an heiress of nineteen
might gain her freedom.”
“You mean marriage?” she asked immediately.
She pushed a box of cigarettes on the table toward
him. “ Will you smoke?” she asked, and then took
one herself.
“ Thank you,” as he held a light for her; “ I do this
to annoy Aunt Freda. Of course, marriage would be
an escape of sorts — but the few men that Aunt Freda
allows me to see anything of don't appeal to me. No.
Marriage isn't in my scheme yet.” She shook her head


CHAPTER III
As Colvin closed the door of the library behind him,
he was relieved to find a dim light burning in the dining-
room.
It was a large, stately room, lighted during the day
by the long windows of which Muriel had spoken. He
quickly crossed the floor, and pressing the catch of one
of the windows opened it, only to find that his way was
still barred by heavy iron shutters. These in turn
were secured by a bolt, which he slipped back, and then,
pushing ajar the shutter, he stepped cautiously out
upon the porch.
It was so dark outside that before going farther he
waited a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to
the gloom. Then, treading warily, he crossed the
porch, and followed the short flight of steps down to a
narrow, graveled path. Hearing no stir, except the
occasional passing of a vehicle along the street, he
walked on until he came to a gate opening into Seventy-
fifth Street. The street was empty so far as he could
see, but he did not draw a long breath until he turned
into Fifth Avenue. Then he stopped under a lamp to
light a cigarette and look at his watch. It was after
eleven.
His immediate inclination was to look up the “Hor-
net.” Not by any means to inform that dangerous and
disastrous person that he had discovered his probable
identity, or to tell him of the fact that his young cousin


28
THE HORNET'S NEST
was conducting a search for him on what might be
considered new and erratic lines. God forbid! Colvin
had never uttered a more devout protest. He was
merely of the mind very thoroughly to investigate this
problem which had been forced so abruptly upon his
attention.
Once or twice curiosity had led him to accept the
“Hornet's” invitation to spend an evening with him,
innocuously be it said, at the latter's flat, over on the
West Side above Greenwich Village.
Ashe meant to walk home anyhow, and he decided, if
his mood still held by the time he had reached the
streets in the 'teens, to turn westward and look in upon
his chance acquaintance. He had no fear of being too
late a caller; the “Hornet,” for professional and per-
sonal reasons, was rarely at home before midnight.
And midnight — Colvin realized as he entered that
exotic zone which begins at Forty-ninth Street and ends
at Forty-second — was a chameleon word up here in
the theater-restaurant belt - a glittering, gaudy cog-
nomen, very different from the dim, shrouded, gray
name by which it was known in the business and resi-
dence districts. The playtime of the tired business man
and his silken, painted, perfumed companion, was just
beginning. Faster and faster spun the lacquered
motors through the great circles of light shed upon the
asphalt from electric globes. Their occupants were
well-groomed, amiable, hard-eyed men, and women
with faces tilted upward like flowers from their fur and
chiffon wraps. Their mingled laughter trailed through
the night. The theaters were just out; the restaurants
beckoned.
Colvin tried hard to retain his poise, his detached
outlook. He had thought in those old, dead, brilliant


THE HORNET'S NEST
31
She looked at him dubiously. “Mr.- ?" she hesi-
tated.
“Vernon,” he supplied.
“Oh, yes; I remember now.” Her face cleared.
“ Alf ain't here yet; but I'm expecting him any minute.
Come right in and wait.”
“If you think he will be home soon, and that it will
not inconvenience you.” It was Colvin's turn to hesi-
tate now.
“Not a bit,” she urged hospitably, throwing the door
back for him to pass. “Leave your things on the hat-
rack there."
She waited while he did so, and then preceded him
down a short hall and into the living-room.
“Rest yourself in a chair, Mr. Vernon; that Morris
over there is a comfortable one. Alf he always eats his
supper about twelve,” she ran on; " and I'm getting it
ready for him now. You see, he's a pretty poor
sleeper. That's the reason he walks around so much at
night.” She looked at him as she said this, with a quick,
sidewise glance in which an appeal for him to believe
her was mingled with a furtive fear that he would not.
And this furtiveness Ashe found pathetic. It af-
fected him, as one is affected and saddened by the
precocious knowledge of evil in a child. It was so
obviously acquired in a painful school of experience.
She sat down on the edge of a chair opposite him,
determinedly hospitable, and spoke of the weather.
Although still young — in the early thirties, perhaps —
and still pretty, she was distinctly not of an urban
type. No department store lounger, she; no untiring
stalker of the big game of small bargains. She had
never acquired the habit of gossiping from window to
window across a court two feet wide, nor with arms


32
THE HORNET'S NEST
comfortably disposed upon the cushioned ledge, gazing
down for hours upon the passing world.
She was a typical home body, the rustic intonations
still lingering in her voice, the rustic shyness in her
eyes. Excellent assets for a mate of the “Hornet,"
and no doubt duly valued by him.
The room, too, disarmed suspicion -- pleasant,
homelike and expressing a shining order. The win-
dows were crowded with blooming plants, but what-
ever fragrance these may have sent forth was over-
borne by the appetizing odors of the supper in course of
preparation.
“What pretty flowers you have,” said Colvin, intui-
tively choosing the subject which would set his hostess
most thoroughly at ease. This ability had ever been
one of the chief secrets of his charm. “Who is the
winter gardener; you, or Mr. Johnson?”
“Oh, me." Enthusiasm brightened her face, as she
turned to her window boxes. “I don't like anything
so much as pottering over flowers, and they do so well
for me, too. I can make a stick grow.”
“I can easily believe it. Most house plants are a
spindling lot, but these are beautiful.” He won her
heart by his interest and admiration.
Presently, in the full tide of the life history of a
pelargonium, she started sharply.
"My land! I'm forgetting my Sally Lunn. You
must excuse me; I've got to take a look at the oven.
Something's burning already. My! I do wonder
what's keeping Alf." She left him to his meditations.
Picking up a newspaper from the table, Colvin read
a paragraph or two, and then laid it aside. He was
more interested in this simple, wistful creature with
whom he had been talking. Her face held the sweet-


THE HORNET'S NEST
33
ness and the pathos of the woman who loves blindly,
and who merely accepts whatever her lot without ques-
tion. He wondered how she had escaped, if indeed it
were possible for her to escape, the poison of the
“Hornet's ” personality, and then in a moment of in-
sight so poignant that it almost brought the tears to his
eyes, he realized that all that was deadly and virulent in
this companion of hers was transmuted in the alembic
of her maternal love. He, the “Hornet," whose
venomous flights she could not follow, who cultivated
the will to wound and the impulse to destroy, had
roused in this humble, bewildered soul a passion of self-
sacrifice and unquestioning devotion, which was for
her at once a cruel and yet supreme intensification of
life.
“ I'm afraid Alf's been detained.” Her plaintive
voice sounded from the doorway. “I've kept things
so long, the supper ain't fit to eat. Say, Mr. Vernon, I
wish you'd let me give you a cup of coffee, and just a
taste of something.”
Colvin started, impatient with himself for these
habits of reverie which had grown upon him during his
years of isolation.
“Oh, thank you. Not so late.” He was already
half way to the door. Then, seeing her disappoint-
ment, he halted. “I am afraid, I can't resist, if you
will let me drink it standing."
He glanced at the clock, and started again. “Oh,
forgive me." His voice was shocked. “I had no idea
of the time.”
But she had vanished to return quickly with a tray
temptingly arranged with coffee, buttered toast, and
sandwiches.
Colvin found them delicious, and delighted her soul


THE HORNET'S NEST
by praising them unstintedly. Then he made his de-
parture, inwardly fuming at himself.
“I've acquired all the stupid habits of the confirmed
recluse," he said to himself, as he closed the hall door
of the flat behind him. Then, hearing footsteps on the
stairs, he waited a moment, thinking that the “Hornet”
himself might be coming. But instead, it was a mes-
senger boy, who paused at the head of the flight, and
looked about him. Colvin noticed that he carried a
flat, square package.
“That Johnson's flat?” he asked, pointing to the
door before which Colvin stood.
Ashe nodded, and went on down the stairs. By the
time he reached home, he was desperately weary. For
one who had companioned so long with solitude, this
had been an eventful day, to put it mildly—a day of
mental awakening, of mental acceptance, elimination
and selection, and its complement in the physical had
been a day of happenings.
He had been literally pitchforked into his crowded
hour, and tired as he was in body and mind, he knew
that if he went to bed it would not be to sleep. There-
fore, with the idea of resting a few moments and see-
ing things a little more clearly in perspective, he threw
himself into an easy chair.
It was several hours later when he sat up suddenly
and listened incredulously to the clock striking nine.
Impossible! He got up, shook his shoulders, stretched
his legs, and then walked rapidly up and down the
room. He felt stiff and cramped from his heavy
sleep in an uncomfortable position; so, deciding that
it was too late or too early to go to bed, he prepared
to draw his bath and dress for the day.
But before he could do this, his landlady's daugh-


THE HORNET'S NEST
35
ter, a girl of twelve or thirteen, brought up his break-
fast. She returned his “Good morning, Elsa," with
her usual broad smile on her broad pink and white face,
and then her round, blue eyes widened. Even her
shining, flaxen pigtails seemed to curl upward in sur-
prise. He realized with amusement that it was his
evening clothes, the whole full-dress effect of him at
his breakfast hour, which had caused her astonish-
ment. Then, mindful of her manners, she set the tray
on the table, and laid beside it a neatly folded news-
paper.
“Coffee, cream, sugar, grapefruit, eggs, rolls, butter,
pepper and salt, forks, spoons, knives, napkin," she
enumerated slowly. “I haven't forgotten anything.”
“You never do,” he smiled.
She blushed with pleasure, and then closed the door
behind her with her usual careful precision.
Colvin picked up the paper, and glanced at the head-
lines. Then his grip upon it tightened. His attitude,
his expression, showed the most concentrated atten-
tion, while he read the story which had been considered
of sufficient importance to warrant double-column
headlines on the front page:
WILLIAM WHITEFIELD ROBBED
Sensational Burglary and Murder at the Home of the
Fifth Avenue Millionaire Politician
Safe Looted of Valuable Jewels and Papers, and a
Policeman Shot in a Desperate Encounter
with the Escaping Thieves.


THE HORNET'S NEST
37.
Shortly after the family had retired for the night, a
burglar or party of burglars entered by way of the
dining-room window, and then proceeding to Mr.
Whitefield's study, forced his private safe, and re-
moved the greater part of its contents. Escaping then
with their booty, they left by the same way they
came, but were evidently halted in the garden by
McNamara, who, it is supposed, either saw them as
they were making their exit, or else had his suspicions
aroused by finding the gateway open into Seventy-
fifth Street and had gone in to investigate.
“An exchange of shots must have taken place, for
the dying officer's revolver was found clutched in his
hand, and three of the cartridges in it were exploded,
but it is not believed that any of his bullets took effect.
At any rate, the cracksmen got safely away with their
haul.
“ This, it was rumored at first, included Mrs. White-
field's famous collection of sapphires and pearls, which
were doubtless the bait that led to the daring burglary;
but it was later denied by both Mr. and Mrs. White-
field that these jewels had either been in the safe, or
were missing.
“The actual loss, as inventoried by Mr. Whitefield
for the authorities, consisted of about $600 in money,
some rings, brooches, and unset stones, totalling a
value of between six and seven thousand dollars, and
a package of private papers.
“The disappearance of these papers seemed to be
what chiefly concerned the traction man, and he
showed the utmost perturbation on discovering their
loss. Later, however, in discussing the matter with
the reporters he attempted to minimize the importance
of the missing documents, although declining to
give any information as to their character or con-
tents.
““They were of no possible value to any one but


38
THE HORNET'S NEST
been assisted the iron shutters and showed noertain dis-
myself,' he said testily. And I cannot understand
the object of the thieves in taking them.'
"Nevertheless, it is significant that he should have
caused an advertisement to be inserted in all the city
newspapers offering a reward of $5,000 for the re-
turn of the package, and 'no questions asked.' And
this deep anxiety for the recovery of the papers leads
to the suspicion in some quarters that they were con-
cerned with important traction matters — either deals
in prospect, or transactions already closed, which in
view of recent legislative activity Mr. Whitefield has
no desire to see in other hands than his own.
" Reverting, though, to the details of the crime it-
self, there is still no definite clue to the identity of its
perpetrators.
“ The police were at first strongly inclined to an in-
side job' theory, arguing that the burglars must have
been assisted by some member of the household from
the fact that the iron shutters to the dining-room win-
dow were found unlatched, and showed no signs of
having been tampered with, and also from certain dis-
crepancies in the story of the butler. But both Mr.
and Mrs. Whitefield are loth to accept the sugges-
tion.
“They insist that the entire staff of their household
is above suspicion, and offer as an explanation for
the unlatched window that one of the robbers right
possibly have entered the house during the day or even
after dinner, and have secreted himself until the fam-
ily had gone to bed, when he admitted his confed-
erates.
“The actual work upon the safe seems to offer a
better lead; for here the detectives are agreed that
expert ability of a high order was displayed, and they
claim to recognize in it the handicraft of a cracksman
long suspected by the department, but who has hitherto
always managed to elude arrest.
horder was cait of a crackitherto


40
THE HORNET'S NEST
might have been seen leaving the house by some one
who realized the opportunity of those unlocked iron
shutters and grasped it. But, no matter how he studied
this or that phase of the affair, the undercurrent of his
thought was always the girl. It was years since his
curiosity had been so piqued, his interest so fully
aroused as it had been by Muriel Fletcher's unusual
individuality.
Yet there was a factor in the case which kept the
thought of Muriel merely an undercurrent. His dom-
inating consideration was that package of stolen papers,
vaguely referred to as relating to a traction deal. The
very mention of them roused in him a wild hope,
something he did not dare regard as a possibility;
and yet his mind clung to it with a thousand tentacles,
and in spite of himself his spirit soared.
Long, long ago he had abandoned his dreams of an
inevitable, if postponed, justice which should include a
full restitution. In the days when his downfall — his
death, as he always mentally referred to it — impended,
he had done everything not only to avert the ruin which
threatened him, but to nullify its results when the ava-
lanche of full publicity came.
In his endeavor to enlist powerful influences, he had
consulted lawyers who were not only personal friends,
but men eminent in their profession; and for the first
time this darling of fortune read incredulity not un-
mixed with scorn in their eyes. He who had met only
smiles and eager welcome encountered that same un-
familiar expression in the eyes of every friend and
acquaintance he had on earth. . He had resolved to
carry off the thing high-handedly, with all of the in-
souciance, the savoir faire with which he was credited ;
to give it the light indifference with which one treats


THE HORNET'S NEST
41
a matter of no importance. But the world's opinion
was too well defined for this.
He was noticeably avoided in all of his old haunts.
Men who were indebted to him for a hundred favors
were too much occupied to see him at his clubs, in the
restaurants, on the street. Women — Ah, women! —
who had felt their personal prestige immeasurably ad-
vanced if they were seen with him, now looked sedu-
lously in another direction. His mail which had daily
numbered so many invitations that he never bothered
to count them, dwindled to a few bills and business
communications. Hostesses, whose invitations he had
already accepted, suffered from sudden maladies and
cnjoyed equally speedy recoveries.
“But, great heavens!” he said to the lawyer to
whom he finally turned. “ I'm pilloried as if I were
a criminal, and I'm a public benefactor. Although I
have been politically opposed to Whitefield, and have
represented interests inimical to him and all his crooked
affairs, still I discovered this gigantic steal by a mere
fluke — this rotten merger they have put through.
They've made millions out of it - millions ! — the
public has been swindled and robbed past belief, and -
I'm the goat.”
There was something in the ring of his voice, a pas-
sionate sincerity, a desperate protestation which made
Judge Gregory turn and look at him steadily. The
scrutiny of those cold eyes gradually softened, there
was the shadow of something like sympathy on the
ascetic, intellectual face.
“Colvin," he said slowly, “ you're not the sort of
a man to be the goat, unless you're considerably more
of a fool than I or any one else has ever thought you.
That's the gist of the whole matter. That's the reason


42
THE HORNET'S NEST
public opinion, even among your closest friends, stands
as it does toward you. It's the things you can't - or
won't — explain, the — er — rather noticeable dis-
crepancies — ”
He took off his eyeglasses and wiped theni with
meticulous care. Colvin's face had flushed, his lips
tightened.
"You,” went on the lawyer in his even, judicial
tones, “ you permitted — well, more than a hint of
this information you claim to possess, to leak out.
You allowed the newspapers to make certain insinua-
tions. And then, when they had the public sufficiently
excited, and were prepared to spring a big sensation,
you refused the definite proofs of your various allega-
tions — refused them, and in spite of the influence
which the united press brought to bear upon you, you
have simply maintained silence.” His voice dropped
coldly, and as it seemed to the man who listened, from
an immense distance. “An inexplicable silence!”.
“What else is there to do?” cried Colvin hotly.
“ Public records have mysteriously disappeared, papers
have been stolen from my desk, witnesses have either
vanished or denied their previous sworn testimony. I
am in a most devilish and unbelievable mesh. How
could I have foreseen it? I can't yelp now. Nobody
will believe me. As for the insinuations in the news-
papers, they never came from me; they leaked out
through associates who were keen enough on the chase
when it looked as though we had unearthed this stu-
pendous fraud, and then disclaimed all knowledge of it
when the bribe was high enough.”
He spoke vehemently, and yet there was something
lacking of the sincerity of his previous words; and
Gregory was not insensible to it.


THE HORNET'S NEST
43
.“ Leaders are invariably blamed for the blunders of
their subordinates," the Judge said drily. “Events,
like persons, are judged on appearances in a world
which has no time to sift and weigh evidence. And
then,” he spoke more slowly now, and even more coldly,
“your willingness to expose the Whitefield crowd,
when you had appeared rather conspicuously for the
past year as the Whitefield ami du maison --- Well -
That complicates the matter considerably. Many men
who would have paid small attention to the business
and political fight in itself, can't overlook the - I'm
sorry, Ashe -- the caddishness of it. The universal
comment is: He was crazy about her, and when White-
field shut down on the affair, Colvin attempted a dirty
public revenge and couldn't get away with it.”
“Yes; I know," as Ashe wheeled violently in his
chair. “Brutal. But that's the world, and that is
the real reason your warmest friends feel that you
deserve all that's coming to you. You've made your-
self in the public eye something worse than a criminal
a ridiculous figure.”
Colvin's face was gray as he stared at the sheet of
window before him. Judge Gregory's untempered
statements of fact had fallen about him like hailstones.
He realized dully and in a surprised sort of way that
words were things. He felt their impact, cold as ice,
and yet stinging like acid, searing his flesh, burning
their way into his very soul.
Gregory fussed among his papers for a moment.
“You are very young," there was a hint of emotion
in his voice," and you have had enough notice to turn
any man's head. You have unusual gifts; a great
career was before you. I honestly believe that the
information given out, as you say, by your associates


44
THE HORNET'S NEST
to the newspapers was neither an hallucination on your
part, nor a bruiting of mere unfounded rumors and sus-
picion in the effort to create a sensation. I believe
that you had definite proofs to back up your charges
and allegations. But my personal conviction of course
counts for nothing.”
He leaned his arms on the desk, and looked stead-
ily at Colvin, speaking with an almost solemn em-
phasis.
“ It's not too late yet, Ashe. The public is still
willing to let you prove that you are neither a knave
nor a fool. But you can't let the matter rest where it
stands, as you seem bent on doing; you can't, and avoid
the consequences. Your excuse that your witnesses
were bought up, that records were destroyed, and that
important papers were stolen, is palpably weak. You
are too clever, too astute not to have reckoned on all
those accidents in advance, and to have known that
your case was unassailable before you placed it at the
mercy of even the closest of your associates. You
claim that the proofs upon which you especially relied
were locked up in your apartment, and that your desk
was robbed. But you have made only the most per-
functory effort to investigate that robbery. What
stopped you? What was your motive?”
He paused a moment, but Colvin did not answer.
“Only one, I am convinced,” he went on. “A wo-
man. Well,” sighing, “ we live by our traditions, and
principally we die by them. You are not the first
man of brains who has seen his career wrecked, his
usefulness nullified, his life ruined by giving all to
protect what in nine cases out of ten is not worth
protecting, and that is the very hypothetical white
flower of a woman's honor. Any woman who is con-


THE HORNET'S NEST
scious of an honor to protect is quite competent to
guard it herself.”
A brief silence fell between them, and when the
judge spoke again, the vigor had gone out of his
voice. There was the tired drag of age in it.
“ Perhaps I am imaginative, although I can hardly
accuse myself of that," there was a bleak smile around
his lips. "But, Ashe," his hand wavered toward the
bowed head of the younger man,“ don't let the tra-
dition fall on you, and grind you to powder as it
will. Don't belittle your usefulness. Don't give up
everything for a quixotic whim. Don't let the idiotic
ideal of a false chivalry break you. You are a big
man, Ashe. Life's been too easy for you. You
haven't yet been taken ás seriously as you're entitled
to be. You've posed around the town too much as a
Beau Brummel. But all that would soon fall away
from you. And this country needs men of your pow-
ers. For God's sake, don't quit the game, because of
à mere sentimental episode of your boyhood.”
Colvin got up, and walked to the window. The
sun shimmered on its surface; but even had the pane
been clear, he would not have seen the bay crowded
with shipping, nor the sky-climbing buildings, each
striving to top the other. His eyes were turned in-
ward, and the pictures of what Gregory had called a
sentimental episode rose upon his mental vision, while
his brain dispassionately reviewed them.
Months before he had stumbled on this steal, he
had been attracted to Freda Whitefield. She had en-
listed his interest in the first place by her beauty, and
there had ensued one of those intimate, platonic friend-
ships — sentiment raised to its nth power, hovering
thrillingly on the verge of passion, but not yet drawn


46
THE HORNET'S NEST
into the yortex. The old, eternal drama of the beau-
tiful woman unequally yoked, and the sympathetic
young man. It progresses through inevitable stages:
her favorite flower is sent her daily; they discover a
strangely mutual taste in poetry; her spiritual ideals
are timidly disclosed to him, and he accepts the reve-
lation with an almost ecstatic reverence; she will be
at this dinner or dance; they meet with handclasps,
ardent, clinging, yet quickly withdrawn; there are
long, long glances, and hastily averted eyes. It is a
game played without variation from Timbuctoo to
Kamschatka,
The affair had reached the stage where a divorce
from Whitefield was seriously contemplated, wlien
Colvin made his discovery of the traction scandal.
For weeks he lived through the struggle which comes
at least once to every son of Adam — that of choosing
between duty and the woman — and the choice was
not an easy one. He loved her madly, but the steal
was too vast, too flagrant. A great city had been
greatly robbed, and the bandits, secure in success,
were now planning other depredations upon an even
larger scale.
Finally, at the height of his mental conflict, he laid
the whole thing before Freda; and she, her civic virtue
aroused, had strengthened his wavering purpose. As
for her, she would not remain under the roof nor eat
the bread of a man who had mercilessly and in cold
blood ruined thousands.
Incited by her spirit, upheld by her faith in him,
Colvin prepared to force the issue. Then, on the eve
of public disclosure, there had occurred the time-hon-
ored midnight visit from her. Even her unconven-
tionality was conventional.


THE HORNET'S NEST
47
He had come to his rooms late, and found her there.
She threw herself into a chair, and lay sobbing. Her
husband had accused; she had admitted. The ulti-
matum was that if Ashe gave over to the authorities
the information in his possession and at which the
newspapers were hinting, Whitefield would imme-
diately sue her for divorce, and name Colvin as co-
respondent...
He had his evidence; it was sufficient. But if
Colvin were willing to drop the traction investigation,
he would condone. · He could consider no other terms.
Freda clung to Ashe, wrapped her arms about him,
weepingly besought him to save her; and he soothed
her, promising delay for the present, at least, or until
they could decide what had best be done. . .
It was not until she left that he noticed a certain
disorder in the room.' He strode over to his desk;
the lock was broken, the contents of the desk were in
confusion. His most important proofs were gone.
When he was at last able to think, and had somewhat
recovered his reasoning powers, he called up Freda
on the telephone. She had noticed nothing amiss in
the room, she averred; was in no condition, indeed, to
do so. She regretted the loss of his private papers,
but was surprised, nay, more, wounded, that he should
question her in regard to them.
And not long after this the society reporters began
to make enthusiastic mention of the sapphires and
pearls which were dimming the glory of all the other
jewels worn at the opera that winter — Delilah's
price!
At last Colvin turned from the shimmering window
and from his unwilling mental review.
" Thank you, Judge,” he said, and there was a faint


48
THE HORNET'S NEST
smile upon his lips. “In a choice between a quitter
and a cad, wouldn't you rather be a quitter ?”
“I refuse to admit that it is a choice," Gregory
protested hardly. Then his stubbornness broke.
“Oh, I know the fallacy of my own arguments. I
know that at this stage of our evolution a nan can't
involve a woman, much as she deserves it, without
making things worse for himself. But what then are
you going to do?”
“ Clear out,” Colvin responded laconically. He
was tensely erect, his head thrown back, that embit-
tered, proud smile was still on his lips.
“Not that. Oh, no," pleaded Judge Gregory as if
to a son of his own. “Don't throw away half a
loaf, because you can't have the whole. Hang on to
every crust."
Colvin's whole figure suddenly crumpled; his face
broke up; there were hot tears in his eyes; his shoul-
ders heaved. His guard was down at last. To this
old man who loved him, he showed himself a heart-
broken, bewildered boy, crushed in spirit, in pride, in
self-confidence.
“They've got a complete frame-up, and they'll use
it, too. They know I won't come back at them,” he
choked. “They've blinded my eyes, and shorn my
hair, Judge, and there's nothing for me but the tread-
mill.”
“Then, for God's sake, pull the temple down about
their ears, no matter what means you use," cried the
old man. His eyes, too, were wet, and he dabbed at
them furiously with his handkerchief.
Colvin roused himself impatiently. Here he sat
with his breakfast growing cold before him, reliving


THE HORNET'S NEST
49
again a long dead past. Why was he thinking of all
that? Judge Gregory had died almost ten years ago.
The first thing to be done now upon his own return
to life was to put from him definitely this habit of
reverie.
And yet his mind clung with a strange pertinacity
to that midnight hour when he had turned to his rifled
desk, and sorting over its contents with trembling
hands, had become damnably conscious of the delicate
perfume which exhaled from its tossed papers
Freda's favorite violet.
Could it be — Was it possible ? — that the package
stolen from Whitefield's safe the night before, and for
which the traction man was so eagerly advertising,
contained the proofs whose loss had shipwrecked his
career ?
Did chance, fortune, fate ever deal the cards like
that? Was the spinning ball to drop red for him at
last after all these years of black? A vain, wild hope,
his reason told him; and yet he found himself thrilled
and excited at the possibility
Pushing aside his untasted breakfast, he caught up
the newspaper again, and read with sedulous care
every detail of the previous night's robbery.
The suggestion that he himself might fall under
suspicion through some admission on the part of the
butler or the girl no longer served as the basis of his
interest. The burglary, the murder of the unfortu-
nate patrolman, every other feature of the affair was
now subsidiary in his mind to the engrossing question:
Were those stolen papers his long-missing proofs? |
But as this question took forn, in his mind, with
all its improbabilities, there came another: How could
he make sure?


THE HORNET'S NEST
Obviously, only by seeing them, and for that he
would have to find the man who took them.
He gnawed his lip. What sort of a wild goose
chase was he setting himself ? He was even more in
the dark than the police. They at least claimed to
know who had broken into the safe - an expert
cracksman, whose hall-mark, they said, was unmis-
takable.
But how was he to find out who the fellow was, get
in touch with him, and satisfy himself as to the con-
tents of the stolen package?
He had a number of shabby, shady acquaintances
whom he suspected of more or less connection with
the underworld; but none from whom it seemed likely
he could gather information.
Then suddenly an idea flashed upon him. The
Hornet! Why had he not thought of him before?
With an impulsive haste long foreign to him, Colvin
caught up his hat and coat, and hurried to the door.
Half way down the stairs, he paused at the sight
of the telephone, and stopping in the hall, he called
up the Whitefields' number.
“ Is Miss Fletcher in?” he asked.
“I'll see, sir. Who shall I say wishes to speak to
her?”
“Hodgeson, her tailor.”
In a moment Muriel's voice sounded in his ear.
“Mr. Hodgeson? You wished to speak to me?”
“ Yes. Shall I assure you that the events of last
night were as much of a surprise to me as to you?”
“No; it is not necessary,” she said almost curtly.
His heart gave a quick bound. The idea of a collu-
sion at least between himself and the real burglars
must have occurred to her. She was too intelligent


THE HORNET'S NEST
51
for it not to have done so. · But her indifferent dis-
missal did more to restore his self-confidence than a
thousand protestations. . .
“ Thank you,” he returned, and there was the faint-
est tremble in his voice. “I will give you my tele-
phone number now, in case you should wish to call
me, and I hope that we may soon be able to discuss
some definite plans."
“I hope so," she answered. And then: “One
moment,” in a lower voice. Her words came to him
over the wire in scarcely more than a whisper.
“The butler has been closeted with my uncle and
the police for more than an hour,” she said. “He's
certain to tell all that he knows. Good-by."
Colvin hung up the receiver. Under suspicion !
Well, it was nothing more than he had expected. All
the more reason that he should find the Hornet as
quickly as possible.
He hurried across town, and up to the flat which
he had visited the night before. But his repeated
rings at the bell brought no response. While he stood
puzzled and waiting, a slatternly janitress came clump-
ing down the stairs.
“Lord! Somebody else to see them folks?” she
grumbled at him. “The police was here half the
night; but Johnson and his wife, they beat it while the
goin' was good.”
“ Gone!” Colvin stared at her, the skyscraper
of hope which he had been unconsciously building,
crashing to the ground. “And they left no ad-
dress?”
“Left about everything else," she tittered.
“Clothes, furniture, ice-box full of grub, even the cat,
but not no ad-dress. What is it they say on them


52
THE HORNET'S NEST
postal cards the LeBeaus down on the first floor gets
from their brother on the other side? 'Somewheres
in France.' Well, maybe that's where you'll find Mr.
and Mrs. Johnson."


CHAPTER V
Seismic disturbances, whether in yolcanoes or
households, are reasonably certain to cause some
marked alteration of the daily habits of the creatures
within their radius of action; and in this respect the
upheaval in the Whitefield mansion showed no de-
parture from universal law. The ordinary routine of
its occupants was noticeably disorganized.
Mr. Whitefield's secretary, young Everett Bab-
cock, had just told the chauffeur that instead of hav-
ing the motor before the front door at exactly twenty
minutes to eleven, the invariable custom every busi-
ness day in the year, it might not be required at all;
Mr. Whitefield hardly thought he would go down to
his office. Then, telephoning one or two more mes,
sages, he returned to the study to receive any further
orders which might be issued.
This room, which had been invaded the night before
by policemen and detectives, not to mention reporters,
now showed no trace of these rude presences. The
dusty bootmarks of many feet, the litter of cigar and
cigarette stubs which had been strewn heedlessly over
the broad hearthstone and handsome rugs, the disorder
caused by books, papers, and ornaments having been
indifferently disturbed in the unavailing but con-
scientious search for clues, these had all been removed.
The sun fell with a subdued radiance through the


54
THE HORNET'S NEST
curtains of the windows, and warmed to a pleasanter
harmony the admirably blended browns and greens
of the decorations. A masculine room, handsome,
orderly, reserved. But just now the whole composi-
tion was thrown out of key by the safe with its circle
of neatly-drilled holes about the knob.
William Whitefield himself was sitting on the
farther side of the large, desklike table looking over
some papers, when Everett returned. Young Bab-
cock was the typical secretary of the great man, well-
appearing, well-mannered, well-groomed, a product of
efficiency, with about as much personality as a blank
wall. His small, tidy mind was fitted out with a
complete set of alphabetically arranged pigeonholes,
and in them were stored all of the thousand and one
details with which his employer could not afford to
clutter up his own brains.
Faultless machines, such secretaries, but hardly to
be regarded as human beings with parts and passions;
red ink, not blood, flows in their veins. Scratch one
of them, and you come on a card-index system. Yet
even Everett Babcock, whose only initial impulse was
his master's voice, had in the immediate reign of dis-
order fallen under suspicion.
Mr. Whitefield was at the moment eyeing him from
under his heavy brows, and considering the impossible
possibility of his having been implicated in the occur-
rence of the night before. .
Whitefield himself, or the presentment of White-
field which the world regarded as the real man, was
a tall, rather bulky person of a little over sixty years,
with a full, florid face, gray hair and moustache. But
his nose was long and thin, and his gray eyes were of
the rapid-fire kind - they never rested long on any-


THE HORNET'S NEST
55
thing, just pierced and then glanced off - yet like
Muriel, his niece, he had the trick of veiling his too
acute gaze. The impression he created was that of
the blunt, overbearing man of power, fond of his tri-
weekly golf, his auction bridge at the club, his care-
fully selected dinners, his well-chosen wines. Adopt-
ing this rôle early in his career, he had played up to it
until it had become very real in texture, an admirable
outer envelope masking his true and far more formid-
able characteristics, which were an unscrupulous and
far-seeing cunning, a hard determination, and a patient
diplomacy.
" Anything else, Mr. Whitefield ?” asked Babcock.
Whitefield pondered the question a moment or two,
pulling at one of his long, bushy eyebrows. Then,
with the tips of his fingers, he ran the scales for one
hand on his forehead, a mannerism of his.
.“ Ask Miss Fletcher to come here a minute," he
said, and rising, began to walk up and down the floor,
stopping finally before the safe and carefully scrutin-
izing its drilled door for perhaps the twentieth time.
He turned away from this contemplation as his
niece entered, and beamed paternally upon her. But
the beam only widened his mouth; it failed to occupy
his eyes. He also suppressed a sigh. If he were
formidable in his way, so was she in hers. These
encounters with her, whether in the nature of skir-
mishes for position, or a definite drive with all the
artillery in action, were, as he knew, nerve-racking
affairs, which so far had never resulted in a decision
for either of them.
“Sit down," he waved her toward a chair in which
she would face the light, while he resumed his former
seat before his desk. From that tactical vantage point


56
THE HORNET'S NEST
he again smiled at her. “Some stir, last night,
Muriel; some stir. Frighten you much?”
She lifted her shoulders slightly. “I was more ex-
cited than frightened,” she said. “What did you
want to see me about, Uncle William? Are there
new developments which in any way involve me?"
Her prompt refusal to be put on the defensive, and
the audacity with which she carried the attack into
his territory at once aroused in him the mixture of
unwilling admiration and wary antagonism which he
always felt upon these occasions.
He began his soundless scales upon the table – one,
two, three, four, five — crossed his thumb neatly under
his fingers, and began again.
“H'm. That's just the point. Muriel, there's evi-
dently something more in this robbery than an or-
dinary theft. The loss of certain files shows that.
Yes," he shifted his attitude, leaning on his elbow now,
and eyeing her keenly; "there's something behind it
all, and I mean to find out what it is. This matter is
going to be sifted to the bottom.”
"Is it so important as that?” she asked ingenu-
ously.
Her uncle studied her as she leaned forward in
her chair, her elbows on its arm, her long, white hands
loosely clasped together. She was a sufficiently strik-
ing figure. Her white serge frock was trimmed with
a heavy embroidery of the most vivid tints, blue and
green and scarlet, and the long string of gold beads
which hung about her throat and fell below her waist
gave a barbaric touch that emphasized not only the
gown, but her own subtle and powerful personality.
If Whitefield had followed his impulse, he would
have cried : “My God, I don't dare think how im-


THE HORNET'S NEST 57
portant! It's almost a matter of life and death with
me!”
But after that moment's regard of Muriel, he merely
said: “H-m-m," pursing his lips. “ Puzzling, rather
than important. And puzzles always did interest me;
yes. Now, as Dempsey discovered the theft, after the
first excitement caused by the shots was over, I natur-
ally questioned the rascal pretty closely myself when
the police got through with him. Well,” with a slight,
menacing smile, “he was mighty close-mouthed at
first, but he didn't stay so very long. And I found
out some interesting facts, very interesting.”
“Yes?” Muriel's attention was still polite, but
1100 absorbed. Her head was thrown back against
the chair; her eyelids were almost closed, the narrow-
est line of dusk emerald showing; her throat was like
a column of white marble.
“ One fact," continued her uncle, “was that a man
called here last night after your aunt and I had left
the house, and asked for you. He gave his name as
Vernon, and was shown into the library by your
orders. Dempsey says that he never saw him before;
I had hard work believing the story; still, if Dempsey
is not crazy, it is a circumstance which requires con-
siderable explanation from you."
Muriel settled herself more deeply in the chair.
She crossed one knee over the other, and rested her
finger tips lightly togther.
“Dempsey's all right,” she said abruptly. “ It's
perfectly true.”
"And the meaning of it?” he drew in his breath
ominously.
With annoying deliberation, she opened a small,
embroidered bag which hung by her side, and draw-


58
THE HORNET'S NEST
ing from it the mesh purse which Vernon had returned
the night before, handed it to him.
He took it, showing his surprise, and glancing at
hier doubtfully from under his brows.
“Open it,” she said.
He did so, still suspicious that she was playing some
trick upon him, and took from it the visiting card,
the pendant, and the loose change, and spread them
out carefully upon the table.
“ Well?”
“I walked down to Brentano's yesterday afternoon
to order some books. I also meant to leave my pen-
dant to be repaired; you see, the ring is broken. I
lost the purse on the way. The man you speak of
found it, and as my name and address were on the
card, he returned it last night.”
Whitefield showed his teeth slightly in the smile
which those who knew him best felt no desire to
provoke.
" Perhaps you will explain how you happened to
know that he would return it, also his name, and at
what hour he would be here? You must have been
aware of those facts before you could give your in-
structions to Dempsey."
Muriel's heart dropped a beat. “We have tele-
phones in the house," she said laconically.
“Why didn't you speak of the loss of your purse
when you came home?” He pounded this question
at her. “You go out for a walk, lose an expensive
gold bag and a valuable pendant, and then saunter
home, and never mention the matter either to your
Aunt Freda or me? Natural behavior, eh?”
She looked at him with an entire absence of ex-
pression in her face, which irritated him more than


THE HORNET'S NEST 59
any of the baffling tricks she was wont to use in their
mutual warfare.
“But then, you see, I am not natural with either
you or Aunt Freda.”
She waited a moment for him to retaliate: “ Whose
fault is that? ” and embark upon a long argument
which would distract his attention from the main issue.
But he was not to be drawn aside, and seeing this,
she made her explanation before he could accuse her
of attempting to evade his questions.
“I've got to remind you again, Uncle William, that
we have telephones in the house. Since my mind
had been set at rest about my loss, I didn't see any
reason for mentioning the matter, and being scolded
for my carelessness."
“Bosh!” the word came explosively. “We can
quibble all day about how this man came here. You
and I can take that up later, and we will, too, young
lady. What interests me now is how he took his
leave. That is the crux of the whole matter, and that
is what must be very fully explained. But first, I
will ask just one more question. Why did this mys-
terious stranger stay so long?”
As lifelong adversaries, each had a certain respect
for the other's fighting qualities, and each possessed a
good working knowledge of the other's methods of
attack and retreat. But although this facilitated, in
a measure, the procedure of battle, it never really
simplified the essential combat; for each was fully
aware that the other possessed reserves which neither
so far had found it necessary to draw upon.
Muriel had now begun to realize that this was some-
thing more than a mere clash of wills between them.
Her uncle plainly suspected that Vernon was impli-


60
THE HORNET'S NEST
cated in this, for her, inopportune robbery, and he
meant to get at the facts underlying the visit of the
night before, or there would be trouble. Now, if he
succeeded in entangling her in conflicting admissions
so that she would be forced to confess not only her
action of the day before, but the motives which lay
behind it, there were certainly five long years before
her of an even more restricted life than this from
which she was striving so desperately to escape. This
thought nerved her afresh, steadied her. She fenced
for time.
“So long?" she asked. “What do you mean by
his having stayed so long?”
"Any time over fifteen minutes would be long.
Yet Dempsey is certain that he was here over an hour,
well over an hour; perhaps two. And oddly enough,
Dempsey didn't see him take his leave. Neither did
he open the hall door for him.”
“I suppose,” she returned coolly, “that when he
got ready to leave, Dempsey had probably retired to
the pantry for a drink. I can not explain it any
other way."
Whitefield ran the scales on the table, his eyes fol-
lowing his fingers. This innocent exercise gave him
time to conceal his intense irritation, and decide on his
next move. Then he leaned back comfortably in his
chair, showing that he was in no haste to end the con-
versation.
“Muriel,” he said, in what was meant to be a pleas-
ant, reasonable tone, " you are willful, obstinate, head-
strong, and a few other things but you've got the
Whitefield brains too, and I'm relying on that fact
when I frankly ask your help and coöperation in a
difficult matter. You and I might keep up this kind


THE HORNET'S NEST
61
of talk until kingdom come, and we would get no-
where. Now, to come down to brass tacks; with your
looks and that air of yours, not to mention your
money," he showed his teeth in a cynical smile, “ you
can not help attracting a lot of attention. Here, let
me present a case for you. In some way you run
across a man, who, for certain reasons, you are pretty
sure will not meet with the approval of your Aunt
Freda or myself; so, perhaps at his suggestion, you
invite him to come to your home on an evening when
you know we will both be out. But lest this interview
should be discovered, you provide a rather plausible
excuse.” He touched the mesh bag with his fingers.
“But, Muriel, in spite of your cleverness, you have
practically no knowledge of life, or the ways of the
world. That is nothing against you; it's bound to be
so at your age, and thank the Lord for it. Isn't it
highly probable, then, that you might be a target for
unscrupulous persons, say, a group of people who
would select an especially attractive man to excite your
interest? Why, my dear, that sort of thing is done
every day.
“You might meet him a few times, and ask him to
come to the house," he went on. “And understand,
Muriel, I'm not blaming you in any respect. Great
Scott, I haven't forgotten that I was young once my-
self! Well, he comes, gets the plan of the rooms, a
few hints about the habits of the family, the lay of
the land generally. That is all these slick fellows
need, and,” he waved his hand palm outward, "the
robbery occurred last night.” He was looking at her
eagerly from under his brows as he finished.
Muriel laughed as if she were genuinely amused.
“ You read too many mystery stories late at night,


62
THE HORNET'S NEST
Uncle William. The clerk at Brentano's told me yes-
terday that he had half a dozen new ones laid aside
for you. Honestly, the circumstances of Mr. Ver-
non's visit were just as I have told you. I found him
interesting, and was sorry when he left.” She allowed
a pensive expression to grow upon her face. “To a
sub-debutante like me, a real man is a rarity. I do
not see anything but a few college kids, and some of
Aunt Freda's tame cats; and they all look at me
through her eyes.”
Whitefield succumbed to the inevitable, and shifted
his point of attack very neatly.
“Well, it looks as if my theory was all astray," he
conceded good-humoredly. “I guess you're right
about the mystery stories. This affair last night has
made me suspicious of everything and everybody.”
He shrugged his shoulders, deliberately lighted a cigar,
and picking up a newspaper, glanced over it.
“So your new acquaintance was interesting?" His
tone was carefully casual. “I have known several
Vernons. I wonder if I have ever met him. Was he
a fellow who has been living on the other side for a
number of years, tall, good-looking, with a Van Dyck
beard, and a taking smile, a very taking smile.” It
was a thumb-nail sketch of the Ashe Colvin he had
known fifteen years before.
Muriel laughed. “You're away off, Uncle Wil-
liam. Mr. Vernon isn't at all the 'Arsene Lupin
you are trying to picture.”
Whitefield joined in her laughter, but his eyes were
baffled. He shifted his ground again.
“Heigho! How time flies.” His tone was ru-
minative. “Do you know, Muriel, I'm just begin-
ning to realize that you are grown up? It's possible


THE HORNET'S NEST
63
-
that Freda and I, in our anxiety to guard you against
certain dangers which threatened you, have hedged
you about with too much care. I—"
He stopped as there was a hasty knock on the door,
immediately followed by the entrance of Mrs. White-
field. She was in street costume, evidently just ready
to go out. She threw back a lace veil from her hat,
but it fell again, half-concealing her face which was
pale and worried. There were small, unbecoming
pouches under her eyes as if she had not slept. Her
mouth was compressed and nervous. She swept
Muriel with a quick, suspicious glance, and then turned
to her husband.
“There's nothing new, is there?” She looked
from one to the other. Her voice trembled a little.
Whitefield shook his head.
“I'm going down town, William," she continued.
“There are some things I want to attend to this
morning. I don't have to bother with those stupid
detectives any more, do I?” She watched him anx-
Sher with those stunt
sously as she askedtesdo I?”
"No. Go out and get the air; it will do you good.
You look rather seedy this morning," he replied.
“ But now that you're here,” he got up and pushed a
chair toward her, “ give us just a minute.”
She hesitated a second; then sat down impatiently
on the edge of the chair. She was a woman with the
air of beauty, an asset almost as great as beauty itself,
and often more convincing; but the positive quality
was there also, a beauty pensive and Madonna-like,
of the type most appealing to the heart of man.
But the zenith of that loveliness had passed. In
spite of her eternal vigilance, her figure was becoming
a thought too opulent, and upon her face the years


64
THE HORNET'S NEST
were writing their ineffaceable and merciless record,
implacably revealing certain secrets of temperament
which youth had successfully masked. Hers was a
delicate, oval face, with large, full, brown eyes, a small,
beautiful mouth, pale russet hair with the sheen of
satin, and a skin which had many times been likened
to a white rose petal.
Muriel scrutinized her thoughtfully. She did not
remember ever having seen her aunt so affected by
anything as this robbery.
“Freda,” Whitefield spoke with a suave geniality
that his wife thoroughly understood, “ I'm afraid that
you and I haven't noticed that Muriel is out of pina-
fores. She has a feeling that we have been treating
her a little too much - How was it, you expressed
it, Muriel ? — as a sub-debutante. Ha-ha!”.
His wife lifted the thin, arched line of her brows.
“Muriel can usually find something to fuss about,
if she tries,” she commented.
“What I want is soon stated,” broke in Muriel,
pressing with vigor what she knew to be an advan-
tage. “I don't want any more paid spies — you can
call them Aunt Freda's social secretaries, or my com-
panions, or anything else you please — tagging around
after me. I want to buy my own clothes, and not
wear 'junior misses' things which a girl of fourteen
would decline to be seen in. I want to choose my own
friends, too. All I ask is just about the same amount
of freedom that any girl of my age is entitled to.”
"I don't see any reason why your request shouldn't
be granted.” Whitefield shot a quick glance of sig-
nificance toward his wife. “But all that talk of paid
spies is very foolish, my dear. As your guardians,
your Cousin Samuel and myself have recognized that


CHAPTER VI
SO ABRUPT was Muriel's departure, that White-
field's lips were framing to form another sentence as
she snapped him off with her swift acceptance of his
terms, and whisked out of the room.
He sat gazing a moment at the door as it closed upon
her, his eyes slightly narrowing. Then he turned to
see Freda rising to follow in the wake of his niece.
It was her manifest impulse to hurry away. She
seemed anxious to avoid a direct interview with him;
also she showed difficulty in meeting the glance he bent
upon her. She cast down her eyes, and fumbled with
the fastening of one of her gloves, as she waited for
him to speak.
Whitefield, however, failed to observe her nerv-
ousness. He was absorbed in other and weightier
considerations.
“Well, Muriel rather thinks she got me that time.
And so, I suppose, do you?” He waited a moment,
as if expecting her to ask an explanation.
“It does seem a good deal of leeway to give a girl
of that age," she returned indifferently; “especially
such a girl as Muriel. However, if you have made up
your mind to indulge her in ".
“Oh, there's a method in my madness." He
nodded emphatically. “I am throwing out a sprat to
catch a herring. I propose to find out who the man
is, who was here to see her last night.”


THE HORNET'S NEST
67
"Didn't she tell you?”
“Not she. A very clever little fairy story was all
I got out of her; very clever, but it didn't pull the wool
over my eyes. So now I am going on the theory that
if you give a thief enough rope, he will hang him-
self.
“ Freda," he rose and began to walk up and down
the floor, “there is a good deal more than appears on
the surface. It is evidently a pretty big plot of some
kind, and Muriel's been used as a cat’spaw." He
stopped, and glowered at the floor. “Do you happen
to know anything of Ashe Colvin's whereabouts ? ”
"Ashe Colvin?” Her hand fluttered to her breast;
her pallor deepened perceptibly. “I have not heard
of him for years. He went abroad, didn't he? Cer-
tainly, you do not suspect him?”
“The Colvin papers were taken," he answered
moodily.
“So were my —” She caught herself quickly.
“So were my rings. So was the money. So was
that forged check of Fletcher Hempstead's.”
“ Ye-es." He scowled. “We can dismiss the
rings and the money, I guess; they were just lagniappe.”
He did not see her lift her brows and bite deep on her
lower lip. “What was really wanted out of that
safe was the Colvin package and Fletcher Hemp-
stead's check. Now what's the connection? Are
those two working together? Fletcher, with that
check out of the way, can demand an accounting.
Colvin, with those proofs back in his hands, can —
Good Lord, what can't he do?”.
“But didn't you say last night that you believed the
legislative investigating commission must be back of
it?”


THE HORNET'S NEST
“Well, maybe it is. Maybe it's some snooping,
yellow newspaper trying to cause me trouble.. I'm
looking out for all the possibilities. I can muzzle a
newspaper, or the legislative commission; but the other
contingency worries me.
“This Vernon - He is the fellow who was here
last night to see Muriel; probably changed his name
by this time - he's the one clue I have. He is the key
to the whole situation, and I've got to get hold of him.
The question is, then: Will he meet Muriel again, or
will he not? I rather think he will; Muriel's got a
lot of money.”
He touched the buzzer on his desk, and Babcock,
the efficient, appeared.
“Everett,” he said, “I have a rather delicate com-
mission which I am going to entrust to you, and I want
it carried through without any hitch. During the
next few days I must have a complete record of all of
Miss Fletcher's movements, where she goes, what she
does, whom she meets — especially whom she meets.
Put an expert man on the job, and have a report ready
for me every evening."
“ That is all, sir?" Babcock bowed, slipped his
notebook into his pocket, and retired.
Whitefield resumed his walk up and down the floor.
“Why don't the police round up that damned cracks-
man,” he grumbled, "this ‘Hornet' they talk so much
about? He knows who employed him, and I guess,
if he gets money enough, he'll open his mouth. He
ought to be easy enough to find, too. They say he has
a scar on his face."
Freda rose with a startled gleam on her face. “A
scar?” she gasped. “A scar? Why - ! Why,
William, do you remember Fletcher ? "


70
THE HORNET'S NEST
softer tone, full of a faint, husky sweetness, and Col-
vin became for the moment thrillingly aware that a
great part of her magnetism lay in her speech.
“Suppose Uncle William incarcerates me; there
might be unpleasant consequences for you."
“ Bah!” It was as if she mentally snapped her
fingers. “ The Whitefields are all born gamblers; we
take the long chance, every time. Uncle William is
taking it on me now.”
Colvin hesitated a second. Then he threw himself
on her mercy. He felt his cheek grow red, and he
stammered a little as he spoke.
"I want very much to see you.” His tone left
no doubt of his sincerity. “But I've lived out of the
world so long that I am not familiar with the customs
of the country to-day. Is it all right for me to ask
you to take luncheon with me, or perhaps tea?”
"Not if I were still a 'sub-deb,'” she said, “but
under the present circumstances, tea is perfectly all
right.”
“To-day ? ” came quickly back cver the wire.
“Not to-day nor to-morrow," she answered regret-
fully. “I won't have a minute before Friday.”
She had calculated quickly that by Friday a new
frock which she had ordered might possibly be ready.
"Friday afternoon, then," he replied, “and
where?”
“Oh, Sherry's, I suppose, at five. Good-by."
Colvin turned fom the telephone, his spirits rising,
and his disappointment at not seeing her at once
greatly mitigated by the fact that before Friday he
should be able properly to prepare for the event. He
had, in his day, been one of the makers of manners,
but during his exile tailors and haberdashers had


THE HORNET'S NEST
71
ceased to play any part in his scheme of existence.
He had indifferently worn the garments which re-
mained of what had once been a vast wardrobe, nor
thought of replenishing it. But to return, even tem-
porarily, to a world which he had foresworn, and to
explore it with a girl like Muriel, demanded a renova-
tion, not only of ideas, but of appearance. He de-
cided that some of the builders of good clothes who
had been authorities in his days must still be im-
portant. He had the true New Yorker's respect for
appearances; that desire adequately to dress what-
ever part one may be playing. He looked up several
addresses in the telephone directory, and then went
out to see about the matter.
But it was not only because it gave him more time
to select a wardrobe that he was glad Muriel had
named Friday; it also gave him more time to adjust
his mind to the events in which he found himself
plunged, and to consider the immediate future.
During the next few days he endeavored to put him-
self more and more in touch with the environment he
had once so passionately renounced, and which had,
in retrospect, been so abhorrent to him that in years
he had not dared to think of it. He went to the
theatres once or twice; dined in the hotels which had
been put up since his day, and studied with wonder
the newer aspects of a city which continually trans-
formed and renewed itself, changing its business and
social districts with all the caprice which a spoiled
whimsical woman shows in discarding old gowns for
fresh ones.
All this, however, was in the way of diversion. He
never for a moment ceased his vigilant search for the
Hornet, fruitless though it was. But on Thursday


72
THE HORNET'S NEST
noon, as he was strolling home to his lodgings, he
noticed a little ahead of him a man who had stopped
to light a cigarette, but who was plainly without a
match. He went through all his pockets vainly, and
then, as Colvin was about to pass him, stepped up to
the latter and asked for a light. Colvin handed him
his match-box.
“Thanks," said the man as he gave it back, and
then added quietly and with scarcely a movement of
the lips, “ Johnson will be at The Dome Monday eve-
ning. Wants you to take dinner with him early. Be
careful; they're after him pretty close since the
Whitefield affair."
He moved on before Colvin could reply. But Ashe
did not mind that; he walked with a light step. A
little good news, the sort of news one wants to hear,
always goes to one's feet as well as to one's head. He
wondered if he were crazy in believing that the Hornet
would not have risked seeing him unless he had some
information which would be of interest to him. Any-
way, it was plausible to believe so, but he determined
to waste no time in conjecture. He did not care
about chancing many more disappointments; therefore,
the better to ignore the matter, he tried resolutely to
turn his attention into other channels.
The idea had come to him several times of leaving
his present quarters, but his mind had slanted off of it,
refusing to contemplate so definite a move. In fact,
in spite of his efforts to clarify his thoughts, every-
thing seemed inchoate; events had followed events
with a rapidity which had left him a little stunned, and
his course of action for the future depended much on
what the Hornet might have to tell him.
It was a good sporting bet that the Hornet had


THE HORNET'S NEST
73
opened the safe and taken the jewels, but it was just
one chance in a million that the papers which had also
been removed related to him. When he got this far
in his speculation, he always stopped himself and tried
to think of something far remote from these absorb-
ing personal matters which only led into a blind alley.
Yet now the question of moving assumed a different
aspect.
If, as Muriel said, Whitefield suspected him, it
would probably be no time at all before the police
would ferret him out, and then for days, weeks per-
haps, he would be shadowed. That would mean a
blocking of all his plans. Under such circumstances,
it would be impossible for him to see either Muriel or
the Hornet, for their sakes as well as his own.
Therefore it seemed expedient for him immediately
to move. So he packed up his belongings, leaving his
furniture, however, and holding the rooms, and re-
moved at once to a quiet up-town hotel on one of the
side streets, communicating to no one, except to Mu-
riel, whom he informed by telephone, his present
address.
To his landlady he merely explained that he would
be away for a time. He regarded it as a purely tem-
porary departure. As for other plans, they were for
future consideration; in the present there was after-
noon tea with Muriel.
And Friday dawned. A light rain had fallen during
the night, and the atmosphere had a clear shining, a
freshly washed and inspiring radiance. The air was
sparkling as wine, the sky was the dome of a thou-
sand sapphires, the sunlight a shimmering flood.
Something of the joy of the day touched Colvin's
spirit as he hurried towards Sherry's twenty minutes


74
THE HORNET'S NEST
before the hour. The early autumn twilight was be-
ginning to draw violet veils over the sparkle of the
afternoon. Within that shrine of dinners forgotten
and dinners anticipated, women were gathering, stun-
ning women groomed like shining race horses, gayly
greeting the good-looking men who awaited them.
Five o'clock. The favorite hour of Airtation in
New York. The shadows growing grayer and deeper
without, within the little table in a remote corner with
its vase of red roses, its dim, pink-shaded lights. The
music of the moment sighs through the rooms, the
fragrance of tea fills the air. An exquisite hour!
Very, very far away is the commonplace home atmos-
phere. Is it any wonder that women love it, this little
period of relaxation when the cares of the day may be
definitely cast aside, and it is not yet time to put on
the silken spangled harness of the evening, to call the
duty smile to the lips, the duty sparkle to the eyes,
and “bow to the world's low footlights."
The moments passed. It was now well past five.
Colvin began to feel disconsolate. He had been look-
ing forward so eagerly to seeing her again, and now
it looked as if she were not coming at all.
And then she came, a little breathless as if she had
hurried greatly. How vital, how electric she was!
Not so baffled and rebellious as when he had seen her
last, but more conquering than ever. Involuntarily
a sharp sigh arose to his lips. She seemed to strike
his heart like a wave of the sea of life; the light
became warmer, more glowing, the music infinitely
sweeter.
And over her face too there passed a faintly
startled expression. It was little more than a week
since, acting upon an impulse, a blind faith, she had


THE HORNET'S NEST
75
taken an enormous chance with destiny, and given
her purse and her secret to a shabby, sad-looking man
in the street; a man with something about him ghost-
like and remote, as if he had wandered from some dim
land of shades. And now he was coming toward her,
the same, yes, but with a different air, moving in a
different atmosphere, temporarily at least, an easy
denizen of the great world. Only his eyes revealed
that he still lingered on the border of some cloudy
hinterland.
“I know I'm dreadfully late!” she exclaimed, “but
I have just managed to lose my new chaperon. It
has been a great chase,” as they moved toward the door
of the tea-room, “I have been leading the poor soul —
it's a man you know -- such a dance since about three
o'clock. He was very nimble, but I finally lured
him to my dressmaker's; there I vanished into one of
the fitting-rooms which has two doors, made my way
to the back of the building, and came out on an-
other street.”
“Do you mean that you are being watched ? ” he
said in a shocked tone. “Oh, I'm afraid that is all
my fault.”
“Don't bother about it,” she laughed. “I'm en-
joying it.” She seated herself at the little table which
he had secured in a secluded nook. “I feel really out
in the rush of things at last. Oh, tea ? Oolong please,
and orange marmalade sandwiches.” She threw back
her furs and opened her coat. “I've had tea with
what Uncle William calls my young companions, and
with Aunt Freda and Ollie Darnton or some other of
her tiresome men, but never with a man of my own
before."
He was unused to the extreme candor of the mod-


76
THE HORNET'S NEST
ern young woman, license our grandmothers would
have called it, but to him, crushed by circumstances,
deadened by the undeviating routine of apathetic and
monotonous years, it was as stimulating as heady
wine; and more than anything else the little tingling
shock which her audacity gave him made him feel at
one with his old self.
“Oolong tea and orange marmalade sandwiches,”
he said to the waiter, while a tinge of red showed under
the skin of his cheek. Then he leaned across the table,
no longer the ghost, the shell of a man, but the old
Colvin again, with life and fortune at high tide. His
gray eyes were full of laughter and emotion, and on
his lips was the old smile, tender, possessive, ardent,
which had never failed to strike a responsive chord in
the heart of the woman on whom it was bestowed.
“Am I— that?" He had dropped his voice
almost to a whisper; then, as her astonished, almost
frightened eyes met his, “ your man?”
A little white flash went over her face as she realized
that he had captured her unmeant, careless speech, and
colored it with the rose hue of a romantic significance.
It was her first encounter with passion. There was
a brief struggle with the conventional and conventual
training of years, the shyness of girlhood, and then
she followed her instinct with a glorious intrepidity,
an uncalculating courage, which stirred his blood to a
mad beating. Her green, dusky eyes gleamed through
their narrowed lids, and there was fire in them. Her
red mouth was no longer sullen, but bewilderingly
sweet; her smile held the lure of the world's desire.
The moment revealed more to each of them than a
thousand years of speech, and then the curtain, lifted
long enough for both to gain a flash of the ancient


THE HORNET'S NEST
77.
wisdom, fell again. Training and convention asserted
themselves.
Muriel, looking down, rearranged her fork and
spoon. They sipped their tea. She praised its
flavor. She was the intelligent, worldly-wise, sexless,
twentieth-century young woman, sedulously ignoring
all traces of beautiful and real emotion. She was able
to look at him again, even to make her glances apprais-
ing. Coolly she noted the classic shape of his head,
the brown hair with the gray above the ears and on the
temples, his high-bred features, the grace and distinc-
tion of his figure. Her pulses controlled, she had will
enough for anything. She appeared, as she forced
herself to this detached scrutiny, to be turning over
something in her mind. Finally she decided to voice
it, and when she spoke, it was with even more than her
customary abruptness.
“Mr. Vernon," she said, “just in the little time
I've known you, I've told you more about myself than
I have ever told any one in the world. Don't you
think it's about time we talked a little of you?”
He leaned his elbow on the table, his cheek on his
hand. His face fell into the old lines, his mouth
drooped again. His eyes became vague and sad as
they followed the smoke wreaths of his cigarette; his
years seemed as profitless and drifting.
“That is only fair," he said, but the life and interest
had gone out of his voice. “ Perhaps you can make
it easier to tell you anything you wish to know if
you ask me some questions."
" Any questions I want to ask?” quickly.
"I can't imagine any you could want to ask,” he
smiled, but unhappily.
“Naturally," she was looking at him with those


78
THE HORNET'S NEST
penetrating, Whitefield eyes of hers, “ I've thought a
lot about you since we met. This is my first real
adventure. But it is all so contradictory. There is
so much that I do not understand and can not piece
together."
He lifted his eyebrows.
“ You would be a clairvoyant if you could.”
“ Anybody can see that you've had all kinds of
things in your life," she mused. “Mr. Vernon," with
one of her quick changes to impetuous speech, "you
keep my imagination working over time. I am think-
ing of you constantly." Her tone was petulant.
“ You seem to me like a man I've read about, one of
those French abbés of the seventeenth century who
spent their lives at court and in drawing-rooms, pull-
ing wires and flirting with pretty women, and then
suddenly left it all and went off to the new world to
be missionaries to the Indians.”
He looked at her, both amazed and amused at the
analogy.
“Do not get any romantic ideas about me in your
head,” he said. “I just quit, dropped out, deserted
from the big army of workers.”
“What made you desert?” She was like some
cool, competent young surgeon probing a wound, not
because she found it pleasant, but because it was
necessary; and he bore the probing for that reason.
“I thought at the time it was circumstances,” his
voice was depressed. “I have come to the conclusion
since that it was a streak of yellow in me. You see,
circumstances gave me more than one knock-out blow,
but there was one in particular which seemed to de-
prive me, not only of the will, but even of the desire
to come back.'


THE HORNET'S NEST
79
:
He drank his tea, and smiled at her across the cup.
“Miss Fletcher, I am not even a visitor from the
night's Plutonian shore. There is something virile
and positive in hell, but I am just a kind of a dim
shade from Purgatory, stealing a Nittle while to look
in a moment upon a world I once cared a lot about.”
She continued to gaze at him in that abstracted
way as if he were more a problem she were trying
to solve than a man who interested her.
"I don't know much,” she said, “but I am sure
of one thing. Mr. Vernon, you can't stay outside
it all; you've got to come back.”
He felt the current of her dynamic resolution; it
seemed to flow to him from her in a flood of strength
and confidence. The words, as she said them, were
like an electric shock. Come back! As he sat there
with her, it almost seemed possible. She was as af-
firmative as sunlight. The tide of shadow which en-
gulfed him ebbed, until it seemed to him that he
stood free of it, and then — its stealthy lapping began
again.
“Can a man ever really come back?” he asked
moodily, his eyes on the table, his cheek on his hand.
" It's a big, splendid world, and there are big, splen-
did things to do in it, and it's men like you who
ought to put their shoulders under it, and push it
along. You're good, you're sincere. Oh, yes, you
are. I trusted you the minute I saw you, and even
that night, when everything seemed to point to you
as the guilty person, I never doubted you."
“Ah, that brings me back more than anything else
could do,” he murmured with profound gratitude.
“ You can not imagine what that means to me. Since
I've begun to be alive again, I've been feeling, realiz-


80
THE HORNET'S NEST
ing something intensely; I seem to get something from
the air. At first I thought it was just the newness
of everything that made me think that things were
different; but I've been increasingly conscious that
that's not so. The whole mental outlook of the world
has shifted and altered. It is this war! It has given
the world a new impulse, a new faith. Our shallow
scepticisms and cynicisms are done for. Faith in the
essential things, ourselves unfettered by traditions, that
is one of them. Oh!” it was a low, exceeding bitter
cry, "you ask me to come back! How can I, when
every avenue is closed, every opportunity is barred?
Oh, if I were only not on the scrap heap!”.
"How dare you say that!” Her voice challenged
all the manhood of him. She looked straight at him;
no subtle narrowing of the lids now; no softening
nor sympathy in her eyes; he could not have borne
it if there had been.
For him the barriers were down at last, the proud
reserves of tradition and training, an armor which
encased him, hardened by suffering, melted in the
warmth of her understanding.
“That afternoon," he said brokenly, “that after-
noon when I met you, you trusted me, you asked me
to do something for you. It restored me to life; I
was a man again. I wanted to plan, to think, to fight
and lose, maybe, but to make a fight of it, and that
desire, that longing, comes back to me when I am
with you. Then I am young agin. The fifteen years
I spent in hell are gone like smoke, but alone
Muriel, Muriel, do you realize what a part habit plays
in our lives? I have fifteen years behind me of death,
of apathy, of indifference and negation, and it's like
a visible thing now, a shadow always about me. It


THE HORNET'S NEST
81
holds me in its power, and I can't escape; I can't shake
off its influence.”
She stretched her strong, warm young hand across
the table and caught his.
• “No shadow can touch the sunshine," she said,
“and I'm going to stand in the sunshine till the Day
of Judgment if necessary, waiting for you, for you've
got to come back."


CHAPTER VII
The early night of autumn had already fallen when
Colvin walked down from his hotel to The Dome.
His mind was naturally centered on his coming inter-
view with the “Hornet,” and yet he could not be
wholly insensible to the picturesque quality of the
region through which his way took him.
A bit of old New York, which Colvin had always
loved, and which, in spite of its soaring, modern apart-
ment houses, still retains its individuality. In the
center of the square, the garden behind its high, iron
fence preserves its peaceful and charming seclusion;
and in the white flare of the electric lights, its flowers,
its old trees, its plashing fountain, dream as placidly
as in the time when the “Sage of Gramercy” looked
down from his study windows upon the lamp-lighted
enclosure.
A few blocks farther on is The Dome, and as Colvin
entered the restaurant, he saw that the tables were
rapidly filling. There was the blare of an orchestra
in his ears, a hazy curtain of blue smoke before his
eyes. At the far end of the long, oak-panelled hall,
a famous Gypsy violinist balanced himself on the edge
of his platform. Hunched over his violin, and keep-
ing his whole body in rhythmic time to the music, he
bent, and swayed, and bobbed, and bowed, the broad
grin of a delighted barbarian on his face.
Ashe moved slowly down the room, but as he glanced


THE HORNET'S NEST
83
about among the diners, he saw no one who in the
least resembled the “Hornet." About the middle of
the hall and down two or three steps was another long
room lying at right angles to the first. He stepped
into it; here the tables were more sparsely filled, but
still he looked in vain.
He had about decided to sit down and await the
“Hornet's " coming, when he heard some one say:
“Hello, Vernon.”
He turned sharply to see a man sitting at a small,
round table just behind him and looking at him
amusedly. While Ashe stared in the effort to place
him, the other pulled back a chair at his side and
motioned Colvin to sit down. Ashe did so, still star-
ing. It was difficult for him to believe that this was
really the “Hornet.”
“ Stop lamping me so hard, or you'll attract atten-
tion,” growled his companion, a tall, quiet looking per-
son who wore glasses and a dark moustache. “Here,
study the card instead, and I'll talk.”
Colvin allowed his eyes to rest on the menu, but
his pulses were bounding. It must be as he had sus-
pected. The “Hornet" was badly “wanted.” Else
he would never have gone to such pains to conceal his
identity.
"Where did you leave your scar?” Ashe could
not help asking.
“It's puttied up and painted, and I'm only hoping
my moustache won't fall off in my soup."
“Can they do a job like that? ” Colvin breathed
in wonder, permitting himself another swift glance
at the other's cheek.
" They' can do anything these days, if they're paid
for it. Believe me.”


84
THE HORNET'S NEST
“ But, Johnson "
There was a sudden, swift change in the lounging,
commonplace man. He was a slack wire instantane-
ously taut, a steel spring automatically coiled for
action.
“No names here," he snapped. “Don't forget
again.”
The cold menace of that voice would have made
the most hardened shiver. Colvin recalled that no
matter how mild and friendly a hornet might appear,
it was yet fashioned to sting.
“I understand," he agreed. “But weren't you a
little reckless, eh, picking out so well patronized a
place as this for our meeting?"
The “Hornet” had relaxed again. “Safe as the
church which it resembles. I keep away from Broad-
way, and also from the cheap and nasty haunts of
my fellow laborers in the vineyard.”
Ashe smiled. “Good reasoning, no doubt. You've
surely done it remarkably well. You, as you sit there,
are one of ten thousand respectable, middle-aged men,
employed from eight in the morning until six in the
evening. You look as if your only dissipation was
a newspaper, a glass of beer, a cigar, and maybe a
game of pinochle.”
“My dissipations are more exciting than that,"
chuckled the other. He was in high good humor.
“ It's one to see you to-night, old man. I feel like
talking to some one who speaks my language.”
The waiter appeared with the excellent bourgeois
dinner they had ordered, and the two spoke of casual
topics while he served it. But Ashe was wondering
every moment what lead he could make that would
induce the “Hornet” to discuss the Whitefield rob-


86
THE HORNET'S NEST
overlooked. The voice of authority meant nothing to
either of them. They made their own laws, and abided
by them when it suited them to do so. And there was
the slightest of physical resemblances, also, a mere
suggestion. It lay more in the lift of the head and
the long slant of the eyes than in any actual like-
ness.
“Sorry, if I seem inquisitive,” said Colvin; "and
you'll know how to put me in my place if I am. But
your speaking of your profession gives me an opening.
Vy own position, as one like yourself, outside of the
big game, makes it possible for me to ask you the ques-
tion. Why should a man like you have undertaken
a profession like yours?"
The other sipped his beer, and smiled with a sort
of saturnine mellowness.
“What do you mean by a man like me?” he asked.
“Oh, obvious birth, education, all that sort of
thing."
The “Hornet,” still smiling, struck a match on the
box, and leisurely lighted a fresh cigar.
“I lay it all up to heredity," he mused. “My
blood's to blame for it. We're an uncurbed lot,
we —” He broke off on the brink of the name. “ Did
you ever consider, Vernon, that brains in themselves
are not dangerous; it's the temperament that goes with
them. Temperament will boss the brain every time.
Well, we — the Smiths, say "- he chuckled again —
" have all got more will, imagination, and recklessness
than is convenient. Scramble the combination, and
you get deviltry. All this talk of a criminal instinct,
unless in the case of an absolute defective, is rot. I
made my choice a little too early in life, flung myself
out of what you call the 'Big Game' in a huff - a


THE HORNET'S NEST
87
boy's dream of being the King of the Outlaws. Too
much will and imagination, you see.
“Now, my uncle,” he went on, “a superdevil, has
a pinch less will and several grains less imagination;
and he is a great financier and politician.”
“ Just so," agreed Colvin drily.
The “Hornet” glanced sharply at his companion
as if a new thought had struck him.
"I wonder if by any chance you know who I am?”
he probed.
"By the merest of chances, and an odd one at that,
I do."
Meeting the dark, intent gaze bent upon him, he
scribbled the name across an edge of the menu card,
and passed it across the table. .
The other nodded, as he tore off the penciled line,
and shredded it between his fingers.
“Well, that simplifies things, at any rate. I'd like
to know how you found it out — there aren't many
people wise to it — but your eye defies me to ask you
the question.
“Ah, Vernon,” he leaned back, sipping his beer,
and philosophizing again to the annoyance of his im-
patient companion. Colvin was on tenterhooks to
hear the “Hornet's ” version of the robbery; but he
knew the man was given to sudden transitions of
mood, and if hurried too much, might refuse to dis-
cuss the subject at all. So he dared not interrupt.
“Ah, Vernon,” repeated the “Hornet," surveying
the rings on his beer mug with lazy satisfaction,
“luck's an odd thing. There are times when, do what
we will, the tide'll go out on us, taking every blessed
thing we've got, and leaving us with nothing but bare,
dry sand in sight. And then all at once that blasted


88
THE HORNET'S NEST
tide turns, and we're overwhelmed, carried into port
without the least effort on our part. The fact is,
Life's feminine. Just because we can't understand her,
she fascinates us. She's the siren that will take our
last cent if we are starving. She grabs everything,
and gives nothing. But once in a while, once in a
coon's age, and a blue moon, she's in the humor to
melt. And, God! How sweet she is. How she loves
us. How she smooths our rough and rotten path.
“The other night, for instance "- Colvin drew a
long breath here. Surely, he could be referring to but
one night —“she decided that she'd love me a little,
and she threw a big opportunity my way. You un-
derstand me, I imagine. I had been watching and
waiting for it a long time. Well, it came. Every-
thing went smooth as glass — with one exception.
And a damned unfortunate one, too, for me, consid-
ering some plans I had in view." His whole face
darkened.
“Oh, well,” he flicked the ash from his cigar, “no
man ever yet 'took a chance for a good woman.
It's the hussies, the women who look at us with a
maddening devil in their eyes — Satan bless 'em!”
smiling his cynical, distorted smile. “So, here's to
you, Life, you Jezebel!”.
“Not Jezebel.” Colvin set down his glass. “If
you ever went to Sunday school, you will remem-
ber that Jezebel played the game like a man and a
clever politician, and got thrown to the dogs for it.
What you mean is: Here's to you, Life, you De-
lilah!”
“Oh, I was well drilled in the Scriptures in my early
days,” grinned the “Hornet.” “Delilah? Sure, I
know the lady. She laid for her man, made the poor


THE HORNET'S NEST
89
boob think she loved him, got all his secrets, cut his
hair, and then sold him out to the Philistines.”
“ Yes; and she's been doing it ever since.” Col-
vin's tone was as bitter as his smile.
The “Hornet” called the waiter and ordered
more beer. The room echoed with the sound of clap-
ping hands. The diners were vociferously applauding
the Gypsy's passionately sentimental rendition of
“The Rosary.”
"I have the faculty of never forgetting a name
once heard, or a face once seen.” The “Hornet”
bent a half-mocking, half-curious glance on the man
who sat beside him. “Years ago, when Ashe Colvin
was one of New York's picturesque figures, I saw
him.” He paused a moment, but Ashe never stirred.
“Well, ever since that night when you found me flat-
tened against the wall in your doorway, and took me
up to your room, I've known that you were he.”
Still Colvin made no sign.
“A life-saver you were that night, sure," the “ Hor-
net” went on. “They'd have caught me with the
goods, and for the first time, too. It wasn't exactly
up to me to ask you any questions; but I knew you
right away, and I remembered how you had made your
fade-out, and how the papers were full of it. By
Jove, at the time it all happened, I believed that my
dear Uncle William was at the bottom of it. That's
right, isn't it? Frame-up, eh?” He had leaned his
elbows on the table, his piercing, Whitefield eyes on
Colvin.
Ashe nodded, but without looking up. He was
building a log cabin of matches on the tablecloth, and
apparently giving his entire attention to the elaborate
structure.


So
THE HORNET'S NEST
“Well, when I was looking over Willian's safe the
other night, chiefly for something concerning only my-
self, 'a mere scrap of paper '— and, by George, I got
it, too;" the “Hornet ” gave his deep, throaty, sar-
donic chuckle, “ I saw a neatly docketed package with
• Colvin papers' written on it. Sit down!" He
gripped Ashe's arm with his long, slender, uncannily
efficient fingers. “Shut up! I'll do the talking.”
Colvin obeyed him. Slowly his whole tense figure
relaxed. He drew one deep breath, and lifted his
eyes — searchlights of hope — to the “ Hornet.”
“Do you mean it ? ” he stammered. “Do you mean
it? Then where are they?” His jaws were set like
a trap. “Let's get out of here.” He started to rise.
" This is a good, safe place for the present.” Again
the other's steel-like touch pressed him back into his
chair. “You listen, son, and sit tight if you want to
hear the rest. I took those papers with the full inten-
tion of turning them over to you; but when the acci-
dent happened outside — you know - it was a case
of my getting to cover in a hurry. I had too much
on me that was of value to run any risks.” There
was a deep, secret sparkle in his eyes. “So I sent
the package to Retta with a note telling her to give
it to a friend of mine who would take care of it for
me, while she made a get-away.
“You see,” he explained, “I wanted to throw the
'dicks' off the scent, while I attended to the stones,
and I knew that they would follow her. She left for
Charleston that night, I am told, and has since sailed
for Honduras, with them trailing her, of course. But
what I can't figure out is what she's done with that
package. She didn't give it to — well, my friend.”
Colvin gave an inarticulate exclamation of disap-



He gripped Ashe's arm with his long, slender, uncannily
efficient fingers. Page 90.





THE HORNET'S NEST
91
pointment. His log cabin lay in ruins, a heap of scat-
tered matches over the table. Mechanically he began
sorting them into orderly rows.
“Oh, don't be downhearted," encouraged the “Hor-
net.” “ The package isn't lost.”
Ashe laughed drearily. “So far as I can see, it
might as well be. Whitefield's reward will probably
draw those papers right back to where they came
from.”
“ And me to reckon with?” Something in the grat-
ing incredulity of the voice made Colvin turn, and he
was struck more forcibly than ever, in this instance
consolingly so, by the malevolent power, the sinister
dominance of this quiet, inconspicuous person at his
elbow.
“ The devil of it is that I can't get in touch with
Retta to find out what she's done with them.” The
“Hornet” was plainly annoyed. “She won't attempt
to communicate with me until they stop waiting for
me to join her. She'll let them watch for a while,
and then she'll slip through their fingers, and lose her-
self. And it won't be until then that she will try to
reach me. Even then it won't be directly; the word
will come through some one else.”
There was a little lightening of the cloud on Col-
vin's face. “You have done something for me I will
never forget, never,” he said. “But have you no idea
at all where that package may be. It means everything
on God's earth to me to get it.”
The “Hornet” slowly shook his head, frowning
perplexedly. “It gets me,” he said. “ I've had some
inquiries made, but there's nothing come of them.
However, I'll get down to it myself in a day or so;
I've been pretty busy on some mighty delicate and


92 THE HORNET'S NEST
important work." He grinned with a sort of gloating
and reminiscent satisfaction. “Oh, you Uncle Wil-
liam!” His wicked chuckle rattled in his throat.
“I cast my net, and pulled in everything in sight. I
could turn virtuous and stay so on what I took from
Uncle's strong box. Strong box?” he scoffed.
“ There ain't no such animal.”
Ashe looked at him with a surprise that was three
parts scorn. “Good Lord, man!” he exclaimed in-
voluntarily. “Are you gloating this way over a few
rings and brooches?”
“Hell!” The “Hornet" deeply outscorned him.
“Why, son,” he looked cautiously around him, and
then murmured so low that Colvin barely heard him:
“I got the sapphires !”.
“You got ?” Ashe looked at him speechlessly,
and then faintly raised his brows.
A great, sagging disappointment lay like a weight
about his heart. Delusions! Delusions of a drug-
wrecked brain. The Colvin papers and the sapphires !
And yet some papers had undoubtedly been taken
from the safe; and what were they, that Whitefield
had shown such anxiety to recover them? But the
sapphires? Incredible.
Ah, these brilliant, iridescent thought-bubbles of a
morphia-maniac. They had floated deceptively for a
moment before Colvin's eager vision, and now as he
strove to grasp them, they vanished, Ainging a splash
of cold water in his eyes.
Across his meditations broke the rasping laugh of
his companion, and Ashe looked up with irritated
impatience.
Hands deep in his pockets, his legs stretched com-


THE HORNET'S NEST
93
fortably under the table, the “Hornet " was shaking
with mirth. His eyes were reading Colvin's mind.
“Don't believe it, eh?”.
“How can I?” Ashe asked dully. “ So likely that
the police and everybody concerned would ignore a
loss like that?”
The “Hornet” thrust his face close to Colvin's.
It gleamed with a hard triumph.
“ They don't know it. My lovely aunt put them
in the safe herself about twelve o'clock. I saw her
do it.” He hugged himself at the recollection. “I
told you Life loved me that night, but who ever
dreamed she would be so good to me as that?”
“Oh, it's true enough," nodding, as Colvin still
stared at him. “For weeks I had been watching one
particular mouse-hole. I was tipped off more than
two months ago that my aunt's latest lover, Ollie
Darnton, had pawned them. He was in an awful
hole, and her blue stones pulled him out. He got
them back late that afternoon after the banks had
closed. I had him shadowed. He gave them to her
at a dinner at the Hortons'. She had no place to
keep them but in the house. Didn't dare tell William,
of course. Well, I knew then that they were my meat.
And that wasn't all I wanted, and meant to get, either.
The 'scrap of paper'- indisputable evidence of my
first transgression. It was outlawed some time ago,
but as long as the old devil held it, he could dictate
terms in a way. So I got that. Oh, it was all too
easy." His face darkened. “And then came that
damned accident outside the door. I'd give a farm
if it hadn't happened. That's what comes of using
unskilled labor.”


94
THE HORNET'S NEST
“You mean you didn't do it?" Colvin asked the
quick question.
“My dear fellow, I'm a cracksman, not a butcher.
It was this way. I had an outside man, a green hand.
He lost his head, and fired at the wrong time. That
is the absolute truth. But,” he added with a shake
of the head, “I will never be able to prove it. They
have fastened it on me, and I will have to stand for
it.
“ And murder is something else, Vernon.” He re-
lapsed into sombreness. “It's never outlawed, always
hanging over you. I tell you, it's put an awful kink
in some plans I was making. And yet," he shifted
his position, and apparently cast regrets from him,
“there are ways to get around anything on earth.”
“Vernon," he said, lighting his third cigar, “as I
remarked before, my trade is one that appeals to the
romantic and disorderly instincts of youth. I do not
suppose a boy ever lived who didn't dream of being
a bandit chief. But it's like every other game; it
takes a lot of brains to be anything but a piker in it,
and even then what do you get? You're hunted from
rat-hole to rat-hole, and the rewards are piffling com-
pared to those of big business. You're 'outside,'
with all the handicaps that word implies. Now, in-
side the lines of organized society, the game is every
bit as crooked, but the rewards are twice, five times
as great. Vernon, I want to get back. I want to
play inside the lines. And, if I know anything about
human nature, and the thoughts of a man ‘when he
comes to forty year,' I'll bet my hat that you do,
too."
Ashe looked at him strangely. Both “outside!”
Both oddly thrown together in life's big shuffle! Both


THE HORNET'S NEST
95
actuated by the same longing, the same determination
— to get back, to play inside the lines again!
“I understand.” Colvin spoke quietly. “I feel the
same way myself. I've got to do it, but —" He
passed his hand perplexedly over his forehead.
“Let's pool our interests,” said the “Hornet”
softly. “Two heads are better than one. Two work-
ing together for the same end can travel a mile, where
one goes a half. The way I stand is this.” He took
a pencil from his pocket, and began making lines on
the tablecloth. “There's a large fortune waiting for
*mne to claim. Don't tell me that Uncle William hasn't
been using the income, and probably the principal all
these years. But I never felt like doing anything on
account of that forged check he held. It is in my
possession now.”
“But-?” Ashe looked at him dubiously, and
hesitated.
The other caught the meaning of that hesitation
immediately. “You mean my police record?” He
glanced up from the neat squares and triangles he was
drawing on the table cover. “Son, I haven't any —
no rogues' gallery portraits, no measurements, no
thumb imprints. For years I have been a legend to
the Detective Bureau. They haven't got a thing on
me. They know my work, but not me. Who can
tell, though, how long luck like that will hold ?”
There was a fatalistic expression on his haggard face.
“I want to go back, while I still hold some of the
trumps.”
Colvin stared before him. It seemed to him that
every word the man spoke was a menace to Muriel,
a black cloud on her horizon. But he let the “Hor-
net” continue unchecked.


96
THE HORNET'S NEST
"I want to get out of the country," the latter went
on. “There's nothing in New York to interest me.
You see I've been quitting 'dope' lately, under treat-
ment, and ambition stirs. I don't care to just drift
around the world. As a matter of fact, I've picked
up some rather big concessions over there." He
jerked his thumb vaguely over his shoulder.
An overwhelming sense of relief filled Colvin, and
then an idea was born in his brain, inchoate, lacking
completion, and yet — it might solve the difficulty.
He closed his eyes. Behind them the idea seemed to
dazzle and crash through his head.
" I'm going home.” He spoke with a sudden reso-
lution. “I've got to think.” He stood up, gay, as-
sured, the Colvin of fifteen years before. The light
that had flickered out of his eyes during his long period
of apathy and eclipse shone clear and undaunted. The
old, confident smile was on his lips.
" Partners?” He caught up the other's offer.
“ All right; we'll play it as it lays. You go out
and round up that missing package for me, and I'll
draw the lightning off you. My friend, we are going
to give Uncle William the fight of his life.”
The “Hornet " looked at him doubtingly a moment,
a frowning question in his glance. Then the smile
in Colvin's eyes found a harsh and cruel reflection in
his.
“Whitefield wits against Whitefield wits, with Ashe
Colvin on the side, eh?” He gave his malevolent,
one-sided grin. “ It'll be a peach of a duel in the
dark.”


CHAPTER VIII
A FEW days after Colvin had his momentous talk
with the “ Hornet” at The Dome, he paid a visit to
two aunts of his who lived alone in an old house east
of Fifth Avenue in the Fifties.
This call was dictated by two motives; one was
genuine affection and a sincere desire to see his only
living relatives again. The two sisters had been tre-
mendously fond and proud of him in his Prince For-
tunatus period, and later, when the rains descended
and the floods came, they had been his staunchest sup-
porters and at the last his only defenders.
The second motive was more complex. The “ Hor-
net” and himself had decided that the best way for
him to return to the fold of society was by what
Colvin knew instinctively would be for him the open
door of his aunts' house. There were certain reasons,
too, why this move would prove especially perplexing
to Whitefield — reasons which tickled irrepressibly the
“Hornet's” sardonic sense of humor.
But as Colvin took his way to the house late on a
cloudy afternoon in early November, the question up-
permost in his mind was in what manner and with
what fitly chosen words he should apprise his aunts
of the return of their long-lost nephew.
He had not reached a decision when the door was
opened to him, and he was still in doubt when he was
shown into the well-remembered, old-fashioned draw-


98
THE HORNET'S NEST
ing-room. So he concluded to leave it on the knees
of the gods. Perhaps it would be best to disclose
his real identity gradually; otherwise, it might be too
much of a shock. There were cases in which the
dead, no matter how passionately mourned at the time
of their passing, would have proved a few years
later to be most unwelcome and embarrassing in-
truders.
But it was Colvin himself, and not the ladies, who
was to suffer the shock. Not so much on account of
his Aunt Martina, Mrs. Vansittart, a widow who had
elected to stay so in spite of flattering opportunities
to do otherwise; but principally because of his Aunt
Estelle, the elder of the two sisters, who also had
turned a deaf ear to eligible offers, and remained a
spinster, purposely neglecting to provide herself with
the customary excuses. She disclaimed both the pro-
verbial “ unhappy and romantic, youthful attachment,"
and the “ lover who had met with an untimely death
on the very eve of our marriage,” while the s'accuse
“spinster by choice and not by necessity” met with
her well-merited scorn.
The years seemed to roll from Colvin as he entered
the drawing-room, done in the style of the Second
Empire, and practically unchanged since his earliest
remembrances. It was adorably mid-Victorian, and
so consistently outside the prevailing vogue that it
was frequently admired as the last new thing in draw-
ing-rooms.
Mrs. Vansittart, stout and comfortable, sat before
a cosy grate fire, reading, a tea-table at her elbow,
When Colvin was announced, she looked up with a
cup half-way to her mouth, and the inquiring expres-
sion on her face changed to a lively interest, as this


THE HORNET'S NEST
99
distinguished looking stranger, with a deep, livid scar
across his cheek, advanced.
Of course she must have met him some place, and
have asked him to come and see her; but it was odd
that she should have forgotten any one so noticeable.
It might be, though, that he was an acquaintance of
Estelle's.
" How do you do, Mr. Vernon.” She put down
both her teacup and book. “I was beginning to think
no one would be in. Such a dreary afternoon. My
sister will probably be here any moment. How will
you have your tea?”.
Her voice, her presence, the appearance and atmos-
phere of the old room brought back former days to
him with a peculiar vividness. The call of blood is
a more potent one than most of us realize. In spite
of himself, Colvin followed his impulse, and cast his
doubts and fears to the wind.
"Don't you know me, Aunt Martina ?” he asked,
with a quiver of feeling in his voice. “I'm Ashe.
Ashe Colvin.”
She stifled a cry, ran toward him, and then drew
back slowly, giving him a long, intent look in which
suspicion and wonderment were mingled.
“Take off those glasses,” she commanded. As he
obeyed, she came a step nearer, and looked deep into
his eyes. “You are!” There was a sharp, high note
of excitement in her voice. “You are! Oh, where
did you come from? Where have you been all these
years?” She threw her arms about him, kissing and
hugging him. Then she stood back from him, the
tears streaming down her cheeks. Once more she
clasped him in her arms. “My boy! My dear boy!
This is one of the happiest moments of my life.


100
THE HORNET'S NEST
“But, oh!” she shuddered. “How did you get that
dreadful scar?”
His heart smote him to deceive her. Yet how could
he tell her that it was only the painted semblance of
a wound, done with infinite care and skill.
“I had an accident.” His tone prevented further
questioning.
His aunt shuddered again. “Where is Essie?”
she cried impatiently. “She'll probably be dancing
somewhere until dinner time. But then you!ll stay to
dinner, of course? There'll be three or four people
here, but you won't mind that."
He hesitated. “Not if you promise to introduce
me as Mr. Vernon.”
“Oh, dear Ashe!” in shocked protest. “An as-
sumed name! Such a common thing to do. And
why?”
“ Can't help it. Look here, Aunt Martina," he
gazed down at her, his smile a little strained, but eager
and pleading; "there's a chance, a bare chance, that
the old mystery may have a little light thrown on it.
And on that bare chance of unearthing something, I
want to come back to the world. But not as Ashe
Colvin. That would be too great a handicap." He
laughed, but without bitterness.
“Now, I want you to look at me well, with the eyes
of the most suspicious and curious person you know,
and tell me frankly if you think there is any chance
of my being recognized, or remembered.”
She gazed at him searchingly, her hands on his shoul-
ders; and then she moved away, and studied him care-
fully from varying distances and at different angles.
“I don't believe it's a possibility," she said at last,
speaking slowly, and a little sadly. “You've changed.



For the first time he could scan his antagonist of this cloak-
and-lantern duel. Page 159.





THE HORNET'S NEST
IOI
••••••
You're so much older. And that terrible, disfiguring
scar alters the whole expression of your face.”
She winced again, and then she forced herself to
speak more cheerfully.
“Fifteen years is a century in New York, and the
world forgets so soon. People you never heard of
are in the saddle now, and the few who might remem-
ber you would never recognize you as you look to-day.
I'll tell you what we'll do; we'll try you on Essie,
when she comes." Her face cleared at this inspira-
tion. “She's not easily fooled. She'll probably
think you're some adventurer I've picked up, and that
you're trying to marry me for my money." She shook
with laughter.
“ But how can I stay to dinner, if you have guests,”
he looked down at himself; "that is, unless you let
me go back to my hotel first, and dress.”
“Nonsense. People are not nearly so formal as
they used to be. It's a slip-shod, go-as-you-please
world to-day. You can run up to one of the guest
rooms, and tidy up, while I get into my dinner gown.
And, goodness gracious!” glancing at the watch on her
wrist, “I'd better be about it. Come up with me
now. If you don't find everything you want, just
ring. You've got half an hour.”
She left him at the door of the blue guest room,
first seeing that the lights were switched on; and after
washing his hands, and brushing his hair, he carefully
scrutinized his scar in the brilliantly lighted mirror.
Satisfied, he selected a book from a small table, pulled
the cord of the reading lamp, and sitting down, began
to read. But this was impossible. He could not con-
centrate his attention to save his life.
The last few days had been full of thought and


102
THE HORNET'S NEST
action. There had been many conferences with the
“ Hornet." With infinite pains, they had mapped out
a campaign. It had been something like playing a
game of chess, with Whitefield as a dummy. They
had played not only their own game, but his as well,
trying to anticipate every move.
Then Colvin had paid his bill at his hotel, and de-
parted — a quiet gentleman with an undisfigured coun-
tenance. A few hours later he took rooms at another
hotel, a marked man anywhere.
And now he had definitely cast the die. He was
fulfilling his promise to Muriel, and coming back.
It hadn't been easy. It had been terribly hard now
and then to merge the man of reverie, of moody in-
trospection into the man of constructive thought and
definite action. Sometimes he felt that he, more than
all men, must realize the agonies of attempting to obey
the high command of St. Paul, and put off the old
man. But at the moment of wavering, he had only
to remember Muriel's words, to picture her standing
in the sunshine waiting for him until the Day of
Judgment; and his courage would return, his will be-
come alive and vigorous again.
One side of him hated this painted scar on his face;
it seemed a cheap and unworthy trick. But there were
certain possibilities which would arise from “ Vernon,”
so eagerly desired by William Whitefield, joining a
coterie of socially important people with Fletcher
Hempstead's scar upon his face. Bewildered White-
field! Puzzled police! The “Hornet” had roared
with laughter to the prospect. And the spirit of ad-
venture, which had stirred anew so strongly in Colvin,
helped him to bear his disfigurement with resignation.
The clock on the mantelpiece of the blue guest cham-


THE HORNET'S NEST
103
ber chimed. The half-hour Mrs. Vansittart had given
him was passed. He threw down his unread book,
and hastened down the stairs to find that the guests
had already assembled. His Aunt Martina at once
took possession of him, and introduced him to about
six people, the average dining-out group.
For some reason, perhaps with malicious intention,
she presented to him Mr. Samuel Cruger last.
“ Tubby," deep in conversation with another man, had
wheeled at the sound of his hostess's voice. He looked
more like a Santa Claus without whiskers than ever, if
the imagination can conceive of such a being. When he
heard the name, Vernon, he showed visible agitation;
and then, as he glanced up at Ashe, and noted the scar,
the color left his round, pink face, his short, rotund
body went limp. But before he could do more than
murmur inarticulately, Mrs. Vansittart swept Colvin
on.
She was doing the thing splendidly, Ashe thought.
She managed to infuse into every introduction the
impression that Mr. Vernon was a person of rare dis-
tinction, and that she had achieved a triumph in per-
suading him to remain for dinner. She was rather
superb, Mrs. Vansittart, dumpy and clumsy though she
was; still, with her white hair rolled back from her
broad, ruddy face, her trailing, lusterless, black silk
gown, with heavy jet chains covering her fat, white
neck, and with her grand air, few could have been
more imposing.
" I've just been telling every one that you stopped
in to see me this afternoon after an absence of several
years at the ends of the earth,” she managed to whis-
per. “I left it vague, so you can choose any place
you please. I'm going to put you beside Estelle, and


104
THE HORNET'S NEST
I'll bet you a thousand of your favorite brand of ciga-
rettes against five pounds of Page and Shaw, that she
won't know you. And Estelle's eyes are pretty keen,
when she uses her high-power lorgnette. Oh, here she
is.”
Miss Colvin — his Aunt Estelle — came in just as
the most important event of the whole day was an-
nounced. The morning papers and dinner! They
rouse an intensity of interest, a thrill of anticipation,
which none of the other occurrences in life's routine
can quite compass.
And this was his Aunt Estelle! Colvin looked at her
almost shyly as they walked down the hall together.
Was she really two years older than her sister — this
slender, graceful, positively lissome woman, with her
shining, waved, brown hair, her vivacious face,
touched up a bit perhaps but still handsome? She
wore a beautiful dinner-gown of old rose and blue
with a sort of iridescent gleaming through it and a
few odd and handsome jewels.
Estelle, as he had known her years before, was be-
ginning to be a rather faded and old-maidish person,
perilously near what may be called the apologetic age,
when a woman becoming increasingly and morbidly
conscious of wrinkles, sallow skin, pied or dappled
hair, mentally craves the pardon of the world for hav-
ing ceased to adorn it. But here his astonishment was
shot athwart with remembrance. He recalled the fact
that she was a Gansevoort, and the Gansevoorts did
not apologize, neither did they succumb. They either
accepted what they considered the inevitable, and made
merry in it, as had Mrs. Vansittart, or they went, and
saw, and conquered, like Estelle. A wise virgin, there
was no echo, “Too late!” in her ears. She had


THE HORNET'S NEST
105
trimmed her lamp, and used it to light her to the
beauty doctor, the dancing and skating classes, and had
thriftily multiplied her interests in life.
“My sister said something about your having just
arrived from the other side of the world, Mr. Vernon,"
she remarked, as Ashe sat down beside her at the
table. He felt a little frightened to have her thus
open fire on him without wasting time. He knew that
she was at once cleverer and more subtle than her
sister. “The Far East, was it? ‘From the desert,
you come to we?'” smiling.
He laughed at her twist of the quotation, and capped
it. “But not 'on my Arab shod with fire.'”
“I suppose the desert has its pleasures, but skating
would hardly be one of them, would it?”
“Hardly," he returned.
“And skating is really the only thing worth living
for at the present time. That, and a few other things.
What would you consider the things that are really
worth while, Mr. Vernon?”
Ashe was perfectly aware, that quite delightfully
and gracefully she was leading up to several sugar-
coated questions which would be put with such skill
that he might find them hard to evade. These, baldly,
were: Where did you meet Martina ? How long have
you known her? How do you and she happen to
be on such intimate terms that she has persuaded you
to lengthen out an afternoon call to take in dinner?
Why has she never spoken of you? Who are you,
anyway, and what is your business in life?
Another thing that amused him intensely was that
opposite him, and a little farther along the table, sat
Mr. Samuel Cruger, and the poor gentleman was not
an adept in concealing his feelings. He was an ami-


106
THE HORNET'S NEST
iable, good-natured little man; but in meeting a
stranger with the disconcerting name of Vernon, he
had received a shock which he felt might permanently
impair his digestion.
It was only a day or two since, that William White-
field had told him of Muriel's mysterious visitor the
night of the robbery. He had detailed the suspicious
circumstances that surrounded the man's leave-taking,
and wound up by asking Samuel to bear in mind and
immediately collect any facts he could about any person
he met or heard of by the name of Vernon. He
stated that he, Whitefield, had already instructed the
police to give him a report upon any Vernons they
could round up.
Surely it was hard, “ Tubby” considered, that when
he had temporarily cast off his perplexities about his
ward, Muriel, his old friend, Martina Vansittart,
should have taken the opportunity to introduce a
Vernon — and a Vernon with a long, hideous scar,
which, it seemed to him, he remembered only too
well.
He sat there at the table, so different from his usual
cheerful, chatty self, that it would have been notice-
able if every one else had not been in an especially
gay and loquacious mood. It seemed impossible for
him to take his eyes from the scar and its possessor.
He did not doubt that this was the man for whom
William was combing the city, and he was almost
equally certain that it was Fletcher Hempstead.
True, this Vernon did not particularly resemble
Fletcher, as he remembered him; but then Fletcher
was only a boy of seventeen when he had gone away.
By Jove, he must be forty now — just about the age
of this Vernon person?


THE HORNET'S NEST
107
He stole another furtive glance. The man certainly
did not have any of the earmarks of the White-
field; but wasn't there — yes, he was sure there was
- a sort of a Hempstead look about him? Again he
suppressed a groan. He knew Fletcher of old. There
was nothing, nothing in the world, that ever could
stop him when he took the bit in his teeth ? He feared
neither God, man, nor devil. And " Tubby" had not
the least doubt that Fletcher had returned, and was
about to strike at Whitefield and himself through
Muriel in some diabolical, humiliating, and probably
public manner.
He attempted diplomacy. “Is Mr. — er — Vernon
a New Yorker? He talks like a Frenchman,” he said
to Mrs. Vansittart.
“Really, I am not sure," she returned vaguely.
“Odd scar! Horrible to be disfigured like that,
horrible. Was it the result of an accident?”
But before she could answer, a woman on the other
side of the table inquired eagerly:
“Oh, Mr. Cruger, is there any fresh news about the
Whitefield robbery? Have they recovered the jewels,
or any of the stolen things?”
“I believe not,” he said; and then added in a tone
which was meant to have a peculiarly menacing sig- .
nificance for Vernon: “ But that's only a matter of
a short time. The police have very definite informa-
tion in regard to the crooks. They're in a net, al-
though they do not suspect it, and it will be practi-
cally impossible for them to escape now."
The whole table had paused to listen, and, “How
interesting! Wonderful how they manage those
things!” was breathed about it.
“Will Mrs. Whitefield be well enough to appear at


108
THE HORNET'S NEST
the coming-out dance for that pretty Muriel Fletcher ?"
queried a thin woman on the other side of Colvin.
“Oh, yes," returned “ Tubby.” “ She is getting
over the shock of the robbery very nicely.”
“Don't you believe it," murmured the thin woman,
speaking across Colvin to Estelle. “She'll side-step
it somehow. No contrasts of passé beauty and radiant
youth for her."
“Well, I wouldn't be recovering nicely," returned
Estelle, “losing all those perfectly good rings.”
She turned to Ashe. “You have been in town
since the Whitefield robbery, haven't you, Mr. Ver-
non?"
"Oh, yes," he replied. “I've read the accounts of
it with deep interest.”
“So did every one else,” said the thin woman.
“ Half the women one knows were hoping against
hope that Freda's sapphires or pearls might have been
taken, but,” she shrugged her sharp shoulder bones,
"no such luck."
“They do say,” she continued in a lower voice,
“ that she's terribly broken up over what was taken,
and that Ollie Darnton had been kept busy drying her
tears. I saw her yesterday, and truly she looked a
wreck."
“Lucky Ollie!” sighed a man in her ear, sinking
his voice so that Ashe barely heard it. “ Freda's the
only woman left with whom it's the least bit exciting to
flirt. She makes you think it's such a deadly sin,
and that you're one of those melodramatic villains who
spend all their time making assaults on impregnable
virtue. Awfully flattering."
“Mr. Vernon,” called Mrs. Vansittart down the
table, “if Estelle's lisping any nonsense into your ear


THE HORNET'S NEST 109
about my being her older sister, don't believe it. She's
my senior by a good two years.”
“More shame to you,” returned Estelle. “I don't
let any old-age microbes bite me. I'm no nice, dim,
old family portrait hung on the walls and forgotten.
I'm a motion picture.”
“No answer to that.” Martina nodded, and they
rose from the table.
But scarcely had they reached the drawing-room,
when Mr. Cruger pleaded illness, and left. The others
also soon took their leave to meet various engagements.
Estelle made no effort to conceal her surprise that
Vernon stayed on.
Martina laughed outright. “I win!” she cried.
“Essie, do you really mean to say that you don't
know Mr. Vernon?"
Her sister looked from one to the other in bewilder-
ment, and shook her head.
“I suppose I am extremely stupid, if I ought to
know Mr. Vernon; but I do not. And yet, there is
a something, a sort of familiarity which has bothered
me all evening."
“Oh, Essie, Essie!” Martina was unable to bottle
up her secret any longer. “It's Ashe come back
again!”
Estelle, although not so demonstrative as her sister,
was equally excited and happy; and Colvin felt like
an undeserving prodigal, when he recalled his years
of silence, the anxiety he must have caused these two
kind women. And yet it was delightful to bask in
the warmth of their welcome.
They sat late, talking. There were a thousand ques-
tions to be answered, a thousand explanations to be
made. At last, Colvin said good-by.


IIO
THE HORNET'S NEST
Just as he was leaving the room, he stopped, smiled
in an odd way, and then walked over to the window,
and cautiously lifting the side of the shade, peered
out.
"I thought so," he said, beckoning his aunts to apply
an eye in turn to the peephole.
What they saw was a man leaning against a tree
box across the way, and unmistakably watching the
house.
“But Ashe!” the aunts drew back in alarm.
“What does it mean?”
“ It means that ‘Tubby' has wasted no time in
communicating with Whitefield, and Whitefield has
put a man — probably a small regiment of men — at
the job of shadowing me. Farewell, my privacy!”


CHAPTER IX
WHEN Mr. Samuel Cruger tottered down the steps
of the Gansevoort house, he flapped a limp hand at
the first passing taxicab, and stumbling into the safe
port of its cushions, gave to the driver in a voice which
was a mere asthmatic whisper the number of the
Whitefield residence.
He was in a state of psychic befuddlement where he
was unable to distinguish between mental and physical
sensation. As he rolled along, he put his hand to his
brow, and groaned. He also felt his pulse. The beat,
it struck him, was very rapid and uneven. He choked
up with an intense irritation, even indignation against
his old friend, Mrs. Vansittart. It seemed to him
like deliberate malice on her part to have asked him
to meet a man with the name of Vernon and Fletcher
Hempstead's scar across his face.
Mr. Cruger's aim throughout existence had been to
keep his feet on the uncomplicated path. He had no
adventurous longing to explore the entangling thickets,
and so far he had been able to enact admirably the
rôle of the cheerful, amiable onlooker. Yet now, sud-
denly he found himself hurled — pitchforked, one
might say — into the midst of a thorny, briar-strewn
maze from which he would have given much to keep
clear. So he sat in the cab, quivering with the same
resentment, the same moral indignation one feels when


112 THE HORNET'S NEST
a fire, or an earthquake, or a cyclone devastates the
locality one has chosen because of its promised im-
munity from such cataclysms. He regarded it as
monstrous that things which simply did not happen
to persons so environed by ease and respectability as
himself should actually have come to pass.
But the cab having stopped before the Whitefield
door, he roused himself from his disturbed medita-
tions, descended heavily, paid the man, and entered
the house.
Dempsey admitted him with a chastened smile.
Dempsey's bearing, always dignified and imposing, was
now noticeably subdued. Much cross-examination
had left him the impersonation of injured innocence.
“ Tubby” learned from him that both Mr. and Mrs.
Whitefield were at home, and took his way to the
library. There Mr. Whitefield sat smoking in a large
easy-chair, surrounded by a white, billowing sea of
evening papers.
Freda, her chaise-longue drawn near the fire, her
toy dog “Elf" on her knee, was languidly knitting;
she had cancelled all her engagements since the rob-
bery. Indeed, the shock had affected her health so
greatly that her doctor had ordered an immediate
change of air and scene, but she had thus far refused
to obey his orders, and had obstinately remained in
town. She smiled faintly at her husband's cousin as
he entered, and then began to count her stitches again.
Whitefield looked at the visitor over the top of his
glasses with a touch of surprise.
"Hello, Sammy." He rose slowly, shaking the
ashes from his coat as he did so. “What's up now?
Must be something doing to bring you around at this
time of night?”


THE HORNET'S NEST
113
Cruger sank down into a chair, and breathed heav-
ily. He waved away the cigar that Whitefield of-
fered, and shook his head once or twice.
“I guess I've found your fellow, Vernon,” he said.
“ The most annoying, upsetting thing that ever hap-
pened to me.”
Freda's needles clashed together. Whitefield's hand
let go of the newspaper he had been holding.
“What do you mean?" He took a quick step
forward.
"I mean this.” “ Tubby's” resentment was miti-
gated for the moment by a certain sense of import-
ance. “I dined at Martina Vansittart's this evening.
She had about eight people there. One of them was
this Vernon.”
“At Martina Vansittart's?" Whitefield's darting
eyes were alive with interest. “What kind of a fel-
low was he? All right? A- a gentleman?"
“Martina and Estelle Gansevoort wouldn't be likely
to have any other sort, would they?” The tartness
of Cousin Sammy's answer showed how greatly his
nerves were upon edge. “I thought at first he was
a foreigner. ... Something foreign about him.”
He frowned as if trying to recall just what.
“Foreign, eh?” Whitefield gave this phase of the
matter momentary but interested consideration.
“But," testily, “what did he look like, man? That's
what I want to get at. How did he appear?”
“ William," Mr. Cruger's voice sank almost to a
whisper, his round, pale eyes were full of a frightened
meaning, “this man was about forty years old, with
very dark hair, black I think, and quite gray at the
sides. He wore eyeglasses, and "- he paused to
draw a line with his forefinger across his right cheek


114
THE HORNET'S NEST
from the corner of his eye to his mouth -—"he had a
deep scar right here."
Whitefield stared back at him for the fraction of a
second. “Where did you leave him?” he demanded.
“There at the Gansevoorts. Why?”.
But Whitefield was already across the room at a
telephone in an alcove, and was calling the number
of a detective agency. When he got it, he gave in-
structions that two men be sent at once to the neigh-
borhood of Mrs. Vansittart's to watch for a tall man
with a scar across his face, and if he came out, to
shadow him at any hazard.
As he spoke to the agency, Freda had started up
with some show of agitation as if to protest, but
realizing no doubt the futility of any interference,
subsided once more into her seat, clutching the little
dog so tightly that it whimpered in reproach. Her
knitting lay unheeded where it had fallen to the floor.
“ Case of locking the stable door after the horse
is gone, I suppose,” grumbled Whitefield, returning
from the telephone. “He probably got out about the
same time that you did. My Lord, Sammy, why
didn't you have sense enough to let me know sooner?
Why did you not call me up the minute you left the
house?”
“Taken me as long to find a telephone booth as
to drive directly here," returned his cousin pettishly.
“ Umph!” Whitefield let it go at that, and took
a turn or two across the room. Presently he ex-
ploded the silence with a “Damn!” Then he began
to talk again. He liked to do his thinking aloud.
He knew it was a dangerous habit, but it helped him
to get his ideas straight.
“Of course there's a chance that he may still be


THE HORNET'S NEST
115
there,” he pondered; " and if he is, my men will be
able to get a certain line on him — what he does, and
where he lives, and all that sort of thing."
His face brightened for a moment at this sugges-
tion; but as his thoughts roved on, it settled again
into deep lines. He leaned across the back of his
chair, and stared at the fire.
“H'm-m! That scar!” He was still thinking
aloud. “Dempsey didn't say anything about a scar.
... But then Dempsey's a muttonhead. Wouldn't
be a butler, if he wasn't, I suppose. ... Well, unless
all signs fail, one thing looks sure, anyhow: Fletcher
is both Vernon and 'The Hornet.' ... Crook, eh?”
His mouth twisted to one side. “One of the big
ones, too. ... That is, if he is really this ‘Hornet'
those fellows from Headquarters are always talking
about, and I dare say he is. . . . Still, anybody might
have known he'd turn out like that. I never did be-
lieve that he was dead. Too devilish. Only the good
die young. ... But how in Sam Hill did he ever
break in at Martina Vansittart's?”
He pushed out his heavy lower lip, and pulled at
it reflectively. Then he lifted his head, a flash of
excitement in his eyes.
“Look here, Freda; wasn't Ashe Colvin some rela-
tion of the Gansevoorts?”.
Her head was turned away from him. She lifted
the dog from her lap, and put it carefully down on
the floor before she answered.
“Mrs. Vansittart and Miss Estelle were his aunts,"
she said.
“Ha!” Whitefield clenched his fist down on the
back of the chair. “Plain as the nose on your face
now. There's a deal on between —” But just then


116
THE HORNET'S NEST
he caught a glimse out of the corner of his eye of
Cousin Sammy's gaze fixed on him with an expression
at once puzzled, curious, and apprehensive, and he
caught himself up short.
“ Sammy, you don't look right,” he exclaimed, eye-
ing his cousin solicitously. “ Sure you're well?”
Cruger's attention immediately reverted to himself.
“I am very far from well,” he said, with an injured
expression and a failing voice, his fingers again on his
pulse.
“You ought to go home, and get to bed,” Whitefield
gave him a pat on the shoulder, which was at the same
time a boost helping to assist him to his feet. “Put
a mustard plaster on your head, and take a sedative or
something. Don't let this affair upset you," in his
usual hearty tone. “Nothing to it."
“ Tubby" shook his head mournfully. “If it is
Fletcher come back under a false name, there's sure
to be a scandal,” he bleated.
“Don't you believe it,” Whitefield's voice rang with
a spurious assurance. “You trot along, and get that
mustard plaster as I tell you. Leave me to manage
Fletcher. I can do it.” He nodded emphatically once
or twice.
"I hope so. I shouldn't wish to be asked to cope
with Fletcher.” “ Tubby” shuddered. Then, shak-
ing his head, and trailing his feet, he made a gloomy
exit.
Whitefield walked over, and closed the door behind
him. “I forgot that little nut was sitting there,” he
muttered apologetically. “ But, as I say, it is plain
as the nose on one's face how the land lies. Plot be-
tween Fletcher and Colvin. They're probably pals.
Both born crooks, and they just naturally drifted to-


THE HORNET'S NEST
117
gether. . . . Some class, Fletcher. It was he of
course who broke into the safe, and got his own forged
check and the Colvin papers. That much looks sure.”
He sat down at the table, frowning, concentrated,
and began to run his unending scales.
“ Yes; I guess Fletcher is Vernon all right,” he con-
tinued, after a pause. “The scar proves that. ...
And he's after Muriel. ... Why? Probably wants
her to join with him in some action over their prop-
erty rights. ... Yes, sir; that's Fletcher's game. I
can see that easy enough. . . . But Colvin's game?
H'm-m. That's not quite so clear.” He squinted at
the fire, and his lips shut slowly like a trap. “If we
catch Fletcher, though, and can put the screws to him
hard enough, perhaps he'll tell. By God, he's got to
tell!”
Freda turned about in her chair. The blue shadows
lay darker under her eyes; there was a drawn look
about her mouth.
“But are there not some things that you have failed
to take into account? ” she said. “Rather important
things, it seems to me."
“What, for instance?” he asked.
“Why, the fact of Fletcher's appearing openly this
way, when he must know that the police are scouring
the town for him. That doesn't look very much as
if he were afraid of being arrested, or of anything
else. Oh!” She pushed back the hair from her brow
with hands which trembled. “The whole thing seems
to get more terribly complicated every minute. How
can you have him arrested under the circumstances —
a robbery and a murder? Your own nephew, William !
Think of the scandal.”.
“Who said anything about arresting him?”


118
THE HORNET'S NEST
Whitefield gave an impatient movement. “You nu-
tice I sicked an agency on to him, not the police. All
I want is to get him properly cornered, and make him
come across with those papers and what information
he's got. Then we can arrange to hush the business
up, and get him quietly out of the country.
“You have managed to hit on a rather vital point,
though,” he granted, with a scowl. “ It's not going
to be so easy throwing a scare into him. As you say,
he's fairly courting an arrest, and therefore he must
have all his plans laid, and be ready to meet any
emergency."
He stopped to consider this phase of the question
a moment, then went on.
“Of course, he may be counting on the side of
it that you've just brought up — family pride, and
all that sort of thing. But he knows I wouldn't let
that interfere with me too far. No; he has something
stronger than that up his sleeve. A fire-proof alibi,
maybe. Anyhow, he's plainly not afraid.” He drew
in a deep breath. “And that puts me up a blind
alley again.
“Oh, if I only actually had the goods on him," he
broke out irritably, a second later. “ All that Dempsey
can say is that he didn't see Vernon leave by the front
door, but the idiot admits that he left the hall twice
for five minutes at a time. Had the impression each
time he came back that Vernon was still in the library.
Can't swear to it, though. And Muriel — well, you
know her. If you'd pull her teeth out one by one,
she'd probably stick closer to her story than a Ay to
fly-paper."
“Oh, Muriel!” The exclamation was full of bit-
terness.


THE HORNET'S NEST
119
Whitefield, however, had reverted to an earlier train
of thought.
“ Still, the matter might be handled in another way,”
he murmured. “ Fletcher alone wouldn't be difficult
to deal with, I don't believe. Pay him all that's com-
ing to him for the last twenty years, with a reasonable
amount on top of it for blackmail, and turn over his
estate into his own hands, and he'd probably come into
camp.
“Sounds simple, doesn't it? ” His laugh had little
mirth in it. “Well, if it comes to that, I may have
to call on you for those sapphires and pearls of yours.
They're good for almost a million any time.
“Oh, what on earth's the use of your taking it like
that?" as Freda buried her face in her hands and shiv-
ered as if in a nervous chill. “Good gracious! I
don't know what's come over you lately. You used
to have some nerve. Can't that doctor of yours do
something for you? What's he good for, anyway?”
"I am all right.” She sat up resolutely. “Go on.
You were saying that Fletcher alone might be dealt
with, but that — ?”
“Well, it looks now as if I also had Ashe Colvin
to consider, and that's different. How deeply are they
tied up together ? Everything depends upon that.
However, there's one good thing about it; they're not
going to start anything in a hurry.”
“ How do you know?”
“Look at the way they have set their stage,” he
said. “You don't suppose Fletcher, or Vernon, as he
chooses to call himself, is breaking into society, and
seeking Muriel, and all that, without some very definite
object in view. It's a campaign they're starting, I
tell you, and a campaign takes time. Just what end


120
THE HORNET'S NEST
they are aiming at, I can not say now; but this I do
know, they are not ready yet to play trumps."
But she was not in the mood to gather comfort or
reassurance from anything he might say.
“They will never rest, they will never rest until
they crush us.” The words came from her dry lips
in a frightened whisper. “They are both so horribly
clever. And they mean to get even with us.”
Her husband got up from his chair, and stood on
the hearth-rug. He loomed there, powerful of phy-
sique, wary and cunning of brain, all his foxlike facul-
ties keen and sharp as the steel of a tempered dagger
blade.
“You do not suppose I'm sitting idly by, waiting
for them to finish me, do you?” He gave a short
laugh. “There have been a good many men trying
to crush me for a good many years. Pretty clever,
a lot of them, too. But I am not finished yet.” He
took out his watch, and began to wind it up. “No,
nor likely to be,” he added. “H'm-m. I'm going to
bed."
Mr. Whitefield had the Napoleonic ability to sleep
at will. Therein lay the great source of his undi-
minished mental vigor and clearness. While his wife
tossed that night upon her sleepless pillow, rising now
and again to walk the floor, until with haggard eyes she
watched one of earth's dreariest sights, the cold, gray
dawn breaking over the disconsolate world, he slept
the deep, refreshing sleep of one whose digestion is
above rubies.
When he awoke, and had eaten his usual excellent
breakfast with his usual excellent appetite, and had
read the morning papers, he summoned his secretary.
In one way, Everett Babcock was wasted on his


THE HORNET'S NEST
121
opened and und laid his emploiss,, efficient, and
present employer. Only the really irritable and worry-
haunted millionaire could have fully appreciated him.
His personality, or lack of it, was like cold cream,
cooling and soothing to fevered and abraided mental
surfaces. A well-oiled piece of human machinery in
good running gear, he inflicted no wear or tear what-
ever upon the nerves.
As usual, his response to Mr. Whitefield's ring was
immediate. He entered, noiseless, efficient, and in-
conspicuous, and laid his employer's correspondence,
opened and unopened, in neat piles before him.
Whitefield absorbed himself in them. When he had
finished, Babcock spoke.
"By the way, Mr. Whitefield, I heard something
yesterclay which might be of interest to you.'
“ All right. Go ahead,” returned Whitefield ab-
sently, his eyes still on a letter he held in his hand.
“A fellow who knows her well by sight told me
that he saw Miss Fletcher taking tea at Sherry's last
Friday afternoon with a man he didn't know.”
Whitefield looked up suddenly. “Why didn't the
detective I told you to hire report it then?” he
growled.
“Very true, sir.” Babcock permitted himself the
faintest of smiles. “I investigated that, and found
that she gave him the slip, fooled him at her dress-
maker's. He thought she was having a gown tried
on, but she slipped out by another door. He kept it
dark."
“Capable agents you employ.” Whitefield's face
darkened. “I placed this matter in your hands, Bab-
cock, and I expect you to put it through properly.
Discharge that fellow, and get another — two of them,
if one can not attend to the job.”


122
THE HORNET'S NEST
“I have, sir," returned Everett. “And now — ".
But before he could speak further, the telephone
rang sharply, and he hastened to answer it. He lis-
tened a moment, the receiver at his ear, and then
his perfunctory attention became suddenly alert.
“It's 3100 Spring calling, sir,” he said. “ Police
Headquarters, you know; the Detective Bureau. They
say they have discovered that a man answering the
description of the ‘Hornet,' and passing under the
name of Vernon is living at the Hotel Marmontel.
The Inspector has already started up there to have
a talk with him. They thought you might like to
know."
Whitefield hesitated, frowning down at the polished
surface of the table. Then he nodded.
“Thank them," he said briefly; and after a pause:
“Why not? It is what he would be expecting, and
maybe it'll help us to get a line on him. Everett,"
glancing over toward the secretary, “ I wish you would
ask Mrs. Whitefield to come here a moment."
“ Certainly, sir."
Whitefield was still deep in a brown study when
Babcock returned.
“Mrs. Whitefield is out, eh?” he repeated the sec-
retary's report. “And she did not leave word where
she was going, nor when she would be back? All
right,” he shrugged his shoulders; "it's of no pressing
importance. Maybe, she will come in before I start
down-town. I think I will wait a bit to hear from the
Inspector.”
“Then you will see Miss Fletcher, I suppose, sir.
I met her in the hall just now, and she told me she'd
like to have a few minutes' talk with you, if pos-
sible.”


THE HORNET'S NEST
123
“Muriel?” Whitefield's wandering attention fo-
cussed in an instant. “What does she want?”
“She did not say, sir." The tone indicated also
that the secretary regarded it futile to ask. Muriel
was not one to trust her business to an intermedi-
arv.
“Very well,” drumming a moment or two with his
finger tips upon the table. “Tell her to come in.
But first, take this letter for me, will you, Babcock.”
He dictated a rather lengthy and careful answer to
an entirely inconsequential inquiry which had come
in the mail — something which could have been put
aside for a week, and covered satisfactorily in a single
paragraph.
Consequently, it was fully fifteen minutes before
Babcock went out to tell the waiting girl that her
uncle was ready to see her.
She had just returned from her ride, and was still
in her skirted coat and breeches, tapping her crop im-
patiently against her boot as she stood in the hall.
The sharp, autumn air of the Park, aided perhaps by
some rise of temper at the delay she had encountered,
had whipped her cheeks to a deep carnation glow, and
her lips to a more vivid red. But if Whitefield had
hoped to get her at a disadvantage by his tactics, he was
destined to be disappointed. There was something so
vital, so gay, so youthful about her, that even he, her
supreme antagonist, was moved to a sort of imper-
sonal pride and admiration. The gorgeous Whitefield
looks were there, and, by the Lord, the spirit and
deviltry, too — the Whitefield spirit that nothing could
bend, nor break.
“My word, Muriel!” he exclaimed. “You're
some looker this morning.”


124
THE HORNET'S NEST
She struck an attitude. “Little old prize-beauty,
Me!” she said.
But she hadn't come to discuss the abstract question
of her appearance. She went straight to the point
with her customary abruptness and certainty.
“I say, Uncle William, I want you to see that Mr.
Vernon is invited to the dance."
He gasped. There was no limit to her nerve.
His teeth showed with a wolfish unpleasantness in the
smile he bestowed upon her. Then, as he gave a sec-
ond thought to her request, his expression changed
and became more complaisant. Ever since Cruger's
visit of the night before, his desire to see this so-
called Vernon person with his own eyes had steadily
increased. He felt sure that if it were really Fletcher,
he would know him. Cruger's opinion counted little
or nothing with him. Sammy was such a quaking
custard of a coward, and such an unobservant ass as
well, that his views didn't amount to a row of pins,
one way or the other.
“H'm-m.” He didn't give her an answer at once.
“Been riding with him this morning?"
“ Yes," she assented lightly, almost casually. But
her eyes met his for the fraction of a second, and steel
clashed against steel.
A sudden, violent anger shook Whitefield. It took
all his self-control to repress the words that rose to
his lips. “What's the game — yours and his? Why
the devil don't you make some move?” That was
what he wanted to say. To think that he, Whitefield,
standing on the brink of a precipice whose depthis he
did not dare consider, should be baffled and outwitted
by this vicious girl. All his astuteness, his long-
headed diplomacy, his wary resourcefulness, crumpled
SO


THE HORNET'S NEST
125
against her stubborn resistance like so many blades of
lead.
Of course, she was only Fletcher's instrument, but
she was a mighty good one — for Fletcher. He wanted
to shake her, to throw her against the wall, to choke
the truth out of her with his thick, strong fingers.
But he gradually composed himself with the reflec-
tion that even if she had resisted him so far, there
were several different kinds of pressure which still
might be brought to bear upon her.
“I think,” he said, smiling upon her as a fox might
smile upon a plump young pullet, “ that considering
it's your own party, we'll have to humor you in this;
so I'll tell Freda to see that an invitation is sent to
your friend of the streets. I'll have to place a guard
at my study door that night, I suppose; Mr. Vernon
might be unduly interested in the new combination
I've had put on the safe. Also, I will have a detec-
tive follow Freda about pretty closely. She'll prob-
ably be wearing either her sapphires or her pearls."
“Why not use the one you had following me?”
Muriel replied imperturbably; and then with open in-
solence. “She probably needs a detective considerably
more than I do.”


CHAPTER X
It was early that morning that Colvin and Muriel
had taken their ride together — the laggard sun was
just rising above the trees. But early as it was,
Colvin was waiting at the Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth
Avenue entrance to the Park at least twenty minutes
before Muriel came. A groom was there with her
horse, however, a rather rakish, brown mare who
picked up her feet with extreme daintiness, and seemed
to enjoy quite humanly the admiration with which two
or three loitering grooms and horsemen regarded her.
It was one of those opaline days of the lingering
New York autumn. The air was soft, and yet infi-
nitely fresh and stimulating. The falling breeze, faint
as some sweet, forgotten tune, was full of the last,
rich fragrances the earth gives out, and of the smell
of burning leaves and brushwood.
For Colvin, the years and Time and disappointment
were not. His heart beat like a boy's as he saw her
hurrying toward him in her smart riding clothes.
She waved her crop at him. His heart seemed to stop
for a moment, and then it soared on wings. The
morning had externalized itself in Muriel.
He swung from his horse and started impulsively
to meet her, but with a sudden recollection, halted and
put his hand quickly up to his cheek in a gesture of
concealment.


THE HORNET'S NEST
127
Before he reached her then, she had already mounted
with the aid of her groom; and the restless mare,
tired of her ballet-dancing and her attempts to jerk the
boy around in circles, immediately bolted and was off
at the top of her speed.
There was a bit of a dash for both of them before
Colvin caught up with her. He was still holding his
hand to his face, and he saw the laughter in her eyes
change suddenly to an expression of solicitude.
“What is it?" she asked. “Why do you hold
your hand to your cheek? Are you hurt?”.
“No. No, indeed,” he made haste to reassure her.
He reddened, and his eyes showed a touch of down-
cast embarrassment. “It's only that I am hiding
something ugly — a brand-new scar. You never
heard of a brand-new scar before, did you?” He did
his best to speak lightly.
Her gaze, still bent on his cheek, was full of per- .
plexity. “ But there isn't such a thing,” she con-
tended. “ Scars come from old wounds."
“Not this kind,” he asserted, holding his tone to
that lightness he was far from feeling. “Mine is
painless, and put on with a brush. There!” He took
down his hand to show the livid mark extending
across his cheek.
She shivered. “Oh, how frightful!” she cried.
“Do you mean that it is painted on? Never. It
couldn't be done. It must be real.”
“But I assure you that it is not. It is only a thing
of acids and grease paint put on with great skill — and
for a purpose.”
She stiffened in the saddle, and her face darkened
stormily. Colvin had never noticed how proud her
mouth was, until this deep shadow of disdain lay on


128
THE HORNET'S NEST
it. But there was a deeper shadow in her eyes — the
pain of disappointment, as if in some way the soul of
her were hurt. It stabbed him to the heart, and roused
in him an intense and surging emotion.
“Why, it's a trick!” Her voice scorned, but her
eyes reproached him, and begged him to restore her
faith.
He was stung to a passionate justification. Her
faith in him was all he had to cling to.
“I know it's a trick,” he cried; "a shifty trick of
the underworld. But can't you understand ? I'm
down to the dregs, and I've got to come back. I'm
so far down to the dregs that I haven't a weapon left
to fight my way with. I was absolutely, completely,
and forever out of the game. Nothing left me but
my wits and my ingenuity, and I'm trying to hack my
way back with them. Maybe, I'm making the crown-
ing mistake of a life full of mistakes. But if I wait
to pick and choose — to discard one method, and take
up with another — I will end by never starting at all.
So I've pushed into the first crooked, brambly path that
opened before me, and seized the first weapon that
came to hand.
“Oh, if you'll only accept me as I am for a short
while,” he pleaded, “ and try to believe that I'm doing
my best? Perhaps I am asking too much, but if you
could just trust me a little — ?”
Their horses' feet made no sound on the soft loam
of the bridle path. The trees crowded close about
them. The great, turbulent, clamorous, waking city
seemed very far away, nowhere upon their horizon.
She looked at him questioningly. The sun trickled
through the leaves and branches above her head, and
fell in dancing motes over her hair and upon her cheek


THE HORNET'S NEST
129
that was like the petals of a creamy magnolia blossom.
Her eyes, bent upon him, were the color and depth
of a forest pool. And then, even in their depths,
they suddenly reflected the sun.
“I'll trust you," she said.
“ Thank you.” He bit his lip; it trembled a little.
“ That means a lot to me. You see, in this affair of
mine, I am signalling the universe for trumps, and I
haven't got them yet; so in the meantime I have to
finesse a bit. Try to look at it in that way, won't
you?”
She merely nodded, and starting up her horse, rode
for nearly a mile in silence. Then she began to talk
of entirely extraneous things, but she made him realize
that there was to be no change in her feeling toward
him, no break in their oddly intimate and understand-
ing friendship.
They had a brisk gallop or two together, and then
she said good-by. But his heart was high, and con-
tinued so all the way to his hotel. He entered his
rooms humming lightly under his breath — a snatch
of an old music-hall ballad popular at Koster and
Bial's in the 'Nineties. It was a thing he hadn't done
for years.
Wimms, his new valet, after helping him out of
his riding togs, turned him to the light, and gave him
critical inspection.
“Your cheek will need a little attention, sir, I
think,” he warned, in a confidential tone. “ The color
is rubbing slightly, I see.”
Colvin twisted his shoulders, and gave an impatient
laugh. “You talk as if you were a lady's maid,
Wimms.” He stalked into the bedroom, jerked off
his collar and necktie, and sat down irritably before


130
THE HORNET'S NEST
a mirror, looking disgustedly at the table beside him
on which the man was busily arranging unguents, bot-
tles, and an array of fine, small brushes and curiously
shaped instruments.
"If I had known all the trouble I was letting myself
in for with this fool scar," he grumbled, “I'd have
thought a precious long while before I ever let you
get within reaching distance of me.”
Wimms' face bore the expression one might see on
a mother's who has just heard the excellences of a
darling child impugned.
“That, of course, was up to you, Mr. Vernon," he
replied with respectful dignity; “but you said you
wanted a scar, and you've got it - a beautiful scar.
Why, sir, you couldn't get as artistic a piece of work
done anywhere else in the world. No, sir; not in
London, or Paris, if I do say it myself.”
“Oh, I'm not belittling your skill, Wimms. I give
you full credit as a master, at this trade. But I must
confess, I envy the ‘Hornet.' He can plaster up his
own disfigurement, and let it go at that, without hav-
ing to be fussed and pottered over every time he comes
into the house.
“Beg pardon, sir," the valet smiled dubiously with
an air of superior knowledge; “ but I'm willing to
wager that at this very moment he's swearing quite
roundly over his job. You've got to know just how
to do these things, sir.
"Now, Mr. Johnson's clever,” he went on; "there's
no denying that. The special paste he's using has to
be rubbed in very carefully with the tips of the fingers;
and he's got finger tips which is most sensitive — eyes
in the ends of 'em, you might almost say. Really, sir,
no one except those in his own line can quite appre-


132
THE HORNET'S NEST
signatures which had led to his present semi-retire-
ment.
The inaction was growing tiresome. Ashe bravely
suppressed a strong desire to yawn.
“How did you happen to take up this particular
expression of art, Wimms?” he mumbled through
closed lips.
If he could have seen the valet's face, he would have
realized the enormity of his mistake. In the circles
in which Wimms moved, it is not only a want of tact
to inquire regarding one's past, it is often dangerous.
Indeed, the ægis of the “Hornet's " friendship was
all that saved Colvin now; for Wimms was a stickler
for convention.
He stood with the camel's-hair brush he was wield-
ing poised in air. There was the silence of icicles for
a moment. When he spoke, his tone was instinct with
reserve.
“ It came about, I suppose, sir, from an early con-
nection with the theatrical profession. I was dresser
for a prominent actor when I was quite a boy, and
the business of make-up always interested me greatly.
Later, I studied to gain the more permanent effects.
The other is mere rough daubing compared to it. And
I may say, sir,” his voice relaxed slightly as his pride
warmed, “ that I have raised the whole standard of
the work. Most of the preparations I use are my
own that I've worked out with a chemist. The color-
ing is the most difficult part to get right, hitting off
the exact shade and all that, you know; but I've studied
scars everywhere — gone right into the hospitals
after them. I can paint you a scar in any stage you
ask - old or new — without a model. Got it all right
here, sir." He touched his forehead.


THE HORNET'S NEST
133
“Now you, sir," the man went on. “ Take that
scar of yours. It'll stand the test of the strongest
sunlight. No one could possibly detect that it isn't
genuine. You can even wash your face, sir, if you
use a bit of care.”
“Who wants to wash one's face, and use a bit of
care?” Ashe grumbled.
But Wimms was not to be dashed by any lack of
appreciation on the part of his subject.
“ There, sir!” His tone was that of a sculptor
uncovering a masterpiece. He whisked the towel
from Colvin's throat, and held a handglass before
him at the same time. “Nature herself couldn't have
done worse by you than that.”
Ashe scowled at the reflection presented to him.
He felt like seizing the towel and rubbing at his cheek
until he had expunged the results of his valet's handi-
work. Why, just at this especial time, did he have
to be made to look so repulsive — so sinister ?
He waved away the glass with an impatient gesture,
and started to his feet; but Wimms, laying a respect-
ful hand on his shoulder, detained him in his seat.
“Your eyebrows, sir,” he reminded in a tone kindly
but firm. “ They're a bit noticeable still, and must be
made more strictly conventional.”
“Oh,” Ashe writhed in futile protest. “ You're a
throwback to the Spanish Inquisition, Wimms; jerk-
ing them out that way, hair by hair. Ouch!”
“Why, ladies think nothing of this, sir.” Wimms
shook his head reprovingly. “They have their brows
arched, just as they have their nails manicured, and
almost as often.”
"I always insisted that they were the stronger sex,"
Ashe murmured. “ Now I know it.”


134
THE HORNET'S NEST
“And one final word, sir,” admonished Wimms,
standing small but commanding before him. “ You
are very good about your accent. It couldn't be better,
and you use it as natural as can be. But, if you'll
bear with me, sir, you're not quite careful enough
about your walk, and the way you use your hands.
Shorter steps, and don't throw out your right hand
when you're talking. Just keep those things in mind,
sir," his voice became almost pleading. “Make 'em
a part of yourself-like."
Colvin had been once more surveying himself in the
glass, and with a growing distaste for the present-
ment. To anyone else he would have appeared
merely as a distinguished-looking gentleman unfor-
tunately disfigured, but to his own hypercritical eye he
seemed a Caliban.
His heart sank. No matter how courteously Muriel
concealed it, she could not have regarded him other
than with horror. And then upon his doleful reflec-
tions, Wimms broke in with his cautioning admoni-
tionsrate 'em a part of this arms to let t
“Make 'em a part of yourself-like," he repeated.
Colvin rose, and held his arms to let the valet slip
on his coat.
"You believe in playing the game with every ounce
that's in you, don't you, Wimms?” he said. “Well,
so do I, but —"
He sighed wearily, adjusting his thick-rimmed eye-
glasses, and strolled toward his sitting-room, but
paused as Wimms gave one of his mouse-like, nervous
starts. The telephone bell was clattering.
" Answer it,” he waved his hand toward the instru-
ment, and stood waiting while the other took up the
receiver, and listened a moment.


THE HORNET'S NEST
135
"A lady to see you, sir.” Wimms glanced at him
dubiously.
"A lady?” Ashe stared back in surprise, then drew
his breath sharply. Muriel? But chill second
thought told him it was far more likely to be one of
his aunts. There was, however, a possibility.
“ Ask her to come up,” he said, and walking quickly
into the sitting-room, rearranged a chair or two, and
drew the shades at the windows so that the painted
fraud upon his cheek might not be so glaringly in
evidence.
He had barely finished before there was a low knock
upon the door. Wimms opened it, bowed, and faded
into the inner room, closing softly the door through
which he passed.
A woman came in, veiled and furred. For a mo-
ment Ashe stared, entirely forgetful of his manners.
It was not Muriel. It was not his Aunt Estelle, nor
his Aunt Martina. It was — ! He suppressed a
hasty exclamation. In spite of her wraps and veils,
something in her movements, something in the lift
of her head, proclaimed her. Yes; it was Freda!
Never before in all his life had he so strongly to
draw upon his self-control. He was taken unpre-
pared, at a disadvantage. True, he stood upon his
own territory. He was master of the ground. But
that by no means meant that he was master of the
situation. He could not feel master of the situation
until he was sure that Freda did not recognize him.
“Mr. Vernon?” Her voice was so low that he
barely caught it, and yet how familiar those soft, hesi-
tating tones.
“Yes?” Extreme formality shaded the politeness
of his bow.


136
THE HORNET'S NEST
“I am Mrs. Whitefield - Mrs. William Whitefield.”
She advanced farther into the room, and spoke more
audibly. “I have come to see you upon a – upon a
confidential matter. Something purely personal and
confidential.”
“Yes?” still interrogatively. He drew a chair
toward her, and placed it so that she would face the
light. “Won't you sit here, Mrs. Whitefield?”
Mentally, he was both applauding and envying her
woman's cleverness. It was she who, having sought
him, must explain the reason for her visit. He had
all the best of it, so far as position went, and yet she
had managed to secure her purely feminine advantages.
Knowing that she was about to throw herself, so
to speak, into the spot-light, she had utilized all the
possibilities of costume to protect her. The brim of
her hat fell low over her eyes, effectually shading
them, her furs, which she did not remove, were high
about her face, and the veil that she wore was of
heavy mesh and an intricate pattern.
He waited for her to speak, determined not to give
her an opening, conscious meanwhile that she was
studying him warily from behind the barrier of her
defenses.
"I hope,” she began at last in a halting voice, “ that
you believe me, when I repeat that I am on a purely
personal mission. I am not sent by any one else, nor
acting for any one else. No one even dreams that I
am here.”
He bowed as before, and again stood on guard.
But realizing that they might go on this way in-
definitely, with his side of the conversation confined
to noncommittal bows and monosyllables, he decided
to change his tactics. What profit was there in a duel


THE HORNET'S NEST
137
of that sort, he asked himself. He could hold the
pose, of course, could even pretend to be ignorant of
the identity of Mrs. William Whitefield, and of any
reason which she might have for coming to him. But
it would be palpable pretense. He, therefore, broke
his silence.
“ You mean, Mrs. Whitefield,” he said suavely,
“that no one knows of your being here, with the ex-
ception of the two men whom your husband has em-
ployed to follow me. You could hardly have escaped
their notice.”
She gave the sharpest of starts; but her answer
showed that she had not ignored this phase of the
situation, and to his surprise she spoke frankly, even
with a certain nonchalance.
“They will report of course that a woman called
on you at this hour, but I hardly think it likely that
they will be able to say who it was. I came in a
taxicab which I picked up on the Avenue, and I wore
this," she shook out a dark, chiffon veil which she
carried over her arm.
“Mr. Vernon," she bent forward a little. Her
voice throbbed, almost broke in her throat. “Of
course you do not believe me. No matter what I say,
you will continue to regard me as an emissary of my
husband's. But if you will only try to lay aside any
prejudice, any suspicions you may have on that score,
I think I can soon convince you that I am here solely
upon my own initiative. The very nature of what I
have to say will prove that.”
She puzzled him. No assertion of hers could carry
any weight with him; yet there was an undeniable
sincerity in her voice. He took refuge in silence,
and waited for her more clearly to show her hand.


138
THE HORNET'S NEST
His mind surged with the strangeness of the mo-
ment, the fatefulness of this encounter. To meet
again after all these years the woman who had in-
spired his first great passion, to whom he had given
the love of his youth, whom he had idealized and set
apart above life's dusty and trodden pathways - and
who had at the last sordidly betrayed him!
The ghost of that old passion swept across his
heartstrings, but evoked no response. It was but the
momentary echo of words once full of meaning, but
which had now lost their significance, and was suc-
ceeded by a sort of wonder that a past could be so
dead. This woman, whose soft and exquisite love-
liness had once filled his heart, who had shone like
a star above him, stirring him to high, ambitious
dreams, was powerless now to affect him in any
way. Between them, instead of a vibrating ether full
of colorful emotion and a thousand palpitating mes-
sages, was only cold, empty space.
And Freda on her part felt each moment more un-
certain of herself and her mission. She had come
with a plan of attack mapped out. But if it were the
family scapegrace, time had wiped out every identify-
ing feature by which she remembered him. Only the
scar remained; and scars, even of so distinctive a char-
acter, are hardly a monopoly. Rather than make a
mistake, therefore, and since he himself had shown no
inclination to acknowledge the relationship, she de-
cided to treat him as a stranger.
“Mr. Vernon ” — her voice, although it could no
longer move Colvin, had, he recognized, lost none of
its wistful appeal — “I am going to ask you a ques-
tion. If you answer in the negative, I shall accept
your word and leave at once. That would be an easy


THE HORNET'S NEST
139
way to get rid of me, would it not?” she smiled
faintly; " but I don't believe that you are the man to
take it. To come to the point then: Are you the Mr.
Vernon who called to see Mr. Whitefield's niece the
night of the robbery which occurred at our house?"
“ Yes," he answered readily. “I found a purse
which Miss Fletcher had lost on the street that after-
noon, and returned it the same evening.”
He looked at her as he spoke, smiling a little. She
was gazing at him, and suddenly as their eyes met,
her scrutiny became more intense, more vital. It was
as if a flame had leaped to her eyes, and focussed
itself upon him as through a burning-glass. A quick
thrill darted through him. Did it mean that she
had recognized him? Then she brushed her hand
across her eyes; the light he dreaded dimmed to a
haze of perplexity.
She plucked vaguely at the fur of her muff, evidently
a little at sea.
“You spoke a moment or two ago of the detectives
my husband has following you. That can hardly be
pleasant?”
He gave his quick, French shrug. “ Sooner or
later, it will stop, when Mr. Whitefield begins to
understand that he is incurring an expense for which
he is getting no results.”
“ Perhaps?” Her lips compressed a little. “ But
indifferent as you choose to seem, I cannot but be-
lieve that you would prefer to be freed of this
espionage. The situation must be far from an easy
one. It isn't necessary to go into all that, however,
What I want you to understand is that my own situa-
tion is fully as unpleasant as yours; so I am here to
propose a bargain to you."


140
THE HORNET'S NEST
“ Yes ? ” said Ashe encouragingly.
“I want to ask your aid in recovering my jewels.
My influence with my husband is well known. He
will do — Well, it lies in my power to divert every
suspicion from you. Truly, Mr. Vernon, I would do
almost anything to get back those jewels of mine.”
She had given the cue to her visit at last, and he
drew a breath of relief. This made his course a
simple one.
“I must confess that you surprise me, Mrs. White-
field,” he returned with grave courtesy. “Naturally,
I know something of the Whitefield case; I read the
newspapers. And I had gathered that your loss was
inconsiderable, at least to so rich a woman as your-
self — merely a few trifles.”
She made a despairing gesture. She was forlorn,
touchingly feminine. But he remained unmoved.
He had seen her so before. There is nothing so
pitiless in all the world as the eye which looks with
a new and inevitably hard appraisement upon the
object which it has once ardently adored. Poor, bare,
shivering object of a past adoration! It stands there
stripped of all those rosy veils of illusion which once
lent it ineffable grace and charm — stripped even of
whatever inherent beauty it may possess, because
upon it is inflicted the self-scorn of the observer.
“Oh, those things on the police list do not count."
She clasped her hands together, a sob broke from her
lips. “You know well enough what I want — my
sapphires worth a fortune. I am throwing myself on
your mercy. ... My husband must not discover the
loss of those stones. They are only mine nominally.
... Mine to wear, that's all. He looks upon them
as an investment of his own.”


THE HORNET'S NEST
141
Colvin could barely repress an ironic smile. The
whimsical turns of the wheel of fate! This woman
sitting opposite him had sold him out for a handful
of pearls and sapphires. And now she was asking
them of him, pleading with him to give her back her
price.
He raised his eyebrows slightly. “ An unfortunate
situation, as you say. I am sorry I cannot be of
any assistance to you, Mrs. Whitefield. I do not pre-
tend of course to misunderstand your object in appeal-
ing to me. You believe that I am connected with the
robbery. Not flattering, but forgivable under the
circumstances.”
“Robbery — and murder,” she interrupted sharply.
“You must admit that there are several coincidences
in the affair which might prove annoying, even disas-
trous to you."
He laughed quite naturally, as if amused; and at
the sound, she lifted her head quickly. Again her eyes
focussed themselves upon him, that burning gleam in
their depths.
“That's vague,” he said. “You've hinted to me
of reprisals several times since you've been here;
but —”
He shrugged his shoulders, and as he did so, she
again relaxed her scrutiny, and that haze of perplex-
ity once more filmed her eyes. She heard him say-
ing:
“ The mere fact that I happen to have called at your
home and talked with your niece some hours before
the robbery occurred is hardly enough of a coincidence
to base an accusation upon, Mrs. Whitefield. I am
not even a material witness.”
But she was rapidly losing her self-control. “Oh,


142
THE HORNET'S NEST
why will you insist upon this game of cross-purposes?”
She pressed her arms down hard upon the sides of her
chair. “I make you a fair offer. If you will only
restore my sapphires, I will promise that you, in turn,
shall not be bothered in any way. I will do more than
that for you,” eagerly. “You shall not be the loser.
I will take you to the houses of my friends
women with even more valuable jewels than mine. I
will give you information that you can use, will help
you in a hundred ways."
Before he could answer this amazing proposal, they
were interrupted by a knock on the door, distinct and
imperative.
“Open up there, “Hornet,' " commanded a voice
from the outside. “No use stalling. We know
you're in, and we want to see you.”
Ashe looked up, startled, and then threw a glance
of quick suspicion toward his companion. But her
dismay was too real to be simulated. She turned to
him, unnerved, imploring.
“What shall I do?” she gasped. “No one must
see me here!”
He followed his instinctive impulse to protect a wo-
man under any circumstances, and stepping quickly
to the door of his bedroom, opened it and motioned
her to go in. She did so, noiselessly closing the door
behind her; and then, as she leaned faint and dizzy
against the panel, she heard him cross the room, and
admit his importunate visitors.
“Well, my boy, you seem to have been cutting quite
a swath lately? ” a gruff voice gave greeting. She
recognized it as that of the police inspector who had
been at the house on the morning following the rob-
bery. “New line of goods you're showing this sea-


THE HORNET'S NEST
143
son, eh? But you ought to have known that you
couldn't get away with it, not with that gash across
your map; for as the old song runs: ‘Everywhere that
Johnson went, his scar was sure to go.'”
He gave a short, throaty chuckle; then his tone
changed, and he began to browbeat.
“But getting down to business, Hornet, suppose you
tell me — ” He broke off abruptly, and Freda could
picture the covert pulling of his companion at his
sleeve. There were two of them, she had gathered
when they entered the room.
A moment later, she caught a hoarse, warning whis-
per. Evidently they were very near to the door behind
which she stood.
“Hell, Chief; that ain't no more Al. Johnson than
you are!”
There was a startled pause succeeding this, a sort
of befuddled hiatus: then the Inspector whispered
back in protest :
“But he's got the scar, all right?”.
“So's a dozen other guys around town, maybe.
He's about the same height and general description,
too. You can't blame the boys for handing us the
wrong dope. But get a fair slant at him, and any-
body who knows Johnson could tell the difference.”
“ You're sure, Sergeant?” The Inspector was
plainly reluctant to abandon his quarry. “They say
this bird is there with the disguise stuff to a finish.
Might it not be the “Hornet' after all, just pulling
off a new stunt on us?”
“ Pos-i-tively not." The answer was uncompro-
mising. “I'd know Johnson anywhere in a million,
and I tell you it ain't him.”
The whispers ceased; and after a pause, the Inspec-


144
THE HORNET'S NEST
tor addressed Colvin again, but in a far less free and
easy fashion.
“Er —” He stopped and cleared his throat.
“Suppose you tell us just who you are?”
“I might perhaps more justifiably ask the same
question.” Freda could imagine the light, derisive
shrug accompanying the words. “But it is unnec-
essary; the earmarks of your trade are unmistakable.
But the reason for this call with which you have
honored me is somewhat less obvious. I gather,
though, from some allusions to my unfortunate scar,"
she could almost see him lay his finger to his cheek,
“ and to a person you call the — the 'Hornet,' was
it? — that you must have been misled into believing
me some notorious criminal that you are after.
“Under the circumstances, then," he laughed amus-
edly, “I suppose, I had better clear myself of suspi-
cion. Will you sit down and have a cigar? ... To
begin with, my name is Vernon, and — ".
Freda, with her tense interest relaxing, suddenly
became conscious of another presence close at hand.
She turned with a little start to see Wimms standing
just behind her, and also listening to the conversation
on the other side of the door.
He moved back guiltily, but she took a quick step
toward him.
“ You are Mr. Vernon's man, are you not?” she
asked in an undertone.
“Yes, madam."
“Then isn't there some way to get me out of
here?” glancing around. “That door yonder?
Does it lead into the hall?”
She started toward it as she spoke, but he raised
a quick hand in caution.


CHAPTER XI
c
WHEN Colvin and the “Hornet” had parted, the
one to take up his more or less conspicuous rôle at
the Hotel Marmontel, the other retiring to subdolous
haunts and activities of his own, they made the sep-
aration between them complete.
The “Hornet,” with what seemed to Ashe an excess
of caution, had discountenanced any exchange of com-
munication beyond that provided by an ingenious sys-
tem of signals which had been agreed upon, and which
served as a means to report their respective prog-
ress.
Realizing, however, the possibility of an emergency
demanding more detailed consultation, he had arranged
a method whereby under exceptional circumstances
they could talk to one another over the telephone.
So strongly had he impressed upon Ashe, though,
that this was never to be risked except as a last resort,
that the latter withstood the temptation to use it,
alhough he would have given much to obtain an ex-
pression from the “Hornet” upon that morning's
events.
It was a great relief to his mind, therefore, when
early in the afternoon there was delivered to him from
one of the department stores a pair of gloves which
he had neither bought nor ordered.
It was the pre-arranged signal by which the “Hor-
net" was to inform him when he wished to be called


148
THE HORNET'S NEST
up; and since the gloves were of gray castor, two-but-
toned, Colvin gathered that he was to do so at two
o'clock that afternoon.
Accordingly, leaving Wimms to his own devices,
he started out ostensibly for a walk, and crossing over
to Broadway just as the clock on the Herald building
pointed to the hour, entered a telephone booth.
Taking a leaf from Muriel's book, he had put in the
forty-five minutes or so since leaving the hotel at a
game of hide and seek, with the purpose of shaking
off his dogging shadows, and fancied that he had
succeeded. Still, even with the chance that one of
them might be at his heels and able to “listen in,” he
had little fear that anything of importance could be
gathered from the conversation; for the “Hornet”
had instructed him on such occasions to clothe his
speech in a casual and conventional hyperbole designed
to bewilder any one trying to overhear.
The “Hornet" proved to be as prompt as himself.
There was no delay in effecting connection.
“Well, how's everything?” his deep, harsh voice
asked over the wire.
Colvin took his cue from the tone, direct, business-
like, but as between friends — the “Bill and Joe”
sort of thing.
“Oh, so, so,” he replied. “Rather a busy day for
me so far. Had a rush of customers all morning.
Two from down-town - Center Street."
“H’m.” The “ Hornet” evidently caught the sig-
nificance of this. “Have any bother in handling
them?”
"No. They were looking for a special brand of
goods — the ‘Bumblebee' it was, or something like
that — and they made me show my entire line. But


THE HORNET'S NEST
149
finally they seemed satisfied that they had come to the
wrong shop."
“ The buyers from that house are all boobs,” the
“Hornet ” observed contemptuously.
“Nevertheless, they had me on edge for a while,"
confessed Colvin. “The situation was a bit thick,
you see. I had a lady customer at the same time.”
“A lady customer? At your place?” His satir-
ical laughter rattled through the receiver. “Oh, I
see. One of your aunts, eh?”
“On the contrary, it was yours.” Colvin couldn't
resist that, and he was repaid by a quick gasp from the
other end of the wire.
“ You don't mean it! What on earth did she
want?”
" Jewelry," returned Colvin laconically. “She made
me a rather staggering offer, but not having exactly
what she wanted in stock, I was compelled to decline.
Perhaps, also,” he added, “ she had another reason
for coming. She has heard a good deal about me,
you know, and she may have wanted to satisfy her
curiosity.”
“And did she?”
“I don't think so. The other buyers interrupted
us before we had quite finished, and I had to slip her
out the back way. If I'm any judge, though, she left
me more puzzled than when she came.”
.“ She won't stop there.” There was a warning note
in the nephew's voice. "You want to look sharp,
son.”
“ By the way,” Ashe broke in with apparent irrele-
vance, “I'd better tell you now that I won't be at
home to-morrow evening, in case you should want me
for anything. I am going to a dance at the White-


150
THE HORNET'S NEST
fields, and am dining first with Mrs. Vansittart and
Miss Gansevoort.”
The “Hornet” chuckled. “It sounds like the
Society column in the Sunday supplement, which my
wife pores over."
“Ah, yes; and how is your wife?”
“I haven't heard this week,” returned the “ Hor-
net" with equal gravity. “ You know the doctor
ordered her away for a complete change.”
“Yes,” still politely sympathetic.-
“Yes,” echoed Hempstead, and there was now a sig-
nificance in his tone which made Colvin listen with a
concentrated intensity. “And all of her friends have
been so considerate in inquiring for her — except
one.”
There was an ominous emphasis in his voice now,
something that advised his listener to heed every word
and catch the meaning that lay be:neath it.
"I hear that this person is away now on a little
trip," the “Hornet” went on. “I think I shall have
to look her up, and find out the cause of the coolness.
Nice girl, very; and she's always been a good friend
of my wife's, but a little mercenary, I'm afraid.”
Ashe strove desperately to grasp exactly what the
other was trying to convey. He realized that this was
of tremendous importance to himself.
“You — you mean?” he stammered.
“I mean nothing very serious," interrupted Hemp-
stead in swift warning. “I'm not very fit; that's all.
And I may have to run out of town for a few days on
a much needed vacation. I won't be leaving for a day
or so, though. I want to decide on a location. It
would be odd, if I should happen to run across this
friend of my wife's, wouldn't it?”


THE HORNET'S NEST
151
Ashe groaned impatiently. “Isn't there any way
I can meet you, and have a real talk?”
“ This way, and that's all.” The “Hornet's ” tones
were sharply decisive. “You want to cultivate a more
philosophical attitude. Anyhow, I've told you all I
know. Good-by."
Colvin hung up the receiver, and left the booth. He
walked out into the noise and bustle of Broadway,
heedless of the jostling crowd. Following the bent
and also the training of his mind, he tried to arrange
in a logical and coherent sequence all of the bits of
information which he had gleaned from his asso-
ciate.
It must be that the latter had at last some definite
clue to the missing package — the Colvin papers.
There was no other reason to have risked the tele-
phone talk, unless that was the fact to be conveyed.
Second, the “Hornet ” had reason to believe that the
papers were in the hands of some woman who had
known his wife. Third, this woman had disappeared
with them, and judging from what Hempstead had
said of her mercenary tendencies, she was determined
to be paid before giving them up. Fourth, the “ Hor-
net” was not quite sure where she was, but meant to
find out and go after her in person. Colvin devoutly
prayed that the journey might be taken soon.
This waiting game was getting on his nerves. He
reflected that if Whitefield found it even half as harass-
ing as he did, it was almost in his heart to sympathize
with the old fox.
Indeed, he would have had ample opportunity to do
so, if he could at that minute have played the part of
Asmodeus, and have lifted the roof of Whitefield's
study. There he would have found visible proof that


152
THE HORNET'S NEST
the enemy was quite as much perturbed and annoyed
as either he or the “Hornet” could possibly have
wished.
Whitefield was sitting before the big table, his head
bent on one hand, while he constantly ran the scales
with the other. He had not changed his attitude for
perhaps half an hour, when young Babcock came in
with his usual noiselessness.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “But Mrs. Whitefield
wants to see you as soon as possible on a matter of
importance.”
Whitefield lifted his head. Freda, he knew, would
not have sent that message unless she really had some-
thing worth while to say.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“ I'm here,” said a voice behind the secretary.
“Here's a pretty kettle of fish,” her husband grum-
bled, as Babcock left them together, and closed the
door behind him. “What do you think those idiots
from Headquarters have done now? Another piece
of mismanagement. ... Tramped up to the Mar-
montel this morning, broke open the door, or some-
thing equally clumsy, asked this Vernon a few polite
questions, and found out — nothing. Too clever for
them of course. Succeeded in convincing them he
wasn't Fletcher. Blockheads!”
“ His scar is exactly like Fletcher's," she said.
“Of course it is. Because he is Fletcher.” Then,
struck by her tone, he glanced up at her. “But what
do you know about it?”
After a rnoment's silence, she said quietly:
“I saw him this morning.”.
“ You — what?” he was immediately alert. His
eyes darted at her from under his heavy brows. She


THE HORNET'S NEST
153
bore the scrutiny perfectly, lying back in her chair,
languid, weary, impassive.
“I saw him this morning," she reiterated. “I went
to the Marmontel, and asked for Mr. Vernon. I made
a pretense of coming on a sort of a secret mission con-
cerning my rings,” she spoke quite smoothly. “But
the truth of the matter was that Sammy Cruger had
roused my curiosity. I didn't want any second-hand
opinions. I wanted to see if this Vernon was either
Ashe Colvin, or Fletcher.”
" And did you find out?” The words leaped from
his lips, his shoulders shook a little as he bent for-
ward.
“I— don't — know,” she rejoined slowly. “I
wouldn't have believed that I could have been so
baffled. I would have sworn that under any and all
disguises, I should have known -” She caught her-
self suddenly –“either of them.”
“But you must have some idea in your mind ? ” he
said impatiently. “ You can't be absolutely in the
dark?”
She passed her hand wearily over her hair. “ It
may get clearer to me, but just now I feel utterly
confused. I had forgotten how many years have
gone by. That scar — it is so terribly disfiguring.
Of course, too, I haven't seen Fletcher since I was
first married. I was so young then, you know. I
merely remember him as a tall, weedy boy with a
sneering, defiant face, and a frightful scar across his
right cheek.”
"You ought to remember Colvin better.” There
was an explicit and unpleasant meaning in his voice,
but the only sign she gave was a more pronounced
pallor. Her voice was as impersonal as ever.


154
THE HORNET'S NEST
“Ashe Colvin's hair was a light brown,” she said
reminiscently. “And this man's is almost jet black,
and very gray over the temples. Ashe had a pecul-
iarity of the eyebrows. One of them had a sharp,
little peak, a sort of upward twist in it. This man's
eyebrows are perfectly straight. I don't remember
Fletcher's voice at all, but — " She seemed to have
forgotten Whitefield's presence. Her eyes had an
odd, introspective look as if she swept every secret
corner of her memory — “there was something in
this Vernon's laugh, and now and then a tone in his
voice that made me think of — Ashe. Vernon speaks
with a slight French accent, though, and when he
makes a gesture, which isn't often, it's a Latin-race
gesture. Ashe Colvin went to school in France, when
he was a boy."
“Well, what of it?” Whitefield squared about
and looked at her in astonishment. “There are al-
ways a lot of coincidences which fit every case when
you're looking for them. Pshaw! It's crazy, idiotic,
to suppose that Ashe Colvin and Fletcher would both
have scars exactly alike. This man is Fletcher, of
course. We might as well take that for granted. All
right,” straightening his big shoulders; “when he's
ready to play, so am I. I wish, though,” his long
fingers curved in, “I wish I knew some way to choke
what Muriel knows out of her.”
He drummed on the table in silence, while Freda lay
back in her chair, watching him beneath her half-
closed lids.
He stopped his finger exercises presently, and looked
straight at her.
“ I'm just wondering,” he said, in that casual tone
she knew to be dangerous, “if you are playing per-


THE HORNET'S NEST
155
fectly square with me? That visit this morning with-
out a word to me first. Suspicious, you know. You
may have some game of your own on. Muriel in-
sinuated a while ago that you needed a detective to
watch you more than she did.”
“Muriel!” She spat the word. The slow crim-
son crept up her neck, and settled in two deep spots
on her cheek. Her mouth tightened, her breast
heaved. Then with an effort she forced her self-con-
trol.
“Your game has always been mine," she said.
“H'm!” He had begun to drum again. “But
you loved Colvin."
"Loved him?” She did not raise her voice, but
the irony smouldering in its repressions vibrated
through the room, and seemed to ring from the very
walls. “I ruined him! I killed him for all I know
— for you!”
“Not for me, my dear, to be exact. If it had been
just a choice between men, you would not have wasted
a minute deciding the question.” He gave a short,
dry laugh. “Your choice was really between Colvin
and the social code. I am a pretty close observer, and
I'll bet that I know more about the ins and outs of
your character than any one living, even yourself.
The only thing you really love is your pose. You sim-
ply couldn't give up being the beautiful, saintly Mrs.
Whitefield. That's the reason I can always bank on
you. There's one man anyway who has no illusions
about you.”
She had clutched the arms of her chair tightly with
her hands, the red spots on her cheeks deepened almost
to purple, she never lifted her eyes, she did not dare
trust herself to look at him.


156
THE HORNET'S NEST
After a few minutes' silence he began to talk again,
apparently forgetting their personal differences in the
more serious problem before him.
"Why don't they act? It may be, though, that
Fletcher is still trying to locate Colvin.”
“Oh, yes; it may be that, or anything else.” Freda
rose impatiently. “But all this speculation is idle. It
makes me nervous." She twitched her chair, and
moving toward the door, stopped to say: “You will
have the opportunity to see this Vernon man yourself
to-morrow night at the dance. I sent him an invita-
tion as you directed.”
"Just so," he returned, and she left him frowning
and furrowed. But his meditations were soon inter-
rupted. Babcock came in to lay a note upon the
table.
“This just came by special delivery, Mr. White-
field.”
Whitefield turned over the envelope in his hand,
looking at it curiously. It was addressed in a large,
upright, feminine hand not in the least familiar. He
opened it. Upon a sheet of thick, white paper was
written:
If you will state a time when you can see me pri-
vately, either at your office, or at your house, I may
be able to give you some valuable information in
regard to certain documents which were stolen from
your safe. Address reply to,
Miss Hazel Phillips,
General Delivery,
Philadelphia.
He re-read the letter a second time, and then sat
thoughtfully considering it.


THE HORNET'S NEST
157
“ It may be a fake, it may be to draw my fire,” he
muttered at last; “ but if it's genuine — I've got 'em!”
He folded the sheet, and slipping it back into its en-
velope, put it in his pocket. “I'll know better how to
handle this after to-morrow night. As Freda says,
I'll have an opportunity at the dance to see this Vernon
for myself.”


CHAPTER XII
It was the night of the dance.
“Who's the new man that Estelle Gansevoort and
Martina Vansittart have on leash?” one woman paused
to inquire of another on the marble steps leading up
to the reception hall in the Whitefield hc use.
"A Frenchman, or half-Frenchman, I believe.
Somebody worth while, or else they wouldn't have him.
Probably an officer convalescing, and sent over here
on a mission of some sort. That scar tells the story.
Freda's looking as good as new to-night, isn't she?”
The woman stood on tiptoe to peer over the heads
above her to the top of the stairs, where Mrs. White-
field and Muriel were standing.
“She's got to," returned the other, “or that girl
will snuff her out like a candle. My word! She's
struck a new note for débutantes. No white tulle
with a touch of silver for hers.”
“I always want to wear smoked glasses when I look
at her. She's a minx, believe me."
Mrs. Vansittart toiled up the staircase, panting
slightly, but looking almost shapely in diaphanous
black and jet, while Estelle stepped lissomely beside
her, resplendently defying age. Colvin followed them.
Freda, aware that Muriel was sure to dazzle the eye
of the beholder, had instinctively and with subtle, femi-
nine wisdom, chosen to present a complete contrast,
and thus avoid all odious comparisons. Gray gauze


THE HORNET'S NEST
159
as impalpable as mist fell about her, its sad and tender
tone unbrightened by the sparkle of diamonds; there
was only the opaque luster of her splendid pearls.
But if the aunt had seen fit to emulate the twilight,
the niece had borrowed her colors from the sunrise.
Muriel was a picture by Goya. She was in yellow —
yellow with the tang of flame in it, and unsubdued.
Whitefieid, standing in line with the two, bent a
glance upon Ashe which swept him like a scythe.
Never had those knife eyes been so keen as now, when
for the first time he could scan his antagonist of this
cloak-and-lantern duel. Ashe bore the scrutiny easily.
He had no particular fear of recornition from that
quarter.
The two men murmured a few conventional words,
Freda standing by with her loveliest smile — that
sweet, remote, wistful smile which had haunted the
imagination and stirred the hearts of many men. And
then Colvin turned from them to look into Muriel's
eyes.
As she greeted him under the gaze of her guardians,
for Sammy Cruger hovered just behind her shoulder,
a sparkle of audacious mischief glimmered on her lips.
“How often are you going to dance with me?” he
asked, lowering his voice.
“ As often as you ask me,” she laughed.
“But that will include every one for the entire even-
ing," he said.
“ All but this,” as some tall youth came up to claiin
her. “Come for me after the fourth dance," she
whispered back over her shoulder, as she walked away.
He danced dutifully with his Aunt Estelle, and en-
joyed it, but he undutifully offered thanks that his
Aunt Martina, considering her bulk and weight, had


160
THE HORNET'S NEST
no such frivolous inclinations. Then he danced with
various women to whom Estelle presented him. And
then - after several centuries — the fourth was over.
Muriel was free to dance with him! Muriel was in
his arms! And the scene was no longer a mere pag-
eant; this handsome, elaborately decorated ballroom,
these dancers — whirling hues of orchid and rose,
italicized by the sharp black of men's coats.
He was one with it — the gaiety, the music, the
movement. They danced into the sea of light. The
syncopated beat of the measure was in his blood. Were
they really bounded by walls, the confines of a room?
He unleashed his imagination, and let it wander free.
They floated through space to the rhythm of the uni-
verse — he and this beautiful girl whose narrow,
drooping eyes were wide now and full of the rest
of life.
When the music finally stopped, and they with it,
they found themselves before a tall, trellised screen
covered with vines. Muriel, quick to think and quick
to act, drew him into the recess behind it. In front
of them was a long window leading out upon a small
balcony overlooking the narrow garden. She opened
this, and stepped out; and Ashe, following, closed the
barrier behind them.
By chance — or was it by chance? — a long, dark,
velvet cape hung across the railing of the balcony. He
picked it up and wrapped it around her, eclipsing her
sunrise splendors.
Ashe inhaled a deep breath. The quiet, serene sky,
the shadowy garden! A city asleep, its mighty, in-
sistent voice as faint as the murmur of a tired sea!
Dim, beautiful world! And Muriel with her rich,
mysterious loveliness, the dusk velvet of her purple


THE HORNET'S NEST
163
lies in our hopes and dreams,” he went on. “The mo-
ment this — this thing overtook me, my — well, what
you might call my vision of achievement — was dis-
sipated like smoke. There was no more work for me
to do. I was dead and buried — dead and buried for
fifteen years. And then you came, and I discovered
that the ambitions which I thought dead were only ly-
ing fallow, and were really stronger than ever.
“Muriel, if I found myself involved in a set of
peculiar circumstances years ago, I am in a position
to-day which is still more odd. You say that I have
failed to give you my full confidence. I shall do so
now.”
“ Yes?” Her voice held a curious, waiting qual-
ity.
He glanced quickly at the window into the ballroom,
saw that it was tightly closed, drew nearer to her, and
sank his voice still lower.
“Very well, then. To come back, I have got to
ruin your uncle morally as far as the public is con-
cerned, and probably financially. That prospect with
you out of it leaves me cold. I have no feeling of
either hatred or revenge. I left that sort of thing be-
hind me years ago. It is the fortunes of war, and I
say let the best man win; only, I mean to be the best
man. As for him, he has faced this sort of thing from
one source or another for years. But it's just as I told
you the other day, the rotten part of the whole thing
is, that I am not fighting in the open. I'm under
cover, and I'm using any old weapon that comes to
hand.”
She laughed, and slipped her fingers through his arm.
“ Bully for you,” she whispered. “You're a man
after my own heart.”


THE HORNET'S NEST
165
16.
she moaned. “I love it in you, but if you would only
understand that the girls of my age to-day know a lot
about life.”
“No one knows a lot about life unless he has lived
it, and you have not. Your cleverness and keenness
of observation are substitutes of no value. You -"
“I don't think all those things have any bearing on
the matter," coolly interrupting him.
She drew her breath in sharply, as if she hesitated
a frightened moment on the brink of unfathomed
depths. And then she plunged, impelled by her own
sheer, uncalculating daring.
“I know perfectly what I want — It's you.”
The moving ardor of her voice! It stirred his heart
unbearably. For the moment — only for the moment,
to do him justice — he forgot reason, caution, every-
thing. He threw his own excellent arguments to the
wind. But although he stepped toward her, murmur-
ing broken, passionate words, he stopped short before
he reached her. It was the bravest act of his life, his
supreme effort of self-control. When he spoke at
last, his voice was husky, almost inaudible.
“ That's a choice, Muriel, of which no sane person
could approve."
“ You talk like Uncle William," she cried rebel-
liously. “ Just because you are considerably older than
I am, you think you can decide what is best for
me. . . . As if anybody ever could for another per-
son. . . . And you offer the usual conventional rea-
sons. But ... you can't carry it off, Mr. Vernon!”
She waved the tattered ivy-leaf triumphantly across his
face. “ You talk so safely and sanely about how I'm
to play my game of life. What about yours? Are
you playing it safely and sanely? Far from it.


166
THE HORNET'S NEST
You're playing outside the lines, under cover of dark-
ness. You acknowledge it."
He couldn't help laughing; she had countered so
neatly. “Necessity," he said quickly. “ Anyway,
I'm a man; you're a woman. The rulings and the
handicaps are different.”
“Forget it,” nonchalantly she brushed this aside.
"Now I want the floor. I didn't interrupt you —
much. So you will please show me the same court-
esy.”
She rushed on impetuously, without giving him a
chance to answer.
"I know myself much better than any one else
knows me. They've tried to repress and stifle me
into bud-hood, when I was really a full-blown woman.
But I'm perfectly sure of what I want. I always have
been in a way. You spoke a while ago of your vision
of achievement. Well, I've got mine."
“What is it?” he asked. Her mental processes al-
ways interested him intensely. “What are some of the
things you think you really want?”
“ All that you, or I, or anybody wants are just the
things we think we want,” she flashed at him. “Well,
then,” she clasped her hands together, her face shone
with the beautiful, untried enthusiasm of youth, "I
want — I want the crest of the wave, the wine-cup
brimming. I want love, romance, ambition, struggle
- all the work, and all the play there is. Most girls
have yearnings to do things. They want to be artists,
or actresses, or writers, or else do settlement work and
redeem the world. I don't. I have not any gifts to
cultivate. The Whitefields are not artistic, nor al-
truistic. But they know what they want, and they go
straight for it.


THE HORNET'S NEST
167
“I wish to help some man make a career,” she cried.
“I wish to build with him. These immature boys I
have to play with bore me to suicide, and the men seem
so piffling. They would like to marry me, and have
a good time on my money. La-la!” She snapped the
fingers of both hands in the air. “I think not.
“Do you know the only kind of a man I will ever
marry?” Her voice now was like bubbling honey,
her emerald eyes sparkled with fire and laughter. “He
must be a brilliant, intellectual man who knows many
phases of life and the world, who won't give up some-
thing he's started out to do, even for the woman he
says he loves; who fights in the dark, if necessary, and
fights to win.”
She ceased to describe her hypothetical man, and be-
came naively personal.
"I don't care if you do ruin Uncle William; he's
due for it. If you do not, somebody else will. That
is, if they can; you've always got to make that reserva-
tion, when you speak of Uncle William — And it's
awfully amusing when you talk about staining my
family name. My grandfather, who was an unscrupu-
lous old wretch I've heard, put several black marks
against it. Uncle William has spilled the indelible ink
bottle all over it. And Fletcher Hempstead, who Un-
cle William says is the ‘Hornet,' has done his little
best to add to the general discoloration. By the way,”
quickly, "you haven't kept your promise, and found
him for me.”
“Yes, I have,” he asserted.
“ You have?” excitedly. “And when do I meet
him?"
“Never, if I can help it. I shall be the go-between.”
“But -? But —?" she cried.


168
THE HORNET'S NEST
“ That's all I can say at present.” Colvin's tone
was final.
She did not pursue the subject. There was a pause.
Some one opened a window beyond them, and the mu-
sic came more clearly to their ears.
Muriel sighed, turned, and laid her hand upon the
door as if to push it open.
“You really refuse a proposal very tactfully, Mr.
Vernon," she said over her shoulder. Under the light-
ness of her tone there was a hurt note which tortured
him.
“Oh, my child! Say, instead, that I have broken
my heart, trying to save you from an impossible mis-
take."
“ Time wasted.” There was unreadable mockery
in her eyes. She pushed wider the window, and tossed
her purple cloak back over the railing of the balcony.
Then the light and the music engulfed her.
Colvin smoked his cigarette case empty before he
returned to the ballroom. As he stood inside again,
waiting a moment for his eyes to become accustomed
to the dazzle, he saw his Aunt Estelle signalling him
from across the room.
“My patience!” she said. “William Whitefield
and Sammy Cruger have been on Martina's and my
trail all evening. They're like two hungry blood-
hounds, and Martina and I have been fleeing Elizas,
tipping about on cakes of mighty thin ice. Only cham-
pagne and our feminine love of intrigue have enabled
us to go through the ordeal.”
"I should never have put you in such a position,”
he said with compunction.
“We love it. What is life without excitement?
But, my dear boy, do be cautious. I saw Freda's eyes


THE HORNET'S NEST
169
as she looked after you this evening, and they —
Well, they made me nervous, they were so deadly. I
suppose I am perfectly absurd, but women do have
intuitions. And I feel — Oh, I can't just describe
it - But I feel as if you and Freda were on the eve
of some terrible reckoning.”
“ The sooner the better, then,” he said curtly. Both
his face and voice were hard. Then he smiled down at
her. “ Those feminine intuitions are usually nerves.
Don't you —?”
He stopped short, staring before him. Muriel and
a tall man were skirting the dancers, evidently making
their way from the ballroom. Ashe's brain whirled.
He peered again, refusing to accept the first testimony
of his eyes.
But there could be no mistaking that lithe figure,
that haggard, cynical face.
It was the “ Hornet”!


CHAPTER XIII
COLVIN stared, dazed, doubtful, unwilling for once
to accept the convincing evidence of his own eyes.
So far he had glimpsed only one side of his sinister
partner, a “Hornet" under cover and on the defensive,
wary, absorbed in calculations and cautions, yet be-
guiling the tedium of inaction, as is ever the habit of
the freebooter and adventurer in his moments of re-
pose, with sage and philosophic reflections. Now
Ashe, all unprepared for the metamorphosis, mind and
eye both rejecting the audacity of it as a thing in- .
credible, was to witness the “Hornet" in a direct at-
tack, poised, lancelike, ready to sting.
It was some seconds before he could grasp the fact
that this was really Hempstead. The suggestion of a
“ double " presented itself to his mind, but only to be
immediately cast aside. Here was no case of chance
resemblance; the man with Muriel was the “Hornet"
himself, and none other. The very smoothness of that
unmarred cheek — unmarred to the observer at least,
as a result of Wimms's tutelage and his own constant
practice — proclaimed him. There were other proofs
of his identity; an occasional shifty flicker of the eye,
his odd, twisted smile, and above all, a mischievous, ma-
licious elation, which Ashe if no one else perceived, and
which was more characteristic of the man than any
mark in the whole Bertillon catalogue. Evidently the
“Hornet" was enjoying himself — as much perhaps
in the consciousness that he had outwitted his colleague


THE HORNET'S NEST
171
and had gained speech with Muriel, as in the fact
that he had undoubtedly “put one over" on their com-
mon adversary.
What his reason might be for this daring excursion
Colvin could not imagine.
As a matter of fact, the “Hornet's ” strategy had
been very simple and direct. A few days previous to
the dance, a financier who had extensive interests in
South and Central America had introduced to White-
field a Mr. James Prentice, the representative of a num-
ber' of companies in that part of the world which held
concessions or franchises for traction lines in several
important cities.
Mr. Prentice naturally had a proposition to submit,
and he presented it so attractively that Whitefield's
cynical and flagging interest was caught, and he was
led into making an investigation of the other's claims.
Then upon examination the project appeared so excel-
lent, the promises of a large return, exaggerated though
they had sounded, proved to have been so conservatively
stated, that the traction man took up the subject in
earnest.
Notwithstanding the personal anxieties which had
absorbed him since the night of the burglary — per-
haps, indeed, because of them, since it could not have
failed to strike him that South America might prove a
refuge under certain circumstances — he had had a
number of interviews with Prentice, and they had dis-
cussed the matter more or less in detail.
There were certain preliminary complications — re-
strictions in some cases against the acquirement of the
properties by foreigners, and things of that sort –
which would have to be straightened out, and Prentice
had suggested that he personally should see what could


172
THE HORNET'S NEST
be done through the use of his influence with the State
Department at Washington.
They were now waiting for some word from the
Department, and consequently it was no surprise to
Whitefield when late in the evening he was summoned
to the telephone by a call from his new associate.
Prentice's voice, harsh, a little unpleasant, but un-
deniably forceful, grated to him over the wire.
" Sorry to disturb you at such an hour, but
I've got news from Washington that will not wait.
That old granny you have over there has muddled
things just as I feared he would, and the Secretary is
clear out of line. We've got to get somebody else on
the job quick somebody that'll know how to put
things straight. I've picked out the man all right, and
I think I know just how it can be handled, but before
going ahead, I'll need your 0. K. to it. Isn't there
some way that we can get together for about fifteen
minutes? I don't like to talk over the telephone, of
course, and it's rather important that we settle on a
program without delay. I'm talking from the Biltmore
now, and I can meet you here, or at your club, or if it's
more convenient to you, I'll take a cab and come up to
your house."
Whitefield hesitated half a second. “Make it at the
house,” he decided. “My wife's got a party on to-
night, and they've swept over the place like locusts,
but I guess I can find a corner for us. My study's
free; I've locked 'em out of that. How soon will you
be here?”
“ Five or ten minutes."
“ Good. I'll be down by the hall door waiting for
you. Otherwise, you might run the chance of being
picked up as a suspicious character," he chuckled.


THE HORNET'S NEST
173
“There's a small regiment of Hawkshaws on duty
here to-night.”
“Thanks for the tip," drawled the other. “In that
case, I will leave my burglar tools at home.”
One of the guests who was leaving early stopped to
shake hands with his host as the latter lingered down
beside the entrance.
“Why this outpost service ?” he laughed. “ Are
you checking us up as we go to see that no one makes
off with the spoons?”
"No," Whitefield grinned in return;"merely wait-
ing for one of the two things that are always welcome
- a pretty woman and a chance to make money,
Guess which it is?”.
“The pretty woman every time.” The man shook
an admonishing finger. “Fie, fie, and likewise,
naughty, naughty. Have I really stumbled on a scan-
dal in ’igh life — midnight rendezvous, and all that
sort of thing?"
“Not to-night,” Whitefield grinned again. He had
been drinking rather freely this evening, although he
only showed it in a touch of added mellowness. “No
pretty woman wanting money this time, just an ugly
man coming to bring me some — I hope.”.
" Hope? Sure thing, you mean, if the fellow ever
gets into your clutches. He'll be lucky if he saves his
shirt. By Jove, if I had your pile, I'd begin to let
up."
It was all good-humored jesting of course; but
Whitefield's gaze as it followed the other out through
the door held more than a tinge of irony. If the world
-only knew how much of that reputed “pile” of his was
false pretense! A call for a show-down now would
mean his ruin. And it might so easily come. If


174
THE HORNET'S NEST
Hempstead or Ashe Colvin were able to force his hand
at this stage of the game, he was lost. He passed his
hand quickly before his eyes, as if to brush away the
shadow of apprehension which was continually pla-
guing him, and stepping abruptly into a little lounging
room at the side of the hall, took down a bottle and
glass from the closet and poured himself out a stiff
drink.
It restored and steadied him; so that returning to the
doorway, he was able a few moments later to greet his
expected visitor with perfect equanimity.
The “Hornet ”- for it was the “ Hornet" of course
was never in better mood, easy, assured, and unde-
niably distinguished in appearance.
" I'm afraid this intrusion is unpardonable," he said,
as he and Whitefield shook hands; " but _"
“No .buts.'” Whitefield caught him by the arm,
and guided him along the hall to his study. “ Business
is always excuse enough with me for anything. And
really it's a relief to get away for a few minutes from
all that cackle and fluff.” He waved his hand toward
the stairway, down which was borne to them a spray
of dance music and the babble of voices and light
laughter.
“ Wait a second.” He paused before the door of
the study to fumble in his waistcoat pocket for the key.
“Ah, here it is. As I told you, I've kept this room
locked to-night,” he explained, as they entered, and he
switched on the lights. “In a big crush like this, one
never knows just who might be able to get in. And
once burned, twice shy."
“ Ah? So this is the room where your burglary
occurred?” The “Hornet” glanced interestedly
around, and quite naturally stepped toward the safe to


176
THE HORNET'S NEST
to the invitation, as a man servant entered in answer to
Whitefield's ring.
“That's good enough for anybody. Make it two,
Williams. And hand the cigars to Mr. Prentice before
you go. Lots of time, Prentice, lots of time. Make
yourself comfortable. I'd rather a hundred times be
down here than up-stairs." He raised his head, as
the servant opened the door to go out, and the noise
from the rooms above broke for a moment upon their
ears. “An isle of safety," he smiled, “in a sea of
skirts and eats.”
The “Hornet" sipped deliberately at the tall glass
with its bubbles tinkling as they rose and broke upon
the surface like the chime of fairy bells. Whitefield,
less fastidious, drained his glass incontinently. He was
obviously in that stage of half-intoxication where a
little judicious urging would put him completely under
the influence. But it was no part of the “Hornet's "
scheme to get his uncle drunk. Like a dutiful nephew
he was concerned to see that his relative kept coldly
sober, although this rather from practical than senti-
mental motives.
He wanted the Whitefield wits clear, and the White-
field judgment unimpaired; for this was no game of
hocus-pocus which he was playing upon his kinsman,
no seductive swindle, but a legitimate project.
He had hinted to Colvin that evening at the Dome
that he had a number of irons in the fire, and had also
confided something of his weary distaste with the ways
of crime, and an ambition to rehabilitate himself in the
world in which he had been born.
Mere vaporings of a " dope” dreamer, Ashe had be-
lieved this at the time. “When the Devil was sick,
the Devil a saint would be,” he thought. But he had


THE HORNET'S NEST
177
failed to take into account the Whitefield will and
stubborn strength of purpose.
With the “Hornet” it was no snivelling “change
of heart” of the ordinary, little crook in moments of
discouragement and defeat. He had no yearnings for
reform, no prickings of conscience to bother him. He
was a recognized leader in his craft, applauded, envied,
looked up to, an indubitable big frog in the murky
puddle of crime. But his joy of empire was spoiled by
the smallness and dirtiness of the puddle, not to men-
tion the thronging dangers on its shores which kept
him continually diving out of sight, or burrowing into
the mud for concealment. He was convinced that for
a frog of his constructive, daring, and resourceful
talents, there were opportunities in that wider and
more protected pool which he was pleased to call the
“big game" of organized society. He wanted to
foregather with the pickerel, the swordfish, and the
shark, and operate within the law, rather than out-
side of it.
Yet in his yearning for the waters of respectability,
he was also aware that he would have to seek some
cove or corner where his previous career was unknown.
His opportunities in New York, or even in the United
States, were apt to be limited by the jack-in-the-box
quality of a “past.” And with such a gaudy and be-
dizened past as the “Hornet" had acquired, the pos-
sibility of having it pop from under its lid and con-
front him at some inopportune moment was too dis-
astrous to be considered.
South America, however, presented no such limita-
tion. Even from his boyhood, when his imagination
had been stirred by an old book of travels which had
somehow fallen into his hands, it had been the goal


THE HORNET'S NEST
179
task. Within less than a year, the Señor Prentice had
his scheme complete — franchises and concessions cov-
ering a chain of capitals and prominent cities, powers
of attorney, credentials as business plenipotentiary, and
a trunkful of statistics, blue prints, profile maps, and
sworn statements from auditors and engineers.
But the real test was ahead of him. He had to get
the capital to finance his proposition, and with Europe
involved in war there was but one place to get it, New
York; while in all New York he knew of but one capi-
talist with the traction experience or brains to under-
stand his plans, or the necessary connections, political
prestige, or practical ability to put it through — his
Uncle William.
Yet to this incredible venture had the “ Hornet" set
himself, and for its furtherance were forged all those
various “irons” which he had told Colvin he had in
the fire, red-hot rivets to bolt and hold together the
bridge which should carry him from the under to the
upper world.
So far he had played an absolutely straight hand
with Whitefield. In the mapping out of his campaign
he had decided that all personal feeling — the old hos-
tilities and resentments — must be set aside until his
object was accomplished. He was dealing not with
his uncle, he told himself, but the financier; and he
needed the latter's aid and influence too much at this
juncture to jeopard the stakes by anything in the way
of trickery or fraud.
And then fate had unexpectedly thrown the Colvin
papers in his way, and he saw his way clear to a su-
preme revenge. He had at last an instrument with
which to crush Whitefield at any time he chose, and
strip him bare.


180
THE HORNET'S NEST
But that was all in the future. At present he re-
quired all of Uncle William's trained sagacity and
whole-hearted support, and never more so than to-
night, when the business stood at such a critical stage.
“I can't let him get pickled,” he thought, frown-
ing at the glass in his hand with its rising bubbles.
“I've got to have the very best he has in the shop, if
we are to handle this situation down at Washington."
Resolutely he set himself to the task of preventing
his uncle from taking anything more to drink. He
plied him with hypotheses and rosy schemes and crisp
suggestions instead of Scotch and soda. He mixed a
cocktail compounded of clever expedients and strata-
gems, which gripped the financier's flagging faculties
and spurred him into vigorous consideration of the
issue.
Under the stimulus of the “Hornet's "keen presen-
tation of the subject, Whitefield's brain cleared, and he
was roused to a spirit of bold decision. Never had he
shown himself more masterful, more farsighted in his
grasp of a question.
Together the two took counsel, testing and weigh-
ing each point brought up, until at last they had out-
lined a program to which neither could offer any fur-
ther amendment. Then, seating himself at the long
distance telephone, Whitefield held a five minutes' con-
versation with a man in Washington, and the thing was
done.
The “Hornet ” could hardly believe it. Everything
had come about so easily. The last obstacle in the way
of political interference with his scheme was swept
aside. All that remained now was the financing of the
project, and Whitefield had assured him that there
would be no difficulty in regard to that.


THE HORNET'S NEST
183
And as his spirit expanded, his tongue loosened into
picturesque expression, and the magnetism of his con-
viction swayed and held them captive. The shifting
crowds of Rio with its tessellated sidewalks, its fresh-
washed house fronts, its stately Avenue Rio Branca
they saw through his eyes. They smelled the fra-
grance of the orange and lemon trees, and warmed
to the sunshine of a summer land. The sparkling,
deep blue bay spread itself before them, with its ring
of encircling mountains — Sugar Loaf, Tres Irmaos,
Corcovado and Tijuca, Gavia's huge, sail-like bulk.
Palm trees rustled in their ears, not the few stunted
bushes of the florist which screened them in, but
trees lofty and commanding, whole forests of
them.
He waved his hand, and the purple, tropic night de-
scended. Lights glowed from the dark hills around
Rio like the flash of fireflies, and twined themselves
into strings and festoons along the water front and
down the broad avenues. A pleasure-loving, pleasure-
seeking population trooped out of its houses, and gath-
ered by the thousands at the parks and places of rec-
reation.
The night life of Rio, gentlemen! Why, New
York with its few block of lobster palaces and cabarets
is like a staid New England village compared with
this metropolis where everybody turns out, and the
spirit of fiesta bubbles up fresh with each setting of
the sun.
He switched to São Paulo, brilliant, modern,
breathing of opulence; to Bahia; to Para; to Pernam-
buco with the long rollers of the South Atlantic break-
ing over its rocky reefs in a smother of foam. He
sketched for them the scintillating, Paris-like gaiety


184
THE HORNET'S NEST
of Buenos Ayres and Montevideo; carried them in the
twinkling of an eye from Caracas to Lima, and from
Quito to Santiago.
But always his tale was of crowds - crowds at the
race tracks, tremendous outpourings at the bullfights,
holiday throngs on the frequent Saints' days, thou-
sands of worshippers seeking the churches and ca-
thedrals on Sundays and fast days, a constant move-
ment of people day and night.
And that all means transportation, gentlemen —
pesos, milreis, the equivalent of our homely, American
nickel. It's a continent just awaking to the develop-
ment of its resources and possibilities. Coffee, rub-
ber, cattle, lumber, sugar, spices, fresh fruits, wheat
and cotton, ore, asphalt, oil and coal. Every one of
them spells expanding towns and cities and expanding
populations.
The champagne frothed untasted in their glasses
as they listened, and the courses were served and re-
moved with their plates untouched; for the “Hornet”
spoke not only with the tongues of men — the business
jargon that they could understand and appreciate —
but he also waved the wand of a magician, and in-
vested his proposition with all the romance and color
of adventure.
As the group broke up, and the three financiers
drifted away, Whitefield gripped him hard by the arm
and bent toward him.
“You've got 'em, Prentice," he breathed exultantly.
“When those three dead fish sit there for an hour
with their mouths open and their eyes popping out
of their heads like a bunch of kids listening to 'Jack
the Giant Killer' for the first time, and when old
Dwight Calhoun offers to blow you off to luncheon to-


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THE HORNET'S NEST
And with his astonishment and wonder, he was con-
scious of a dull sense of defeat. He had been over-
matched, out-generalled. The meeting he had strug-
gled to avert was accomplished, and what the conse-
quences might be no one could determine.
He must know the motives which had led the “Hor-
net " to seek Muriel, and self-willed, impressionable,
reckless as she was, who could foretell the influence
which that warped and cynical nature might have upon
her life?
The “Hornet's " presence there could not be sheer
bravado. Something must have arisen, some unex-
pected complication, which had caused him to emerge
from under cover, and hazard such a desperate ex-
pedient. He required the girl's air of coöperation in
some way; that must be it.
And against this, Ashe's heart rose in a surge of
protest. She should not be made use of, nor involved
in any of their schemes. Whatever the outcome to
himself or the “Hornet,” no taint of this sordid strug-
gle must rest upon her. He would fight against that
with every ounce of strength that was in him. If he
asserted himself, he did not doubt that he could make
the “Hornet" see reason. Yes; but how about Mu-
riel? He had failed in this instance to prevent her
from getting her own way; against all his opposition
was her determination to gain speech with his cousin.
How then could he look with any confidence to a sec-
ond encounter, where her interest and inclination, her
hatred of her uncle, her desire for freedom, the lure of
intrigue and excitement, would all be pitted against
him?
He wished that he knew her better -- inscrutable,
brilliant creature. Yet he knew, too, that a great


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189
part of her fascination for him arose from the fact
that he had not fathomed the secret which lay behind
her eyes. Her strength was obvious, but what were
her weaknesses? He was uncertain where to ques-
tion, and where to depend. He wondered if her will,
her intelligence, her shrewd perceptions balanced ade-
quately her audacity, her headstrong daring.
His Aunt Estelle had turned away, and was talking
to a little group of people, and so his meditations were
for the moment undisturbed. He leaned back against
the wall with arms folded, the frown between his eyes
deepening as he gazed down at the floor.
“Not dancing, Mr. Vernon?” It was the voice of
Freda. She had stopped for a moment with the group
about Miss Gansevoort, and now she moved on to
speak to him.
“No,” rousing with a slight start. “ I'm longing to,
though, if you are not too tired.” He forced himself
to smile and answer courteously.
She too smiled and lifted her eyes to his, and he felt
a chill, unmistakable premonition of impending dan-
ger.


CHAPTER XIV
The blare, the riotous syncopations of a fox-trot
broke across the ballroom as Colvin extended his arms,
and Freda shook her head and drew back with a faint
frown.
"I am afraid I am old-fashioned, Mr. Vernon.
All this trotting wears me out, I find, and I think I
should like to waltz. Let us wait until I can send
word to the musicians to play a good one. Any pref-
erence? Mine,” she paused, siniling up at him slowly
and sweetly, “is always 'The Beautiful, Blue Dan-
ube.' You see how remote I am from the present
era.” She turned her head, and asked a man to carry
the order to the musicians.
“Poor present era. It has lost heavily in charm
and grace,” Ashe returned with easy flattery. But
every nerve in his body was taut.
He wondered what that half-revealed menace in her
eyes meant. Was she merely casting about in the dark,
trying to solve the puzzle of his identity, or had she
succeeded? Some chance expressions, some slight,
familiar gesture might have betrayed him.
At any rate, she was putting him now to a test he
would have gone far to avoid. A waltz! They must
have waltzed miles together in the old, dead days; she
knew his step perfectly. And the Blue Danube! It
had had some sentimental significance to them — just
what he could not now remember, nor had he the slight-
est desire to do so.


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191
However, it was too late to hedge or draw back.
He had to go through with this dance, no matter what
the result. He exchanged small talk with her during
the interval until the fox-trot ended — the superficial,
casual chatter of such an occasion.
Then upon his unwilling, angry ears there fell the
first slow, rhythmic beat of that waltz, perhaps the
most sensuous and seductive ever written, artificial as
the flower-garlanded Viennese fêtes for which it was
composed, sweet as the roses which have faded in the
glitter and light of a thousand ballrooms, passionate
and evanescent as the kisses exchanged in dim con-
servatories while its music still lingered in the air.
The roses are dust, the kisses long ago forgotten; but
the old waltz yet has power to stir the blood of
younger generations.
In spite of his reluctance, Colvin fell under its spell.
Freda danced as gracefully as ever, and although the
woman was nothing to him, he found it impossible not
to enjoy the perfect conception of time and rhythm
of such a partner. They did not speak, simply danced
on and on until the music stopped.
“Ah! That was dancing!” exclaimed Colvin,
speaking naturally and freely for the first time. “ Your
choice was an inspiration, Mrs. Whitefield.”
She looked back at him, unsmiling; there was an
odd, excited glitter in her eyes.
“I am glad you found it so. But I have another in-
spiration. We did not half finish our conversation at
your hotel yesterday morning. Won't you come to my
sitting-room a few minutes? I am sure I can make
myself clearer than I did then, and explain not only
my unfortunate mistake, but — several other things.”
She was his hostess; there was nothing to do but


192
THE HORNET'S NEST
acquiesce. But even if there had been a loophole of
escape, it is doubtful if Colvin would have accepted
it. There was a sense of fatality upon him. If this
were the moment to try conclusions with her, then let
it come, and have it over with. It was, therefore, in
the spirit of the gamester who, with a “hunch” that
the spinning ball will fall against him, yet resolutely
plays the red or black his game calls for, that he fol-
lowed Freda to her sitting-room.
As he entered, he looked about him with a quicken-
ing of interest and surprise. He remembered it well
as the conventional, chintz-bright, flower-sweet, photo-
graph-strewn boudoir of a pretty woman.
But what a difference now! Arachne's web. Low-
toned, soft and dim, at first glance restful, and still
flower-sweet. Freda's love of saffron roses had never
been supplanted. There was a bowl of them on the ta-
ble beside Colvin's chair, and their petals were falling
on a small, wonderful, bronze tigress couchant, her
claws unsheathed, her lip drawn back from her teeth,
ready to spring — the eternal symbol of the ruthless,
treacherous, eternal feminine. It seemed the one defi-
nite note in an atmosphere of evasions. Fog! That
was the keynote of the room.
“Ah, you are admiring my bronze!” Freda was
leaning back in a long, low chair. “ I have some really
nice pieces. I must show them to you before you go."
“Your room is very interesting," he replied. “A
person's environment is so apt to be an expression of
character, don't you think? ”
“Ye-es.” She looked at him a little suspiciously,
as if divining some deeper meaning in his tone, but
failing to grasp it. “I suppose most people have
more than one side to their natures."


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THE HORNET'S NEST
was still secure. She swayed toward him. Her voice
was low, quick, touched with feeling.
“Ah, you are one of the few people who understand.
It is easy to talk to you, to tell you something that I
want you to know. I'm not just droning on about
myself; I will get somewhere in a moment if you will
be patient with me. I suppose I am a very rash
woman; I know that I am a very feminine one, for
I always follow my instincts and intuitions. And my
intuition is to trust you, and my instinct is to confide
in you.” She smiled her sweet, slow, siren smile.
“I am more than flattered, I am honored." He was
taking his cues more easily now.
“Very well, then. My confidence, even if it bores
you, will at least explain as nothing else could do my
action of yesterday morning.” For the first time there
was a trace of nervousness in her manner. “ There is
a dear boy, Ollie Darnton; perhaps you have met him.
It is absurd, of course, but during the last year he has
rather lost his head about me. It is only fair to my-
self to say that I did my best to show him the folly of
it, even while I could not help feeling the sweetness
of the tribute. You know, a woman becomes accus-
tomed to that sort of thing; but she only appreciates
it when she realizes the flight of time, sees that her
beauty is subject to change —” She shivered, and
broke off. There was a film over her eyes, tragedy in
her tightened mouth. But after a moment she con-
trolled herself, and went on.
“ To be brief, Ollie has no business ability; he is a
child about money, and last spring he managed to get
into very serious financial difficulties. The market
broke wrong for him. He had been foolish — And
I- I let him pawn my sapphires. His father re-


196
THE HORNET'S NEST
There was no doubt in his mind of the sincerity of
her words, and although she did not move him, she
made him miserably uncomfortable and unhappy. He
was so indifferent to her that her personal distress
meant little to him; but as she said, she was a woman
in a desperate position, making a desperate appeal to
him, and he was of a nature which could not be deaf
to an appeal from any human being without feeling
the impulse to help and assuage.
There was no satisfaction in this achievement of a
completed revenge; no triumph in seeing her suffer
what he might, after the manner of men, regard as
a just retribution. The primitive emotion of the
wronged and wounded creature to wrong and wound
in turn had never had much place in his soul, and what
little existed had long ago burned itself out. He
struggled to be philosophical. Freda's abasement was
one of those inevitable things which any one with a
penetrating insight into life must have foreseen. The
mills of the gods were grinding, that was all; but he
profoundly wished that he might have been spared
the spectacle.
His resentment against the “Hornet" flared again.
He wished to heaven that Freda had not so inexpli-
cably tangled the situation by placing her sapphires
to the “Hornet's ” hand, and that the latter had for
once resisted his professional impulse to appropriate
them.
“Mrs. Whitefield,” he said, “what you think, or do
not think about my collusion in the theft of your jewels
is immaterial to me. I am no more insulted by your
suspicions than I would be pleased by your faith in me.
But this you must believe; that it is quite out of my
power to aid you in recovering your lost stones. If I


THE HORNET'S NEST
197
had the best will in the world, it would still be im-
possible.”
She gave a little suppressed cry which turned into a
moan, and twisted her hands together. She did not
believe him. His words in a way served to convince
her that he knew more, much more than he was will-
ing to admit. She felt that she had failed so far be-
cause she had not used the right method; but when it
came to methods, there were more than one. She
raised her eyes. Beyond Ashe, and facing her, was a
long, narrow mirror in a faded, antique frame. In
this subdued room, where the lights were so softly
shaded that they shone as warmly dim as the sun
shrouded in mist, her image wavered, shadowy but
still lovely, alluringly lovely.
“That means," she said slowly, “ that you will not
help me. No judge could have given me a more terri-
ble sentence.” Her voice was even; then she broke
suddenly. “Oh, my punishment is too great!”
She was still sincere enough, but the sincerity was
calculated now, employed to produce a definite effect.
“Mr. Vernon, do you remember that terrible and
true line of Oscar Wilde's, “And each man kills the
thing he loves '? I wonder if many lives are doomed
to such a horrible realization of it as mine?”
She had not asked the question of him, but he an-
swered it. His chin was lifted, his face was very cold,
his mouth was stern.
“I do not know, Mrs. Whitefield. I am not your
father confessor.”
“You are very harsh,” she sobbed; "and yet you
must, you must listen to me. There was a man once
whom I loved with all my heart — But circumstances
came up — The price I had to pay for loving him


198
THE HORNET'S NEST
was too high.” She bent her head on her hands, lier
voice was broken by her weeping. “To save myself,
I ruined him. I do not know where he is ...
whether he's dead or alive. ... I only know that
I've paid. I've paid through every day, and year, and
hour since. I've paid with my soul's remorse, with an
unceasing ache of my heart.”
And now he was to reckon with a new and un-
dreamed-of element — the vitality of memory. She,
the woman, could not reach him; but these unloosed
forces of pent feeling, the emotion vibrating through
the room, created an atmosphere which reacted on his
nerves, and vivified the buried past. His mind
thronged with pictures. He lived again the scenes of
the night when she had come to him in her weakness,
her fear and her love, and had left him bankrupt in
friends, honor, and hope. He felt stifled, smothered.
The very air seemed heavy with old regrets and re-
bellious and passionate longings. His impression of
fog in the room increased.
She had fallen on her knees before him. Her poign-
ant face, her streaming eyes, were lifted to his.
“ Oh, isn't there any forgiveness for me," she cried;
“anywhere?"
The years were dissolved. His old memories and
his present consciousness made union. So had her
face looked that night when anguished, tear-wet, it
had lain on his breast, and she had betrayed him with
a kiss. His breath came in short, sharp pants. There
were drops of sweat on his forehead. His teeth were
clenched. His voice came through them in a strident,
labored whisper.
“You can't play it on me again, Freda. Never
again.”


THE HORNET'S NEST
199
“Oh! Oh!” With a deep, tearing, gasping
breath, she was on her feet. There was both terror
and triumph in her eyes. Half-cowering away from
him, she still stared as if fascinated.
"I knew it! I have known it ever since we danced
together. You are Ashe Colvin.”
He had a chaotic moment — that terrible minute in
the game of life when by one foolish move we lose the
stakes on which our very soul is set. With Ashe this
was quickly followed by the imperative impulse to re-
trieve. He bent all the strength of his will to re-
sist the discouragement and bewilderment he felt.
This was no time to weaken. He looked back at her
steadily — faintly smiling — lifted his shoulders with
an essentially Latin shrug, and spread his hands palm
outward.
“ You should see your doctor, Mrs. Whitefield.
Your nerves are playing tricks on you."
He realized that it was weak; but it gave him time
to think, and also put the next move up to her.
Freda did not answer, merely threw back her head
with impatient contempt. Then she sat down, and
leaning her cheek on her hand, thought deeply.
Finally she looked up at him, and spoke abruptly.
“Mr. Vernon — I'll continue to call you that — I've
got to have those sapphires. Got to! I don't very
much care how.” She held his eyes, and there was
a significance in hers which he could not for the mo-
ment decipher. “I do not have to rely on my prayers
to you to help me get them. You and Fletcher Hemp-
stead do not hold all the trumps. For instance, there
is the girl!”
He suppressed the exclamation that rose to his lips;
but in spite of his determination to maintain an iron


200
THE HORNET'S NEST
self-control, he started. There was an unmistakable
threat in her tone. He tried to convince himself that
it was only an hysterical attempt at " frightfulness”
on the part of an overwrought woman; but this was
futile. He had to realize that he was dealing with
that most subtle and dangerous creature on earth -
a woman inherently without a scruple, and a woman
cornered. In his own experience she had shown that
she would wreck any life, if by so doing she could pre-
serve and enhance her own interests.
“The girl? ” he repeated questioningly. The men-
tal maelstrom which her words had precipitated calmed
a bit. The fear which had clogged the free beating
of his heart eased. This woman was weak, shifting,
underhanded; Muriel was strong, quick-witted, con-
fident.
“Yes," and now her attitude became easier, more
relaxed; "my charming niece. As I told you yes-
terday morning, I can make it possible for you to see
a great deal of her. But,” she shook her head regret-
fully, but the vindictive gleam in her eyes belied the
regret, “ I'm afraid if you do not help me to get my
stones that I shall be so occupied with my own prob-
lems, that I - Well, that I might relax something of
my vigilant care of her. Of course one cannot fail
to realize in these days that the path of an heiress is
beset with dangers. Accidents — often fatal ones —
occur almost every day, and Muriel is so wilful, so dar-
ing."
Never before had Colvin known what it was to feel
a murderous instinct, but he comprehended it fully
now. He longed to strangle Freda, and leave her
gasping, dying upon the floor. His anger and his
contempt for her were so great and burned so fiercely


THE HORNET'S NEST
201
within him, that he wondered his glance did not
scorch her like flame, sear that white skin of hers, un-
til it blackened and charred before his eyes.
But almost it seemed to him as if some warning,
quieting voice repeated in his ear: “Don't give way!
Hold on to yourself! Play the game!”
“I think you will help me — Mr. Vernon.” Her
voice was softly confident.
The fog which had seemed to envelop him in this
dim and shaded room, and becloud his faculties, sud-
denly broke.
He deliberately took his cigarette case from his
pocket, opened it, and held it out to her. She de-
clined, and, “ with your permission," he lighted one
himself. He was standing with one hand resting on
the back of his chair. Lazily he watched the smoke
wreaths float away across the room.
“ I'm afraid, Mrs. Whitefield, that you forget your
interesting confidences of a few minutes ago. If I
were Ashe Colvin — the Ashe Colvin you say you
knew — I might respect those confidences. But Ver-
non's — different.
"Now listen to me,” he tossed away the cigarette
he had just lighted, and spoke with an icy, vitriolic in-
cisiveness. “If you permit the least harm to come to
Miss Fletcher, if even a hair of her head is injured,
I will lay bare the whole story of the sapphires. And,
as you intimated a few moments ago, it might cause the
authorities to view the circumstances of this mysteri-
ous robbery — and murder — from an entirely new
angle."
Without another word, without even a glance at her,
he left the room.
His one desire now was to see the “Hornet,” but


202
THE HORNET'S NEST
a tour of the rapidly thinning rooms convinced him
that the latter must have already left. He therefore
seized his coat and hat, jumped into a taxi, and was
back at his hotel, “ while one with moderate haste
might tell a hundred.” His intention was to send
Wimms at once to the “Hornet" with a note; but
Wimms inexplicably was not there awaiting him. So,
casting caution to the winds, and with an entire dis-
regard of instructions, he rang up the “Hornet's "
telephone number. But he called in vain; there was
no answer.


CHAPTER XV
THERE was a reason for Ashe's failure to elicit any
response to his persistent telephoning. The “ Hornet”
was absent not only from his rooms, but also from the
city. Another of his “irons in the fire" required at-
tention, so, leaving everything at loose ends, he had set
off posthaste to look after it.
When he left the Whitefield house the night of the
dance, and returned to his own obscure lodgings, his
one thought had been to get to bed. But as he turned
up the light in his bedroom, and began to draw off his
gloves, he saw a telegram lying upon his dressing ta-
ble, and paused abruptly to open and read it.
The contents seemed innocent enough, merely some
unimportant directions relating to the stock market;
but they served to arouse his interest.
Hurriedly he changed his clothes, and went out into
the streets again, alert, purposeful, forgetting his fa-
tigue. At a garage some eight or ten blocks away, he
found a man awaiting him, a short, thick-set man
whom the “ Hornet” called “ Buffalo."
“Where you been?” The latter grumbled. “I've
been hanging 'round this smelly old dump since before
midnight.”
The “Hornet” drew him aside, and for half an hour
they talked in undertones, the “Hornet” evidently in
the role of questioner, and requiring from the other
detailed and explicit answers.
Satisfied at last, he nodded, and stepping over to the


204
THE HORNET'S NEST
office of the garage, engaged a car and the services
of a chauffeur for a trip into the country. As they
whirled across town, and down to the ferry, the sun
was just gilding the tops of the tall buildings, and the
troops of early workers were beginning to invade the
streets.
Twenty minutes later they were in the open coun-
try, with wooded hills off on the horizon and an oc-
casional perspective of sparkling water, as from some
eminence they caught a glimpse of the bay. But the
“Hornet” had no mind for the beauties of nature.
Leaning back against the cushions, he drew the brim of
his soft hat down over his brow and closed his eyes,
although not for slumber. Exacting as the night had
been, he had if anything a still more exacting day ahead
of him, and he must lay his plans with caution.
For the two or three hours of the journey he main-
tained his reverie unbroken, scarcely even shifting his
position. Then as the motor drew up and stopped be-
fore the one inn of a little village down along the New
Jersey coast, he opened his eyes, and sat up.
“This is the place?” he asked, and receiving an
affirmative answer, got out, entered the inn, and have
ing found the dining-room where he was presently
joined by the chauffeur, they ordered and ate a hearty
breakfast. That finished, the “Hornet" sauntered
out to the desk, and idly and indifferently glanced
over the register. When he came to the name of Miss
Hazel Phillips, New York, his interest ceased, and he
turned to the hovering hotel proprietor to engage him
in some affable and apparently aimless conversation.
No, the proprietor informed him, business wasn't
overly brisk just at this season. There was the regu-
lars, of course, they stayed all year 'round; but this


206
THE HORNET'S NEST
“The voice is all right," she said. “But what have
you been doing to yourself — if it is really you?”
“You allude to the loss of my beauty spot?” He
touched his cheek. “An exigency required its disap-
pearance — temporarily. I'm young Lochinvar him-
self, though, all right. I've stayed not for brake, and
I've stopped not for stone to reach your side. Give
me the ‘once over again. Look into my eyes,
darling, and lose your fears.”
She followed his advice, searching; then she gave
a little exclamation expressing her admiration. “I
didn't know it could be done like that. But where
have you been?” She flashed a mocking glance at him.
"What has kept you? I've been looking for you to
show up every day for a week.”
“A week? Be exact, sister; be exact. Five days,
you mean; not seven.”
“Sure." She laughed amusedly. It happened as a
matter of fact to be just five days since by an in-
genious ruse she had got the Colvin papers from the
woman to whom Retta Johnson had at the last mo-
ment intrusted them.
As she sat there on the sand in her white serge skirt
and white sweater, with a black velvet tam on her
head, she appeared astonishingly young. She was a
small, slim creature, at once insouciant and appealing.
She had a delicate face with a tilted-up, little nose,
and a tilted-up, large mouth. Her hair, which was
light, and must once have been very flaxen, was brushed
off her brow and worn in a knot at the back of her
head. But her eyes were the striking feature of her
face —- large, gray-blue eyes, wells of innocence and
candor.
“Well — it certainly is good to see you again,”


208
THE HORNET'S NEST
He drew a leather case from his pocket, and took
out of it several small, flat, neatly-folded packets of
white, tissue paper. Then from another pocket he
brought a handkerchief, and spread it on her lap.
Opening one of the packets, he laid it before her on
the handkerchief.
“Oh!” She hung breathless over it, immovable.
Before she could recover herself, he opened another
white slip, and laid it beside the fire. Jewels! The
eternal lure which no woman can resist.
Upon her knees there gleamed a great, blue, Cash-
mere sapphire and a splendid diamond which caught
and held all the life and sparkle of the sea. Six, seven
of them he spread before her avid eyes, as she bent
over them hungrily, hypnotized and enchanted, in a
trance of admiration and covetousness.
At last she looked up at him. Her face was no
longer young; her eyes dewily innocent. Those eyes
were rapacious, the face sharp.
“For me?” she whispered. “For me?”
“For you," he replied; “ on one condition. Turn
over to me those papers you have, and I'll give you
these seven stones — the three diamonds and four
sapphires."
She studied the matter deeply. Then she turned
over the largest sapphire carefully with her finger.
“How many carats? ” she asked.
“ About seven.”
“And the value?”
“Eleven or twelve thousand dollars, I should say."
With the same careful finger she touched a diamond,
and asked the same questions, nodding as he answered
her.
She went through some mental calculations, pon-


THE HORNET'S NEST
209
dered a moment or so longer, and then slowly shook
her head.
“Not enough,” she said.
He raised his eyes to the sky, his most satirically
amused smile playing across his lips.
“Don't try to bargain with me, little one. I'm no
old clo' man. Take 'em, or leave 'em," he began to
gather up the jewels; “ that's all you get. Whitefield
only offers five thousand dollars for the luggage."
She looked at him for a second out of the corners
of her eyes, and burst into a peal of laughter so genu-
ine and infectious that the “Hornet” couldn't help
joining in.
“ Him?” Again her laughter pealed. “Why,
boy, he's going to be a perpetual meal-ticket to me.
He'll pension me for life, and be glad to."
The “Hornet” stopped laughing. “Never think
it, Hazel.” He shied a stone across the beach.
“Whitefield's no boob.”
But she only laughed the harder, and continued to
glance at him in that maddening fashion out of the
corners of her eyes.
“Do you know," the “Hornet” spoke casually, as
if he were commenting on some phenomenon quite un-
related to themselves, “ you rouse strange, contradic-
tory ideas in my breast? One moment I want to kiss
you; the next to drown you."
“ Too bad, you're not going to do either."
“ Don't be so sure.” He lifted himself on his el-
bow. "I may do both. You've been sidestepping con-
sequences for quite a stretch of years now, my dear;
but there's always bound to come a day, you know.
And I have a suspicion — almost an intuition, you
might call it — that yours is just about due.”


210
THE HORNET'S NEST
“Not by a long shot," she shook her head. “I'm
several calendars away from it yet.”
He straightened up, and faced about toward her.
“Now, look here, Hazel ; let's get down to business.”
“By all means,” she encouraged. “We've had the
hors d'æuvre now, and I guess we're both ready for
something solid. But I warn you, ‘Hornet,' you'll
have to go a little stronger than anything you've shown
me yet. I haven't much of an appetite for — just
threats.”
She still smiled, looking straight into his eyes, which
was a thing very few persons cared to do, when the
“ Hornet" was in his present mood. For one mo-
ment his expression had never been wickeder. Then
he relaxed, and lying back upon the sand, looked at her
with lazy admiration.
“You mean, I suppose," he said, " that if you
shouldn't show up in New York some day soon - say,
to-morrow or next day — that a certain package will
be delivered to Whitefield, and the reward claimed.
In other words, you arranged in advance for the un-
expected pleasure of my visit.”
“Marvellous !” She clasped her hands in mock ad-
miration. “Isn't that what Dr. Watson always said
to Sherlock Holmes?”
“Quite so. Quite so. But you may can these
spontaneous tributes to my genius for the present. It
doesn't 'intrigue my imagination,' as I read in a maga-
zine story the other day, at all. I am more concerned
just now in paying tribute to yours. Do you know,
Hazel, dear, outside of everything else, you are the one
woman I've ever known who didn't seize the first op-
portunity to tell me the story of her life?"
“Dear me! In the magazine language you have


212
THE HORNET'S NEST
“I had to earn my own living; so I looked over the
field, and studied the various ways which are open to
a woman. I could make a bare living with my hands
- cooking, sewing, or in somebody's office, or shop.
I could make a living with my looks, a good one prob-
ably — for a limited time. Or I could live on my
wits. That was the way I chose.
“ I took the little money I had brought to the city
with me, and spent it in qualifying myself for the job
of lady's maid. I learned hair-dressing, manicuring,
facial massage, and all that, and got a place in a big
house. Then I angled around until I got a fly cop for
my steady, a young ' dick’ from down at Headquar-
ters. From him, I learned all the dangers and possi-
bilities of the game I was aiming to play. Poor boy,
he never dropped for a minute to what I was really
after. Then, one night when I had everything fixed,
I cleaned out Madame's jewel case, and got away with
it. That was my start. Since then, I've just gone on.
That's all there is to it, “Hornet'; everything there is
to tell."
“ You little devil!” he grinned appreciatively.
“ How do you keep up that innocent, kid look, though?
You haven't changed a day since I saw you first, and
that must have been — Oh, at least six or seven years
ago."
He lay against the sun-warmed dune, and again
gazed out to sea. Occasionally, as she watched him,
she saw his eyes contract a bit. For fifteen minutes
perhaps he lay there, quite motionless, his attention ab-
sorbed apparently in following a distant sail.
Finally he gave signs of returning life. He turned
over on his side, and gave a chuckle of sinister amuse-
ment.


THE HORNET'S NEST
213
“ You're a wonder, Hazel,” he complimented her.
“Lord, if I wasn't sick of the rotten game, or if I were
ten years younger, I'd like nothing better than to go
into partnership with you. Believe me, we'd spoil the
Egyptians."
She didn't like his tone, and she didn't like that
chuckle. It was altogether too well satisfied. She
stirred a little restlessly, and shot another sidewise
glance at him.
“This is a dead hole,” she said uneasily. “I only
came down here because I thought it would be a good
safe place to hear what you had to say.”
“I think I spoke very eloquently,” he replied; "in
sapphires and diamonds. Look here, my child,” he
edged a bit nearer her, his tone grew earnest; “ I want
you to listen to me a moment, and think hard over what
I'm telling you. I am offering an extravagant price
for those papers. Honestly, they aren't worth a
tinker's dam to me personally. I'm only after them
to oblige a friend of mine. That's straight. You
know me, and you know that you can believe what I
say.
“Now just cast your eyes over them again." He
took the handkerchief from his pocket, and spread the
glittering jewels once more before her. “ Beauties,
aren't they ? Enough to dazzle any man's eyes, and
make any woman's mouth water. And further than
that,” he tapped the back of his hand with his fore-
finger to give emphasis to his words, “I'll pay you
five thousand cash to boot; put the money in your lit-
tle hand right now, if you say so.” He took a bill-
fold from the inside pocket of his coat, and opening
it, ruffled a great sheaf of bills with his fingers. From
among them, he drew out a dozen of large denomina-


214
THE HORNET'S NEST
tion, and laid them with the jewels. “Look 'em over,"
he said;" feel 'em.”
“ The finest sight in the world.” She clutched them
in her hands. “They touch almost as good as your
blue and white stones.”
" And it's all yours,” he urged. “Count it. A cool
five thousand in cash, and the seven stones. All yours,
the minute you turn over that package to me.”
She bit her lip, and stared out at the ocean, then
back again at the jewels in her lap and the money in
her hand. There was a burning greed in her eyes as
she huddled over the stones, avarice in the very way
she grasped the money.
“It's the only thing to do, Hazel,” he went on per-
suasively; "and in telling you that, I'm looking at the
proposition from your side as well as from my own.
If anybody could put the trick over on Whitefield, it's
you; but it's a mighty ticklish job, little girl, a mighty
ticklish job. He's no mark, my dear, but a smooth
old bird, as smooth as they make 'em; and more than
that, he's got the very best of 'em down at Headquar-
ters at his elbow. If they can't get you any other
way, they'll frame you; you know that, don't you?
It's too much of a gamble, dearie. Better take the sure
thing, and close with me.
" Besides,” his eyes narrowed, “there's another
slant to it, which you seem to have overlooked. If
you do business with Whitefield, you'll be double-cross-
ing me, and I've got a long memory, as you may
have heard. I've told you that those papers don't
mean anything to me, and they don't in one way. But
you surely don't imagine that I'm paying five thousand
and these stones for a bunch of soap wrappers. I want
that package for my partner — a poor devil that White-


THE HORNET'S NEST
215
field framed and did for fifteen years ago. They
mean the earth to him, Hazel, the whole round earth,
and all that's in it. Have a heart, girl. My God, have
a heart."
“Give me a cigarette,” she said abruptly, “I want
to think.” She took one from the case he offered her,
lighted it at the match he held for her, and then sat,
a hunched-up, little figure, smoking and staring off
across the waves.
When nothing remained of the cigarette but its cork
tip, she threw that away, straightened up, handed the
“Hornet” back his money, and motioned him to
gather up the jewels from her lap.
“You know I'd do a lot to oblige you, ‘Hornet,' ”
she lifted her guileless eyes, smiling sweetly, “and
ready-to-wear stones and ready-to-spend money are
mighty tempting. Also, what you say about the risks
and the danger I am chancing is all true. But you see,
this is just one of those cases which appeals to one's
professional pride. I've got my heart set on trimming
Whitefield. Everything else in sight is too dead easy."
She sighed with ennui.
Then she dropped her pose for a moment, and a
gust of almost stormy emotion swept her cool little
face.
“Hornet, it's a rotten life, as you said a bit ago.
I'm sick of it. You're all right, and I'd do a lot for
you; honest, I would. But whatever you'd offer
wouldn't be enough. You can't raise it, boy. White-
field, though! There's millions there. He'll pay, and
pay, and pay before I get through with him — that is,
if he falls for me at all.” She paused, and looked up
at him with a naive glance. “Think I can get him,
Hornet ?."


216
THE HORNET'S NEST
teli ched in
C.
“ You could get any man you go after," he said
brusquely; “even me.”
“I want the big coin,” her lips pouted resent fully;
“and I want it settled on me for life. No hand-outs
of five or ten thousand sandwiched in conditions. I'm
playing for a million, I tell you. Anything less is
chicken feed to me. It takes a million to satisfy me.”
“ And that won't long," cynically.
“ Then I'll get more. If you've got one million to
start on, you ought to make twenty. Bet you I could.”
“I'm not giving odds on what you could do, or what
you will do,” he returned. “All I want out of you
just now is to keep quiet. You've upset my calcula-
tions, and I've got to think — got to dope out a new
line of action. One way or another, I'm going to have
those papers, even if I have to break your neck to get
them.”
He dropped back again against the dune, and set-
tled himself to renewed meditations, while she sat
quietly awaiting the result.
“ All right!” he said at last. "I see my way clear,
without resorting to the painful necessity of garroting
you, or flinging you to the fishes. You've made things
deuced unpleasant for me, and are forcing me now to
a play that I'd give a farm to keep away from. But
I forgive you, Hazel; I forgive you.'
“That for your forgiveness !” She snapped her
fingers. “I think I understand this play you have in
mind. But don't make any mistake, Hornet; I'm not
asleep at the switch.”
He smiled upon her with a saurian benevolence.
“ Distrustful still?” He shook his head. “My dear,
I'm not going to raise a finger to interfere with your
delivery of those papers to Whitefield. Play your


CHAPTER XVI
THE “ Hornet” arose and dusted the sand from his
clothes.
“Well, now that that's settled, I must be getting
back to town." He glanced at his watch.
“What time is it?" she asked.
“A quarter after twelve.”
“Oh, then I must be going, too." She held out her
hand for him to help her up. “We can walk back to
the Inn together. Why don't you stay and take lunch-
con with me? ” she suggested, as they started off across
the sands.
The “Hornet" did not answer immediately. His
attention was focussed upon a small, mouse-like man
a hundred yards away along the beach.
What on earth, he wondered, could have brought
Wimms down there?
It cannot be said that his tried and faultless self-
control gave way. Neither by start, nor change of
expression did he betray himself even to the sharp eyes
of his companion; but there was a perceptible pause -
a hiatus, so to speak — in which a score of apprehen-
sive surmises and suspicions jumbled in his brain.
Then, as she repeated her invitation, he explained
regretfully that it would be impossible for him to ac-
cept.
“Sorry, my dear. There's nothing I would like
better. But, in the language of our calling, I've got
three fall-guys up in New York that I'm planning to


THE HORNET'S NEST
219
throw the hooks into this afternoon, and I can't afford
to let them get away.”
By this time the furtive figure of Wimms sidling
among the dunes like a crab was almost abreast of
them.
“ Also," said the “Hornet,” raising his voice
slightly, “another fellow wants to see me — one of
those human pests who are always turning up at the
wrong time — and I suppose I shall have to stop and
give him a few minutes on my road back to town. So,
you see, Hazel, this is my busy day."
He laughed lightly, and glanced toward Wimms who
was just passing. Neither gave the slightest sign of
recognition; it was the mere impersonal scrutiny of
strangers which they bent upon one another. Wimms
continued on his way up the beach; the “Hornet” and
Miss Phillips toward the Inn.
There was nothing in the “Hornet's” easy flow of
repartee, as they walked on, to indicate that he was
either preoccupied or perplexed; and yet he was both.
His Aippant banter with the girl was but a thing of the
surface; underneath, he was trying to puzzle out the
reason for Wimms's unexpected appearance.
That it was to see and talk with him, he could not
doubt; no other errand could have brought the valet
down to this out-of-the-way village and lonely stretch
of shore. He knew, too, or thought he knew, that
Wimms would never have followed him in such a man-
ner, unless it were a matter of immediate importance.
Colvin must have sent him, and Colvin, who was
neither rash nor impulsive, would not have done so,
except in the case of some pressing exigency. More-
over, “Buffalo" was the only person from whom
Wimms could have gained a knowledge of his present


220
THE HORNET'S NEST
whereabouts, and “ Buffalo ” would have been ex-
tremely chary about giving such information even to
Wimms, unless he were thoroughly convinced of the
urgency of his mission. The circumstance, there-
fore, could mean but one of two things — either a
warning to him, or an S. O. S. call for assistance.
So pleading the necessity of haste in getting back to
town, he said good-by to Hazel Phillips, and was
whirled away. A short distance down the road,
though, he halted his car, and telling the chauffeur
to wait for him, once more set off toward the shore.
Nearing the ocean, his eye raked the wastes of sand.
The beach was almost deserted; a few children dug
and built castles, and one or two women sat and
watched them, but there was not a man in sight. The
“Hornet" swore under his breath; but even as he did
so, Wimms made one of his sudden, disconcerting
materializations, coming out from behind a dune.
The“ Hornet” took a hasty step or two toward him.
“What's up?” he demanded sharply. “Did Vernon
send you after me?"
“Mr. Vernon? Oh, no; not at all, sir." Wimms
shrank back apologetically, almost timidly. “I caine
quite on my own.”
“ You did, eh? You trailed me down here like
this? What the devil did you mean by it? Was it so
important that you couldn't wait ? ”
The “ Hornet's " eyes were as savage as his voice,
and Wimms shrivelled to even smaller proportions un-
der that double fire.
“ Important? Well, yes, sir; in a way, quite so,"
he endeavored to speak placatingly. “I couldn't bear
to think of ready money — pick-up money, you might
say — slipping through my fingers, and that would


THE HORNET'S NEST
221
have been the case, sir, if I hadn't got to see you. So,
as the risk really wasn't great, I took a chance."
The “Hornet's” first feeling was one of relief.
And with the relief he was stirred to a sense of curios-
ity. What had the little wretch in mind? Wimms
would never have dared such an expedition unless there
was something big in sight, something eminently worth
while.
“ Money would have to slip mighty fast to get
through your fingers,” his lip twisted; " but just what
ready money are you talking about, may I ask? Don't
take all day to spin it out, either. I've got to be off.”
“It's a little matter of fifteen thousand cash, sir,
and —”
“Fifteen thousand !” The “Hornet's” voice
rasped with quick irritation. “Who told you to go
prospecting off on any such lay-out? This is no time
for a job on the side.”
“ Certainly not, sir," Wimms agreed hastily. “But
you see, the lady that called on Mr. Vernon day before
yesterday, she told me —”.
“ Ah? The lady that called on Mr. Vernon? ” in-
terrupted the “Hornet" again, looking at him with
new interest. “How the dickens did you get to talk-
ing with her?”
“Just a word, sir; just a word. It was when the
visit of the Inspector rather took her and Mr. Vernon
unaware, as you might say. He hurried her out into
the room where I was replacing some clothes in his
wardrobe, and closing the door, left us alone together.
She was in trouble, that was plain to be seen, sir; and
I'm very tender-hearted — chivalrous is perhaps the
better word — I always like to know what ails 'em,
and be of help if I can. I suppose, sir, she felt my


THE HORNET'S NEST
223
ways apt to turn up at any minute. How was I to
know that those stones might not come into my hands?
To quiet the lady, I promised to call on her at three
o'clock that afternoon, but of course I didn't go. In-
stead, I rang her up on the 'phone and told her that
I had not as yet been able to get my hands on her stones,
but not to worry, as I undoubtedly would have them
for her, probably within a day or so, certainly before
the end of the week.”
The “ Hornet" stared at the mouse man. It was
quite beyond him to understand this incongruity of
spirit and flesh which Wimms so strikingly exempli-
fied.
" It takes a good deal to faze me," he said, “but,
Wimms, I'll have to hand it to you. As a player of
long shots, I've never met your equal. Yet why these
promises to the lady, and why do you come with them
to me?” He frowned. “Surely, you're not seri-
ously proposing the surrender of those sapphires —
worth a king's ransom,- for a mere fifteen thousand
dollars? It must be that you are afflicted with the
artistic imagination, Wimms, also with the artistic
temperament. The artist is notoriously a poor busi-
ness man. Still I have never discovered any symptoms
of the sort in you hitherto, and I am loth to believe in
it now. So, if you have any explanation or defense to
offer, I shall be delighted to listen. Please advise me
clearly and without circumlocution - in words of one
syllable, so to speak — just what you are driving at.”
The valet cocked an eye at him with a respectfully
impudent air peculiarly his own.
“ It's just a feeling with me, sir, a matter of princi-
ple in a way. As I tell you, I can't bear to see good
money slip away from me. If fifteen thousand dollars


226
THE HORNET'S NEST
Wimms looked bewildered. “I'm sure, I wish I
had your past, sir. You always got the fat without
burning your fingers.”
The “Hornet,” however, was not listening. His
eyes became more concentrated. Finally he lifted his
head.
"If I've got to take one shot,” he muttered cryptic-
ally, “I might as well take another."
“You see, sir, there's absolutely no risk,” insinuated
Wimms at his elbow. “When the lady finds out that
she hasn't got her jewels, nor her money either, what
can she do about it? Her hands are tied.”
“ Just so. What a clear, concise way you have of
putting things. Far be it from me to adopt any holier-
than-thou attitude, Wimms, but I must remind you that
I am not of the gold-brick brotherhood. Cheer up,
though,” as Wimms's face took on a tinge of deep de-
jection; "there are more ways than one of killing a
cat."
He paused, as if considering a moment longer; then
his queer, twisted smile flashed over his lips. He had
evidently reached a determination.
“Tell you what, Wimms, there's only one way to
manage this that will be satisfactory to everybody.”
Wimms looked at him, still bewildered, but hopeful
now.
“How is that, sir?"
The “Hornet” explained.
“ You, Wimms, shall return the lady her sapphires.
A splendid deed that, true chivalry thus to restore sev-
eral hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels to
beauty in distress. It ought to appeal highly to that
knightly soul you were boasting of a few minutes ago.
Then everybody's happy. Ah!” he rolled up his eyes,


THE HORNET'S NEST
227
“playing god of the machine does have its compensa-
tions after all.”
Wimms, however, failed to betray any great degree
of enthusiasm. On the contrary, as the “Hornet"
unfolded his plan, he appeared at once to contract and
collapse. His mouth fell open, and he stared as if he
thought that the other had taken leave of his senses.
“But — but —” he stammered incoherently a mo-
ment. Then, recovering himself in a measure, he
voiced a vehement, if still outwardly respectful protest.
“But, sir, that would be really letting the lady have
her stones for the fifteen thousand. And, as you've
said, they're worth a half a million. I beg your par-
don, sir, but I can't see it. It don't seem reasonable,
sir. It ain't in nature. Now, if you would only —”
“ Don't worry," the “ Hornet” cut in with an im-
patient gesture; “I know what I'm about. You go
ahead as I tell you; pocket our fifteen thousand, and
leave the rest to me. There is, however, one stipulation
I want to make,” and strangely enough it was the same
sort of a request he had made of Hazel Phillips only a
short time before. “I must dictate the time and the
place at which you will turn over to the lady her jew-
els. Do you understand ?”
“Perfectly, sir.” With the “ Hornet's” assurance,
Wimms had resumed his normal manner and expres-
sion. His faith in human nature, and in the “ Hor-
net's " quality of human nature was fully restored.
“ Very good, sir. Much obliged, I am sure.”
" And now," the “Hornet" frowned as he looked
at his watch, “I must get back to town. You'd better
take the train, Wimms. I won't offer you a seat in my
car. No need of taking any chances of being seen
together.”


228
THE HORNET'S NEST
“Quite so, sir.”
They parted, and ten minutes later the “Hornet's ".
motor was making such speed along the road leading
back toward the city as its engine and the occasional
proximity of a rural constable permitted.


THE HORNET'S NEST
231
lady's training alone, not her inclination, prevented
her from driving her nails into your face.”
"I wish I could think so,” Colvin answered. “My
reason tells me you are probably right, and that is all
there is to it, but — The long and short of it is that
I've lost my nerve."
“I can tell you how to get it back, neatly spiking
her guns, and insuring full protection for the person
you are chiefly concerned about, if you want to know.”
“How ? ” demanded Colvin skeptically.
“Why, by simply marrying the girl," returned the
“Hornet.” “Wouldn't that accomplish all I say?"
There was no answer. The “Hornet" waited until
a full minute had gone by, then ventured a tentative
“Hello!” but only as he spoke heard the receiver at
the other end of the wire hung up. So, with a chuckle,
he turned back to his work.
But his words had not fallen upon barren ground.
Twenty minutes later, Colvin, after much hurried pac-
ing of the floor, turned to the telephone again, and call-
ing up the Whitefield house, asked for Miss Fletcher
on the bare chance that he would find her in. He was
fortunate. In a moment she herself was answering
him.
“Will you give me ten minutes of your time within
the next hour?” he asked, throwing caution to the
winds. Then, as she hesitated, he added: “It really
is important. Please say you will." His tone was
deeply serious.
“I was just about to start for a walk in the Park,
when you called,” she said.
“ And you will let me join you there, will you not?
I'll jump into a cab, and come up at once, if you'll
tell me where I shall be most apt to find you,"


232
. THE HORNET'S NEST
“Oh, I daresay I shall be sauntering about in one of
the paths near the Seventy-second Street entrance."
“Good,” he returned. “I'll be there almost as soon
as yourself.”
It was now five o'clock, and the dusk had already
fallen. The light had gone from the sky; it seemed to
brood, all smoky depths, just above the treetops.
There was no breeze, but although the air was still, it
held the blood-stirring, autumn tingle.
Muriel had not reached the Mall when Colvin, true
to his promise of arriving almost as soon as she did,
overtook her. She evidently recognized his step, for
she smiled over her shoulder at him.
“Dear me!” she exclaimed, as she looked up into
his face. “It must be something tremendously impor-
tant. Even our familiar shadows seem shocked at the
audacity you are showing." She glanced back at the
two detectives loitering in the distance.
“But really,” her tone changed, as she noticed that
he did not smile at her flippancy, “has anything an-
noying happened? I know, you see, that when you
bother, it must be something worth bothering about.”
“I think it is,” he answered gravely. “I am both-
ering about the only thing in the whole world worth
bothering over — and that is you."
“Me?” she cried, glancing up at him in surprise.
They had reached the end of the Mall, and turned now
into one of the narrower paths. The twilight was
deepening. Only an occasional passer-by noticed them,
and then went on, indifferent and preoccupied. The
trailing detectives hovered a decorous distance to the
rear. In her dark walking dress and furs, and against
the dull and dim background, Muriel's face gleamed
vivid and warmly-tinted as an hibiscus flower.



Her glance was full of a quizzical mockery. Page 233.


THE HORNET'S NEST
233
As Colvin gazed at her, it seemed to him that the
whole scene symbolized in a way what life now meant
to him. An illusory, vaporous world with neither dis-
tinct outlines nor meanings, static, with all its vibrating,
effulgent force centered in this girl. And she was
menaced by an evil power — weak, mean, but still a
power. The sudden clutch of fear at his heart stag-
gered him. He had known that he loved her, but not
like this.
“Muriel,” he said abruptly, “will you marry me?
I mean to-day, at once, as soon as I arrange for a
license and a clergyman.”
She stopped in the path, and looked at him. For a
second her glance was full of a quizzical mockery, and
then the earnestness, the solemnity almost, of his ex-
pression sobered her.
“What is it?" she asked quickly. “Something has
happened. Last night you positively refused to marry
me, and now this afternoon you take my breath away
by asking me to do so at once. I thought it was only
we women who had the privilege of changing our minds
rapidly in such matters.”
“Oh, don't,” he said with an impatient movement of
the hand,“ don't begin to jest and fence with me now.
Last night, considering the position in which I stand to
the world, and solely for your own sake, I felt that
all the decency, all the manhood in me required me to
refuse to let you sacrifice yourself for what might be
only a girlish impulse. But circumstances, events which
occurred after I talked to you, have changed my point
of view. Oh!” he swept off his hat with a large, irri-
tated movement, and ruffled his hand over his fore-
head. “What is the use of going into all sorts of
futile explanations? ” His eyes had never been harder


234
THE HORNET'S NEST
to withstand, his smile was never more persuasive.
“Won't you, can't you love me enough to marry me
now?”
“But it was only last night —”
“Don't,” he repeated. “The immediate question
is _"
“The immediate question with me," she interrupted
him in turn, “is that you refused to marry me last
night, and now, not twenty-four hours later, are urging
me to do so. And your only explanation is a vague
hint of circumstances which have risen. Don't you
think I have a right to know what these circumstances
which have occasioned such a startling change of heart,
may be?”
With her natural directness, she had asked just that
one question which he had hoped she would not.
" Please be content to let that rest for the present."
he begged. “If I promise to tell you at some future
day, won't that do? Take my assurance that I am
doing the wisest thing for us both, and let your femi-
nine curiosity go by the board for once.”
"No," she said, and with a sinking of the heart he
saw her mouth shut in a close line. Her eyes, as she
lifted them to his, were opened more widely than usual,
and full of a laughing fire, but the laughter was only of
the surface.
“No,” she repeated; "anything I do, especially any-
thing so momentous as getting married, I do with my
eyes open. And I know that something of the utmost
importance must have occurred to cause your —”.
“If you say, 'change of heart' again,” he brought
his face down close to hers, his eyes as determined as
her own, “I'll either slap you or kiss you, I don't
know which.”


THE HORNET'S NEST
235
She laughed. “But the circumstances ? "
He drew an exasperated sigh through his teeth.
“ You're driving me to become a cave man. I don't
want to argue. I want you to marry me. I'll carry
you off in about ten minutes."
Her laughter rang out louder. “You'd have a fine
time, playing cave man here in the Mall with a remark-
ably husky young woman, and our shadows'dodging
back there just around the bend. Come; tell me the
worst.”
His patience was at an end. He capitulated.
“ Muriel, you must believe me. There are certain
dangers which threaten you. They are intangible, but
only the more terrifying on that account. You need
some one to protect and defend you. Oh, my dearest,
listen to reason, listen to me.”
“Dangers ?” She considered that a moment.
“ Threatening me? Absurd. Let me relieve your
mind, Mr. Vernon. I am sure that I'm in no such
need of protection that you must sacrifice yourself to
the extent of marrying me. Of course, Uncle William
would be delighted if I were smashed up in a nice
accident, or something like that, but he'd never attempt
to bring it about. Oh, I know," with a sudden illumi-
nation, “it's Freda who has been frightening you.
She's probably been trying to make you believe
that she's got a convenient Apache in the background
who wouldn't hesitate at a word from her to garrote
me, or put poison in my food. That's her idea of
drama. Bah! She's the last person that I'm afraid
of. Truly, Mr. Vernon, I'm as safe in that house as I
would be in a church. Don't get any foolish, excited
ideas about me."
He walked on beside her, his head bent. Probably


THE HORNET'S NEST
237
It was the difference between the man's and the
woman's point of view. Hers: If he is to convince
me that he really cares, it must be “ all for love and the
world well lost.” His: “I could not love thee, dear,
so much loved I not honor more.” They might argue
and explain forever, and not cast even a straw across
that gulf of opposite viewpoints.
And now for him to come to her thus, for her to see
fear accomplish what she and her love could not do,
was unbearable. It made no difference that it was fear
for her and not for himself. She felt that she would
rather die than let him see how she suffered, and yet it
was with difficulty that she kept back her tears.
He divined something of her thought, but what could
he say? If it had all to be gone over again, he could
not have altered his attitude, nor taken a different one.
A Scotch mist had begun to fall, blurring still more
the now almost indistinguishable features of the land-
scape. To Colvin it seemed as if the fog which had
permeated Freda's room the night before encompassed
him more densely than ever. It had spread until it
dimmed the sunshine in which, to his fancy, Muriel
always stood, and blotted out his vision of the future.
From that dark, doubting world of shadow, in which he
had lived so long, it stretched cold, vaporous fingers
whose touch chilled his heart. He struggled against it.
“I've loved you with every hope of the future, every
beautiful dream of the past,” he said brokenly. “ I've
loved you as I never dreamed I could love a human
being, with a passion, a strength, a tenderness I didn't
know it was in me to feel. And you loved me last
night.” He bent his head, his words coming quickly,
ardently. “You can't change so quickly, you can't.
Muriel, you're judging me from the standpoint of the


CHAPTER XVIII
WHATEVER virtues Hazel Phillips may have lacked,
punctuality was not one of them. Having made an
appointment to meet Mr. Whitefield in person — she
would negotiate with no one else — she was at his of-
fice at half-past eleven o'clock, precisely to the minute.
Whitefield, when her name was brought in, glanced
at the clock in surprise; ladies of the class to which he
had mentally assigned his visitor were not usually so
prompt.
He nodded, however, as an indication to the messen-
ger that she was to be admitted, pushed aside some
papers upon which he was engaged, and swung about
in his swivel chair.
When Miss Phillips entered a moment later, his eyes,
piercingly keen and intent under their bushy brows,
subjected her to a brief but comprehensive analysis
which left no detail of her appearance or characteristics
unnoted. Again he felt a touch of surprise, this time
not unmixed with gratification. He shifted his gaze
slightly, and settled back in his chair.
He had, indeed, very much the same feeling of relief
and relaxation that the wolf must have experienced at
the trusting approach of Little Red Riding Hood.
This was so restfully easy.
And, to tell the truth, nothing could have looked less
formidable than Miss Phillips. She was so obviously
young, and simple, and plain. As he looked at her,
Whitefield felt the necessity of readjusting his mental
focus. He had had in mind a picture gallery of ac-


244
THE HORNET'S NEST
attractions, although she possessed them, were not ob-
vious, and — he noted with another comprehensive
look — she minimized, rather than emphasized them.
That inconspicuous blue serge, well-worn, though
not exactly shabby, was hardly the uniform of a vam-
pire, nor that black velvet tam on her pale hair, nor the
plain, blue shirtwaist buttoned up to the throat. No
ornaments. The only touch of coquetry lay in the
thin silk stockings, the smart little shoes.
The result, however, was so attractive, so appeal-
ingly fresh and ingenuous, that Whitefield wondered if
it were not the same old siren in a more effective and
piquant masquerade. The demureness of Priscilla is
sometimes the most subtle form of coquetry.
There was, though, according to his experience, one
way that you could always find out what you wished
to know - by getting them to talk about themselves.
That absorbing topic was a certain avenue to self-reve-
lation.
“I hope you are in earnest,” he nodded at her with
one of his more amiable expressions. “ It would per-
haps be a very wise thing for you to confide in me.
You are a bright girl, and, I should say, an ambitious
one, and with my experience and knowledge of the
world, I might be able to advise and help you. Tell
me something about yourself. Have you any business
or profession?"
“The business of making a living," she answered.
“ Yes; most of us have that. But in what especial
way?”
Her nose crinkled slightly, her whole face was irrad-
iated with the smile of a naughty child.
“I live by my wits," she said. “It is very stimu-
lating. It develops one's faculties enormously.”


THE HORNET'S NEST 245
Whitefield found himself immensely diverted.
“So?” he laughed; then matching her frankness of
speech with his own:“What sort of a crook are you?
Shoplifter, pickpocket, confidence woman, or black-
mailer?”
He was suddenly aware that all this outer semblance
of hers, the simplicity of manner, the inconspicuous
appearance, was deceptive. Her individuality was so
strong and vivid that she masked it for her own pur-
poses. And, as she answered his question, he realized
that he had been guilty of stupidity. He should have
understood that she was a personage in her own world,
whatever that world was.
She swept aside his "shoplifter, pickpocket, black-
mailer” with a distasteful movement of the hand.
“I am a crook, if you will, but none of those other
contemptible things. To apply them to me is like ask-
ing you if you keep a peanut stand, or cry, 'Ol' clo'!'
along the street, or trundle a pushcart. I am some-
thing of an expert, you must understand, something of
a specialist. I plan things, and negotiate big deals
like this with persons who are worth while, like your-
self.”
" Just so," he smiled wryly. “ Birds that are worth
the plucking — like me. But go on. You were about
to tell me your story."
"No," she shook her head. “There's no reason
why I should gratify the impertinent curiosity of you
or any one else on that score. But," and now she
smiled with a winning candor, “I would like to tell
you my ambitions."
Whitefield nodded, and settled himself to listen.
Now, he felt sure he would get a line on her, as he
phrased it to himself, would be able to discover her


246
THE HORNET'S NEST
weak spots, and decide how best to cope with her.
“I am fairly well educated as those things go," she
began her revelation; "books, facts, and all that. But
I'm a lot better educated in life and human nature.
I'm quick, mentally and physically, too; I'd never have
gotten where I am, if I wasn't. But I'm ambitious —
Oh, very ambitious. I don't want to continue a crook,
It would be no satisfaction to me, for instance, to black-
mail you out of five or ten thousand dollars, and then
sit down in stupid, unthinking luxury, until the money
was all spent, and I would have to look around for a
new victim. No; that sort of thing doesn't interest me
any more than your picayune reward does. I've got
to have an interest, an occupation, an aim in life; and
in my efforts to rise in the world, I need the advice of
a man like you who juggles millions, who thinks in the
large. I want to be able to come and consult with you,
to talk over my plans, and have you counsel and direct
me. As a consideration for that direction and advice,
I will let you have the Colvin papers for fifty thousand
dollars cash. Without the advice, my price is one hun-
dred thousand.”
Whitefield rested his hands on the arms of his chair,
and leaned forward, as if to get a better look at her.
“My dear young woman,” he said, “have you just
escaped from a'lunatic asylum?"
“That's immaterial, isn't it," she retorted, with her
irresistible laugh; “ so long as I have the papers, and
hold them at a certain figure."
He capitulated. In his intense relief at the prospect
of getting those damning papers back in his own hands,
he was disinclined to haggle, even though her demands
had been twice as exorbitant as they were. Anyhow,
he told himself, it was worth something merely to have


THE HORNET'S NEST
247
met and talked with the oddly original Miss Phillips.
Her idea of throwing off fifty thousand dollars in re-
turn for his consent to act as her guide, philosopher,
and friend, struck him as intensely amusing. Not in
years had anything so tickled his sense of humor as
the mingled naïveté and audacity of her proposal.
He swung around to his desk, took out his private
checkbook, began to write in it, and then paused with
his pen poised. He had intended to fill out a check for
one hundred thousand dollars as an evidence to her
that the money would be forthcoming on the delivery of
the papers. But a sudden thought came to him.
“ Suppose,” he questioned her, “I should accept this
proposal of yours, and agree to give you my advice and
direction, what is your idea ? How, for instance,
would you employ the fifty thousand dollars I am to
pay you? Go down, and try to clean up the Street,
eh? Expect to make a killing on the tips that I could
give you? Is that it?”
“I want to be your pupil,” she said with charming
deference. “I believe I have business ability, and I
want to prove it — to prove that I am not merely a
clever crook, but can stand for something and be worth
while in the decent world, as well. Believe me, I will
not be a bother or nuisance to you, Mr. Whitefield.
On the contrary, I'm willing to bet that you will find
me a help.”
“By Jove!” he cried. “I'll take a chance on you.
Let's settle the business in hand first, though. When
and where do I get those papers ?”
She hesitated a moment. True to her promise, she
had communicated with the “Hornet” that morning,
telling him of her appointment with Whitefield, and in
return had received his instructions. She believed that


248
THE HORNET'S NEST
she had fathomed the purpose back of those instruc-
tions, and she was questioning now whether it lay more
to her advantage to follow or disregard them.
The “ Hornet" was hardly a safe person to antago-
nize or trick. Invariably playing straight himself, the
“ double cross" was in his category the one unpardon-
able sin. Yet, on the other hand, Whitefield would be
as quick to detect and resent any evidence of crooked
dealing, and her destiny now seemed bound up with
his.
In the end, she decided to abide by her agreement
with the “Hornet” for the present, ready to throw
him over, however, at any moment it seemed advisable
to do so, and trusting to her cleverness to extricate her-
self from any difficulties which might arise. She
would at least have that big, white diamond he had
shown her. That was perhaps the determining factor
in her calculations.
"I won't be able to get the package to you before
this evening,” she told Whitefield. “And it will be a
little late at that. Let me see; you'll probably be at
home after six, won't you? Suppose, then, I agree to
be at your house with the papers at exactly half-past
six o'clock?"
He expressed some dissatisfaction at this arrange-
ment; but she insisted that it was the best she could do.
So, rather than let the matter go over to another day,
he assented.
That settled, he finished making out the check he had
started to write, filling in the amount for fifty thousand
dollars, and with the promise that he would have it
cashed and ready for her upon the delivery of the pa-
pers, held it out for her inspection.
“Quite a sum of money all at once, young lady," he


THE HORNET'S NEST
249
said. “Ever have that much in your hands before?”
"No," she admitted. Her face had gone a little
pale as she gazed at the check. She drew in her breath,
and exhaled it in a rapturous sigh. Then she crinkled
her nose again. “ Pooh!” she cried. “I don't ex.
pect fifty thousand to be more than cab fare to me in
the future. We are going to do big things together,
Mr. Whitefield. I can help you in ways that you don't
dream."
She rose as if to terminate the interview, but he lifted
a detaining hand.
“Wait,” he said. “That's the second time you have
boasted that you could be of assistance to me. Sup-
pose I give you a chance to prove your words.”
She seated herself again. “What do you mean?”
she asked.
“Well, you know of course where those papers came
from, that they were stolen from my safe, and you
also know, no doubt, the person who took them."
A gleam of suspicion flashed in her eye, her voice
grew hard. “There were to be no questions asked,'”
she reminded him. “I'm not incriminating myself,
thank you."
For answer he arose and stepping to the door of a
closet on the other side of the room, opened it to
disclose a rather embarrassed stenographer.
“ You may come out, Bates,” he said. “I shall not
need you further. And let me have your notes, please."
He took the book, as the stenographer hurried out of
the office, and walking over to the waste-basket, tore
the record into fragments.
“Now, my dear, you may speak as freely as you
choose.”
" I'm afraid you are in for a disappointment,” Hazel


250
THE HORNET'S NEST
laughed, and there could be no question of her abso-
lute sincerity;“ for honestly, I don't know a thing that
would help you. I have my suspicions of course –
maybe, something more than a suspicion — but noth-
ing that would serve as legal evidence.
“You see,” she explained, “I came into the case
after everything was all over. A woman with whom
the papers had been left talked too much. I had hap-
pened to see your advertisement, and by putting two
and two together, decided that it was the package you
were after. I knew who you were, and fancied that
I could do a stroke of business, so by a bit of finesse
I got hold of the papers. The woman who had them
didn't have an idea of their real character, and the
person who left them with her — a mere go-between at
the best — is out of the country. So that lead is ab-
solutely blocked.”
Whitefield frowned, and drummed upon the arms of
his chair. “ Still you know who did the job,” he per-
sisted, “ or can make a pretty close guess at it. The
police have utterly failed in the case, bungled it from
start to finish, but it strikes me that a bright girl like
you, by a little investigation, and with the sources of
information which you possess, might easily get all the
confirmation necessary. It is a matter of importance
to me,” he added. “I want to find the person respon-
sible for that robbery. So, if you really wish to help
me as you say, here's your opportunity. At the same
time, I'll make it well worth your while."
Hazel nodded understandingly. “I'll try.” She
sat silent a moment as if thinking. As a matter of
fact, she was reflecting that, if the worst came to the
worst, she might use this to cope with the “ Hornet."
A wicked little glimmer stole into her eyes.


CHAPTER XIX
For several minutes after Hazel Phillips left, White-
field sat absorbed in thought; then, swinging around to
his desk, he drew another of those typed lists from the
pigeonhole, and studied it carefully.
There was nothing in it to suggest sapphires, and he
knew that this was exactly the same list which had
been furnished to the newspapers, and published by
them.
Odd, then, that the girl should have made such a
mistake. Odder, still, that she should have described
stones of the same character as those which composed
Freda's magnificent necklace.
A hundred circumstances of the last few weeks,
hitherto unnoted, but now assuming a disturbing sig-
nificance, thronged upon his mind. He took up a cigar
to help him clarify his thoughts, cut off the end of it,
and thrust it in his mouth, but quite forgot to light it.
His hand was busy, though, running his perpetual
scales.
Finally, he turned to the telephone, called for his
house, and asked to speak with Freda.
“ Anything especial on for to-day?” he inquired,
when he heard her voice in response.
“Nothing very important," she replied. “Why?"
“Oh, I'm having an off day in a way. Only routine
matters here. I thought, if you don't mind, we might
have luncheon together somewhere. Let me see; it's
half-past twelve now. Can you get down here by
one?”
Son


254
THE HORNET'S NEST
“Oh, yes," she agreed. “I had just sent for my
car, anyway.” She made a brief pause. “There's
nothing you wish to talk to me about, you say? Noth-
ing unexpected has come up?"
“No. Oh, no. Just come along. I'll expect you
by one." And he hung up the receiver.
With that, as if he had settled upon his course, and
saw no need to give it further reflection, his mood
changed. He pressed a push-button on his desk, and
when Bates, the stenographer, appeared, plunged
briskly into a mass of correspondence. He had just
finished dictating the last letter when Freda arrived.
As she came into the office, Whitefield looked at her
more closely than he had done for a long, long time —
not merely accepting her as one of the features of his
environment, but actually seeing her as something de-
tached and individual.
Had he but realized it, Freda was looking better than
she had for weeks. Her expression, her whole gen-
eral effect, was more carefree, less harassed with the
improvement in her spirits. The assurance she had
received from Wimms of having her sapphires restored
had acted upon her like a tonic.
Whitefield knew her pretty well — thoroughly, he
thought. He felt sure enough of her coöperation in
anything which she thought might advance their mu-
tual interests, but he was also acquainted with her
duplicities and slippery evasions. Therefore, not wish-
ing to arouse her suspicions to the point where she
would be on guard, he approached the issue indirectly,
and then not until they were in the limousine and on
their way. They had proceeded a half dozen blocks or
more, when he turned to her quite casually and natu-
rally.


THE HORNET'S NEST
255
“ By the way, Freda, I want you to get me your
sapphires."
He saw her quick movement, and its instant repres-
sion. There was a moment of strained silence.
“My sapphires?” She exerted all her will, all her
power of self-control, and yet she realized, furious at
herself, that her voice as she answered was uncertain,
trembling.
“Yes.” He was still perfectly matter-of-fact.
“And your pearls, too. I want to have both sets re-
appraised. Diamonds have gone up considerably in
price, I know, and I suppose the other stones have also.
But I'd like to get an exact valuation. We can drive
on to the bank now, and get the two sets out of safety
deposit, and then after luncheon, we'll go over and
leave them at Reiffenberg's.” He started to give his
directions to the chauffeur.
The blood in Freda's veins seemed turning to ice.
There was a wavering darkness before her eyes. She
felt dully that she was on the verge of fainting, and
fought despairingly against it.
“Oh, not to-day,” she demurred, striving to speak
lightly, with a suggestion of caprice. “I thought we
were going to have just a good time, with no worries
or bothers of any kind. Besides, I'm literally starving.
Let's go straight to luncheon now, William. And this
afternoon I want you to go with me to the American
Art Galleries to see the De Marsac collection.”
"Fine,” he agreed cheerfully. “ Fellow was telling
me about those pictures only last night at the club.
This little matter about the sapphires and pearls won't
take up any time, though. All we have to do is get
them and leave them at Reiffenberg's; and then it will
be off my mind.”


THE HORNET'S NEST
257
about it. Home, Waldo!” he instructed the chauffeur
through the speaking tube.
Freda leaned back, silent. Trapped, she was won-
dering wildly if there was any possible way for her
to extricate herself. But the nearer they approached
the house, the more confused and hopeless her thoughts
became; and when they arrived, it seemed almost im-
possible for her to drag herself up the steps.
Whitefield, directing the chauffeur to wait, followed
close behind her, but turned in at the door of his
library.
“Now don't be forever getting that key," he said
as she started up the stairs. “I'm beginning to feel
hungry, too."
She was gone about five minutes; then she walked
swiftly into the library.
“William,” she spoke with the courage of despair,
“the sapphires are not at the bank. They were in
the safe here the night of the robbery, and were taken
with the other things. They will be back in my hands,
though, at half-past five o'clock this afternoon.”
“You don't mean the entire set was stolen?” He
stared at her. This was the real surprise to him.
“ Yes: the entire set."
“ And the pearls, too? ”
“ No. I wore them the night of our dance, you re-
member.”
Yes, he did remember that. But his expression of
relief at this assurance was transitory. He scowled
heavily at the thought of the greater loss, and took a
step toward her.
“But why didn't you mention such a loss to me be-
fore?” he demanded. “Why didn't you speak of it
at the time? What's back of all this, Freda ? It's


258
THE HORNET'S NEST
perfectly useless for you to hedge, or try to lie out of
anything. I want the straight facts, and I mean to
have them. Do you understand?”
Freda's mouth felt dry. There was a choking sen-
sation in her throat. She put her hand to it, as if to
ease the constriction.
The scene she had dreaded and feared was on.
Sometimes at night she had wakened from sleep,
dreaming of this cross-examination. She struggled
now to remember her points, and make plausible and
coherent the story she had decided to tell.
"I—I happened to be at the bank the afternoon
before the robbery,” she began her explanation. “ It
was in my mind to wear my sapphires at that dinner
of the Collinges the next evening, and it struck me
that I could save another trip by taking them with me.
So I got them out and bringing them home with me,
put them in the safe. I put them there myself.”
" And then when the robbery occurred, and you
knew that they were gone, you didn't think it worth
while to mention the matter.” He muttered an oath.
" All you saw fit to tell about was a few rings and
brooches?”
“You were so terribly upset over the loss of the
Colvin papers," she pleaded. “I realized, too, that
the affair was more than a simple burglary. There
was a plot behind it to ruin you. I hadn't the cour-
age to tell you about the sapphires, and add to your
anxieties.”
His eyes, as he continued to gaze at her, contracted
until they seemed like pin-points of fire. A slow, deep
red crept up into his cheeks. His voice was a little
thick.
“Don't attempt to bamboozle me with your weak,


THE HORNET'S NEST
259
rotten lies. I'll get the real truth out of you before
I'm through; never fear. But there's just one point I
want made clear before we go any further. You said
something about getting the stones back — something
about having them in your hands at half-past five.
What did you mean by it?” He eyed her sharply.
“Only another silly subterfuge?”
Her throat eased a little at the prospect of even a
temporary respite from the inquisition to which he was
subjecting her. There was a sob in her voice as she
spoke, but it was a sob of relief.
“ I've moved heaven and earth to find those sap-
phires, William, to get some trace of them; and owing
to my efforts, a man — not one of the actual thieves, I
think, but closely associated with them — got into com-
munication with me the other day, and after a lot of
haggling, agreed to return the set for fifteen thousand
dollars. That is the very least that I could get him
to take; he held out for a great deal more. He has
promised to meet me at half-past five o'clock this after-
noon to receive the money and hand me over the stones.
That is the reason I tried so hard to put you off until
to-morrow.”
She was telling the truth now, he was certain of
that. But the truth he found even less plausible than
her fictions.
“H'm-m!” Again that piercing look from under
his wrinkled brows. “Fifteen thousand dollars ?
Why, that's a bagatelle compared to what he could get
for them. It doesn't sound reasonable.”
"I tell you he wanted a great deal more. It was
only when I convinced him that it was all I could offer,
and that I would not appeal to you, that he consented.
Perhaps,” she ventured, “ the police are closer on their


260
THE HORNET'S NEST
trail than we imagine. Perhaps he did not dare to go
into any lengthy bargaining, or to try to dispose of
them elsewhere, but preferred to play safe.”
“The police?” He laughed scoffingly. “No; I
know what's doing there, and they're as much up in
the air as they ever were. I'm done with them."
“Well, then, as I was about to say, and this is nearer
my own idea, it may be that the man is selling out the
thieves - betraying a trust they've placed in him, or
something of the kind. That would explain his eager-
ness for quick results."
“Ah?” with a nod. “That is more like it. And
he has arranged to meet you this afternoon to return
the stones? Good. We'll get the sapphires and him
both, if what you're telling me is true.” He reached
out for the telephone. “ It's odds on that a fellow of
that sort will tell the whole story, if we can get our
hands on him."
“No, no," she laid a detaining hand upon his arm;
“you must not do that. You will spoil any chance of
recovering the sapphires. He told me so. He said
that if I made any attempt to have him spied upon or
intercepted, I could say good-by to them once and for
all. Besides, it will be impossible to catch him; he has
made his arrangements too cleverly. I am to leave the
house alone, and start out as if for a walk. Some-
where along the street a taxicab will pick me up, and
take me to him. That is all he has permitted me to
know.”
He hesitated a moment at her protest and set down
the telephone; then on reconsideration took it up again.
“We'll give him a run for it, anyway,” he said.
“On a simple proposition like this, the police can gen-
erally be trusted. It is only a matter of following up


THE HORNET'S NEST
261
this taxicab, as I see it. I'm going to lay it before the
Inspector.”
“ William, wait!” She caught at his hand again.
Paler than ever, she looked ghastly now, and her voice
was a shrill, strained whisper. “ The police must not
be brought into this,” she insisted. “There is no rea-
son why they should be. I do not care anything about
this man. All I want is my sapphires. Why take even
a risk in the matter?”
" I'm going to speak to the Inspector just the same.”
His voice was cool, but too well she knew the meaning
of the knife-edge in it. “Let go of my hand, please."
She threw herself forward instead, and snatching at
the instrument, struggled with him for its possession.
“You shall not telephone the police !” she cried,
clutching frantically to hold the receiver down upon
its hook. “You shall not. I will not have them
brought into this thing. They would get to probing
into the theft and all the rest of it, and that would
mean a scandal.”
Whitefield abruptly released his hold upon the tele-
phone, and left it in her hands. Then, walking over to
a table near by, he selected a cigar, and clipping the
end, lighted it, all with the utmost deliberation. When
it was going to his satisfaction, he returned.
"So?” Again he bent upon her the battery of his
eyes. “That brings me back once more to the point
where I was led to digress — the real facts of this so-
called 'theft' which you are so anxious to avoid having
investigated. You've said too much now, Freda, to try
to keep anything back. You might as well tell the
whole story. Nor is there any use in entangling your-
self in any more lies. You're simply wasting time.”
In her frightened, overwrought state, there was


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:
263
to be paid back. Why, I knew it was good, and so it
proved.
“Ollie's father gave him the money as soon as he
got back from Europe, and Ollie at once redeemed the
stones, and brought them back to me. He gave them
to me at the Hortons' dinner — the evening of the rob-
bery, you know — and that night about twelve o'clock,
I slipped down-stairs and put them in the safe. I have
often wondered if the robbers were not in the house
even then, and watching me as I did so. And then,
when I found that they had been taken, I didn't dare,
as I say, to tell you. And — that's all.”
“I wonder if that is all? I wonder," muttered
Whitefield. Every trace of bluff geniality had van-
ished from his face and bearing. His glance was dark
and wolfish. “I wonder if it was not you and Darn-
ton who planned this robbery together? By Jove, if
you did - ! But no; you would have tried to hold me
up before this."
He shook his head, and put the supposition from him.
Then he came back to the moment, and to the woman
cowering in her chair, dabbing at her eyes.
“You fool!” he said, with a contempt beyond words.
“ You fool! I thought I knew you through and
through. I see I flattered you. I thought your measly
soul was all in your luxuries. I thought that you fully
appreciated the value of your position as my wife.
But I under-estimated your idiotic vanity. Was Ollie
Darnton the best that you could do? A poor, brainless
whiffet, willing to let a woman dole him out pocket-
money and pull him out of his holes. If I cared a
tinker's dam about you, Freda,” he pounded on the
table with his open palm, “ I'd give you a good beat-
ing, kick that degenerate little ass out of my house, and


264
THE HORNET'S NEST
see to it that you behaved yourself in the future. Do
you think for a minute that you have fooled me all
these years? Not for one second. But I simply —
didn't — care. All you ever had to attract a man was
your looks, and they are about gone."
Just then his eye caught an oval mirror in a frame
of chased silver, hanging where a shaft of sunlight fell
across it. He was on his feet, and had caught Freda
by the arm, and was pushing her toward it before she
realized what he was doing.
“ There's your judge!” he cried, pointing toward
her reflection. “There's your sentence! There's the
question and the answer!”
The sun-lighted mirror gave back her image with
a merciless distinctness. The beauty for which she
lived had betrayed and deserted her. Time, the satir-
ist, had stripped her of her worshipped mask of glori-
ous flesh, and had written upon her face and in her
eyes the small, the base, the sensual secrets of her soul.
And, as she looked, she felt hope, the savor of life —
life itself, it seemed to her — die within her. The
world, all the world she could conceive of, was in ruins.
It was not in her either to imagine or to build another.
She had doomed herself to wander amid the dust and
ashes, mourning the vanished mirage of her own love-
liness.


CHAPTER XX
But cataclysms and crises alter but little the regular
business of life. Breakfast, dinner, and supper go on
as before; waking follows sleep; seedtime and harvest
. do not fail; habit asserts itself.
Maimed and crushed, beaten and dispirited though
she was, Freda never thought of failing to set out at the
appointed time to recover her stolen jewels. It was a
relief to substitute action of any kind for her dreary re-
flections.
The gray, early dusk was falling as she came out
of the house, muffled in her dark furs, but it was still
light enough for her to be recognized; and as the Ave-
nue was thronged with motor and carriage folk whom
she knew, she turned with the stricken creature's in-
stinct to hide, and hurried off eastward.
She had received no instructions as to the way she
was to take, and consequently choosing her own paths,
she found herself presently on Lexington Avenue.
For perhaps a dozen blocks she walked straight ahead,
growing more nervous and apprehensive all the time.
The unusualness of her errand, the large amount of
money she was carrying, gave rise to all manner of
sinister suggestions. She glanced back over her shoul-
der every step or two, with the feeling that some one
was creeping stealthily up behind her.
And then a taxicab whirled up to the curb beside her
and stopped.
There was no question asked in regard to her iden-
tity; she had evidently been watched and followed from


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267
he laid it open on her knee, and drew back slightly,
mopping at his brow with his handkerchief.
“My word!” he sighed. “It's almost enough to
turn one's brain to see a set like that. I'm used to
handling jewels now and then — But these —!” He
gazed at them reverently. “Well, they're something
you dream about.”
Freda paid no heed to him. She was bending over
the case, staring down absorbedly at the familiar pieces,
Then the tension broke, and clutching the case to
her, she fell to sobbing in passionate relief.
Wimms restrained an inclination to pat her on the
shoulder. Resolutely putting duty before his sympa-
thetic impulses, he laid a firm hand on the case in-
stead.
“There, there,” he murmured soothingly, “ 'tis nat-
ural you should wish to hold on to 'em. But first,
please remember, there's a little matter of business to
be settled between us."
“Oh, yes,” said Freda; “ the fifteen thousand dol-
lars. I had forgotten.”
She reached into her muff, and taking out a roll of
bills, handed them over to him.
“ Count it, please," she said.
“I was about to do so, ma'am," and he did in a fur-
tive, hasty way, but, she could see, very thoroughly.
“ Quite correct," he licked his lips as he finished;
“and thank you kindly. Well," he pressed his face
against the glass of the door, “here's where I get off,
ma'am. The man will take you to the neighborhood of
a subway station, and you can easy get a train,down-
town. So thank you again, ma'am, and good-by.
I'm sure there's no one wishing you more health and
happiness than me."


268
THE HORNET'S NEST
He rapped lightly on the front pane of the cab, and
then as the chauffeur slowed down, vanished as he had
come.
It was not more than twenty minutes afterward that
Freda reached home. With the case under her arm,
she walked straight to her husband's study, and laid
it on the table beside him.
He was sitting, making a pretense of reading one of
the evening papers, but in reality his mind was con-
centrated on the two events of real importance to him
just then, the recovery of the sapphires and the Colvin
documents.
“Here are the sapphires.” Freda's voice was re-
pressed, emotionless.
He threw over his electric reading-lamp so that the
light fell directly on the table, and opened the case;
but drew back blinking before the dazzle of blue fire
which blazed up at him.
“ By Jove! The real thing, all right!” Then, more
cautiously: “ Sure, there are no substitutes here and
there?” He lifted the set, piece by piece, and care-
fully examined each.
Freda gave a smile of weary contempt. “I know
them all by heart,” she said.
“Yes; they're the real thing," he muttered, gloating
over their blue magnificence. Ah, he was winning,
winning all along the line!
“Good girl!” he said approvingly. “I'm willing to
overlook considerable for this."
“But what about me? ” she asked, still in that
dull, colorless voice. “It's all over with me — every-
thing — the whole big, empty, stupid show. I'm
done."
"Oh, come now," in a tone of rough kindness;
S.


270
THE HORNET'S NEST
dramatic rudeness to you. I can only say that I am
sorry."
He had sat down while he was talking, but she on
the other hand had risen from her chair, and now she
laid her hand on his shoulder. The action was me-
chanical. She did not even see him. Her eyes were
fixed on the dreary, meaningless wastes of the years
before her.
“In your own words, William, forget it," she said.
“I have had very little to complain of in that way from
you. You may be all that the newspapers call you —
Wall Street crook, corruptionist, and all the rest of it
— but you are undoubtedly a big man; and you have
been good enough to me, too good. But, you see, the
trouble all along has been that we never loved each
other. Perhaps — who knows? — if we had, it might
have saved us both. You were quite right when you
said that the only attraction I ever had for you was
my beauty, and that that sort of a hold doesn't last very
long with a man. So we went our separate ways.”
She seemed to have forgotten Whitefield, as she went
on, although her hand rested on his shoulder. Her
eyes still looked into unfathomed emptiness.
“I suppose, though,” she continued, “every one has
got something real somewhere in their hearts and lives,
and the one real thing in my life was my love for Ashe
Colvin. But I dreaded and feared realities, so I sold
that love for pearls and sapphires, and continued to
'adorn my position as your wife. Yet the heart has
to have its Day of Judgment as well as the soul. You
can stifle and smother feeling, joy, and suffering for
years perhaps, and believe that they are killed in you;
but there finally comes the reckoning, the dreadful
ręckoning, when all the loss and the pain and the


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271
smothered love comes sweeping back to you like a wave
of the sea, and you can't stop it, you can't check it.
It overwhelms you; it drowns you!”
She would probably have said more; but at this
point she was interrupted by a light knock at the door
and the entrance of Dempsey.
“Miss Hazel Phillips to see you, sir.” A clock in
the hall chimed the half hour even as the butler spoke.
Punctual as ever, Miss Phillips was there to keep her
appointment.
Whitefield gave a start. “Certainly. Show her
in,” his eagerness was apparent. Then his eye fell on
the jewel case upon the table. “Or wait a moment,
Dempsey. It will be about five minutes before I can
see her. I will ring to let you know. And close the
door, please, as you go out.”
He turned to Freda. “Sorry, my dear, but this is
the girl I spoke to you about, the one who has the pa-
pers. I fancy she would prefer to see me alone.”
A glint of bitterness showed for a moment in her
eyes. Reaching out again, as he was, to grasp more
firmly the reins of power which had almost slipped
from his hands, he was putting her and her affairs aside
as matters of no consequence. She noted the tense
alertness of his manner with a touch of envy; for him,
there was still the game and the struggle. Then the
bitterness and the envy died in a wave of apathy.
After all, what did it matter? What did anything mat-
ter? She did not begrudge him his zest for life. And
if he had been the soul of sympathy, how could he have
helped her? She bowed indifferently to his request,
and passed, a silent, tragic figure, from the room.
Whitefield hurriedly manipulated the combination of
the safe, and having opened its door, placed the case


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273
“No, you don't!” she panted, throwing out her
arms. “You don't destroy those papers yet. Not un-
til I get my fifty thousand.”
Whitefield laughed admiringly at her pygmy de-
fiance. “ You needn't be afraid, my child,” he said.
“ As a matter of fact, it was your – er — honorarium,
that I was just going to fetch. Naturally you thought
that I would get rid of these as soon as possible,” he
tapped the papers in his hand;“ but as it happens, there
are certain harmless items among them, records of old
business transactions, which I wish to keep. I intend
to go over them with my secretary this evening, extract
the wheat from the chaff, and then burn the chaff.
However," he broke off with another laugh, “I am
still keeping you waiting.”
He walked over to the safe which he had left open,
and laid the papers inside. Then he came back with
a package of bills, and placed it on the table before her.
“ There, my child, are fifty thousand-dollar bills,
and I may say that I have never paid out fifty thousand
dollars before with more pleasure, or to better advan-
tage.”
Her eyes widened, her color came and went. She
picked up the money in a frightened sort of a way.
Her supreme self-confidence vanished; she appeared
all at once very small and meek. Slowly, and still in
a bit of a daze, she turned over the crisp, rustling notes.
Then, as her mind fully grasped the fact that not
only was each one of these bills her own, but also the
entire amount which they represented, a dazzle swept
over her face. Her whole figure appeared to dilate,
as she saw the farther and yet farther horizons open-
ing before her.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You can talk about sun-


274
THE HORNET'S NEST
rises and sunsets, and jewels, and works of art; but,
believe me, Mr. Whitefield, this,” she spread the bills
out fanlike before her, “is the most beautiful picture
in all the world!”.
She gathered the bills together, and tucked them
into the bosom of her blouse, buttoned her jacket over
them, and from one of her pockets took a tiny but
efficient pistol which she showed hm.
“I'm running no chances, you see,” she said; "not
with this picture gallery on me. Good night."
“Good night,” he returned heartily.
The door closed behind her, and he walked over to
his impregnable, new safe which now at last held not
only the sapphires, but something far more precious.
Carefully he closed the heavy door, and threw on the
combination, whistling under his breath as he did so.
He had just turned away, and was glancing at the
clock, when there was a knock, and Muriel stood in the
doorway.
She was entrancingly, unusually lovely in one of
those evening frocks which she affected where all the
hues of the sunset seemed blended. The color in her
cheeks and lips was vivid as carnation petals, and her
emerald eyes gleamed with a smoldering excitement.
“What?” she said. “Not ready for dinner? Well,
come along as you are. I told Dempsey that I would
let you know that Aunt Freda has sent word she will
not be down to-night; so I am going to utilize the
hour to talk over some matters of great importance to
me."
“Actually going to confide in me, or ask my advice
about anything?” he exclaimed with exaggerated sar-
casm.
“Oh, I don't promise that,” she replied coolly.


THE HORNET'S NEST
275
“ Just want to inform me of your intentions, eh? I
see,” he laughed unctuously. Nothing had the power
to irritate him at that moment, not even Muriel. “ All
right." He followed her from the room.


CHAPTER XXI
In the hall Muriel left him for a moment to give
some directions to the man at the door.
“What was that?” Whitefield asked sharply as she
came back to his side. With her he was always more
or less suspicious.
“Nothing.” She raised her brows slightly at his
tone. “I was just sending James out for some ciga-
rettes. There are none of my kind in the house, and
I can't smoke those little, inane, gold-tipped things
which Aunt Freda affects."
“ Couldn't you get one of the other servants to run
your errands?” he grumbled. “ With Dempsey back
in the dining-room, and James away, there is no one
in the hall. I don't like it.”
He cast an uneasy glance back at his unguarded
study and hesitated, as if meditating a return to it.
“Oh, nonsense, Uncle William!” Muriel scoffed.
“What does it amount to? James won't be gone two
minutes; it's only just around the corner. And there
isn't a chance of anybody coming to the house at this
hour.”
He realized that he was exaggerating a trifle, and
therefore, yielding to the light but impelling pressure
of her hand upon his arm, permitted himself to be
guided into the dining-room.
Meanwhile, James, leaving the house by the area
door, had started for the tobacco shop a block away
on Madison Avenue.
The “Hornet” and Colvin, seated on a bench over


THE HORNET'S NEST
277
in the Park, which while somewhat secluded, yet af-
forded a thorough view of the Whitefield premises, saw
him as he turned the corner, and rising, they walked
briskly out of the Park, and up the Avenue. At a
point drectly opposite the house they crossed over and
mounted the steps. There was such an absence of any-
thing furtive in either their manner or their move-
ments that the two watchmen guarding the front of
the house bestowed upon them only a perfunctory
scrutiny, and the fact that the door opened almost im-
mediately to them, as if at the hand of a ready servitor,
helped also to disarm suspicion.
The “Hornet” had accomplished this by having the
key ready in his hand and thrusting it straight into the
lock as he reached the door, trusting to the shadow
of the vestibule, and to the figure of Colvin bulking just
behind him to screen his strategy. It required then
but the twisting of the latch, and the way stood open
before them.
They entered, the “Hornet” closing the door noise-
lessly, and stole on tiptoe down the hall to the study.
Inside, they paused a moment to reconnoiter. Swiftly
crossing the room, the “Hornet,” the more experienced
of the two at such adventures, peeped from behind a
corner of the drawn curtains at one of the windows.
Undisturbed, the two watchmen along the sidewalk
still held their stolid vigil.
Returning then to the door which led into the hall,
the “ Hornet” laid his ear to it a moment, and listened.
The house was quiet. From the dining-room sounded
faintly a peal of Muriel's laughter. The “Hornet”
drew back.
“ Coast's clear,” he muttered curtly. “We ought to
have at least an hour free from interruption.'


THE HORNET'S NEST
279
“She's the 'ace in the hole' that keeps me guessing,"
he muttered. “Ever since she came into the picture,
my luck has turned. I spilled my salt all over the ta-
blecloth the morning I went after her, and with me
that never fails as a sign of disaster.”
Colvin looked at him in surprise. The “Hornet”
was such a born organizer, so resourceful in the face
of almost any difficulty, that to find him now balking
at shadows and giving way to superstitious fancies
seemed incongruous, out of character. He raised his
eyes a little as he regarded his despondent companion.
• “But, my dear fellow," he argued, “ aren't you
rather overestimating the complication? Miss Phil-
lips, being human, is limited to a certain number of
circumscribed moves. The most important of these,
and the one upon which all the others hang, you have
yourself dictated, and can therefore in a measure dis-
count. She is either going to play square with you, or
she is not. And since she has given every evidence of
going straight so far, I can personally see no reason
why she should not continue to do so."
The “Hornet” shrugged his shoulders. “Oh,
Hazel will keep her word to me to the letter," he said.
“ Those papers will be returned to Whitefield at ex-
actly half-past six to-night just as she has promised.
It is what she may do afterward that is bothering me.
“ However,” he swung his legs back over the side of
the chair, and sat up straight as if reaching a decision,
“there seems no way to avoid it. We have simply got
to go ahead, and trust to her good intentions. It is
the risk one takes. Whether we walk into a trap or
not, those papers must be recovered to-night, and we've
got to go after them, too, the minute that she leaves the
housę,”


280
THE HORNET'S NEST
“At half-past six in the evening!” Colvin stared
at him. He had known in a general way that it was
the “Hornet's ”plan to get the papers by breaking into
his uncle's safe again, but had supposed that, as before,
this would be accomplished at a midnight visit.
“ With the servants all about? With every one at
home, and the lights on? With those guards outside?
It cannot be done."
“Ah, that is where my little cousin must make her.
self useful,” rejoined the “Hornet.” “Uncle William
must not have an uninterrupted moment to destroy
those papers.”
“Muriel?”
The “Hornet” misunderstood the nature of the
quick protest. “I know," he grumbled. “It's an-
other woman to depend on. But in this case it can't be
helped.”
Colvin twitched his shoulders restlessly. “Is —
is that absolutely necessary?” he asked. “Isn't there
some other way, so that she need not be involved?"
The “Hornet” comprehended now, and in the
glance he gave Colvin there was a touch of humorous
mockery.
“ There might be,” he said, “if it wasn't for Muriel
herself. She's so eager to be involved, that I think
if we were to try anything else now, she'd be very apt
to dump the apple-cart."
“She knows, then?" asked Colvin sharply.
“Oh, yes; she knows. That is, she understands
what is to be done, and to some extent the part that she
is expected to play. The final details are still to be ar-
ranged, though; it was a telephone conversation I had
with her, and naturally we had to speak guardedly.
So I've made an appointment with her to meet us at


284
THE HORNET'S NEST
“Oh, if Fletcher thinks me necessary, that settles it,"
she interrupted with a little nod of finality. “ Since our
interests are practically the same, I have decided to
follow his lead absolutely in the matter. Uncle Wil-
liam thinks most highly of his ability as a business
man, you know.” She laughed with a piquant ap-
preciation of the satiric humor of the situation. Then,
as she glanced across the room, she broke off, and
added quickly under her breath: “ Here he comes
now."
Colvin turned his head, and meeting the “ Hornet's ”
eyes, bowed. Muriel smiled at him, and “Mr. Pren-
tice" threaded his way through the tables to speak to
them.
“ Have a cup of tea with us?” Muriel asked.
“ Yes; do join us,” Colvin seconded the invitation,
although with no great degree of cordiality.
The “Hornet” pretended to demur a moment, then
smilingly accepted. The waiter brought another chair,
and took the additional order. When it had been filled,
and the man was about to step back, the “Hornet”
stayed him with a gesture.
“Look here, waiter," he said, raising his peculiarly
piercing and commanding eyes. “You've served us
now. If we want anything more, we'll summon you.
Otherwise, please keep your distance. I have a regret-
table distaste for having some one breathe down my
neck, or whisk food from before me, when I want to
talk.” He slipped a substantial tip into the waiter's
hand, and the latter, used to the vagaries of patrons,
accepted both the hint and the gratuity with thanks,
and retired well out of earshot.
“Now," said the “Hornet," speaking with author-
ity," the way I see the matter is this. The entire ac-


THE HORNET'S NEST
285
tion of this sketch will take place between six and half-
past seven o'clock this evening. During that time, Ver-
non and I must enter the house and secure the papers
which will have been returned to Uncle William and
also the sapphires which Aunt Freda will fondly be-
lieve are again safe in her hands. We must decide now
how we are to get into the house. Muriel, have you a
key to the hall door? I thought not,” as she shook her
head. “ Then you must get one.”
“ You might as well tell me to get the Roc's egg,”
she exclaimed.
He twisted his head impatiently. “Has Freda
one?”
“Of course; but —” She hesitated; then her face
brightened. “Oh, I know! Everett Babcock."
“Good.” The “ Hornet " nodded. “ Get it at any
hazard.” He leaned forward, and tapped her on the
hand. “The success of this undertaking depends upon
you. Get that key from Babcock by six o'clock this
evening. At a quarter after six, go out to post a letter,
and as you are doing so, drop the key on the sidewalk
by the post box. Then return to the house and wait
until you see a woman shown into Uncle's study. She
will be there at exactly half-past six, and will probably
remain ten or fifteen minutes. The moment she leaves,
you must get Uncle William immediately out of the
room on one pretext or another, and keep him out, too."
"I can do that,” she agreed, after a moment's
thought. “ I'll smash something in his Bohemian glass
collection, and that will keep him busy until dinner is
served.”
“ That's a Whitefield touch for you. Blood will
tell,” grinned the “ Hornet.” “I guess we're safe in
leaving you to work out the details in your own way.


286
THE HORNET'S NEST
TOOI.
Only remember! I must have that key to the house at
a quarter after six o'clock.”
" I'll not fail you," she said confidently, rising as
the “Hornet" did; but before she could say good-by.
Colvin, who had remained silent, spoke.
" Miss Fletcher, I am going to ask you to give me
just two minutes. It shall," with a faint smile, “ be by
the clock if you say so.”
Although the words were in the form of a request,
the spirit of them was almost a command, and there
was something so determined in his expression, that
after the briefest hesitation, she haughtily and reluc-
tantly resumed her seat. Her gaze, withdrawn from
Colvin, followed the vanishing figure of the “ Hornet”
in his progress down the room.
“I know that I have only time for a word,” Ashe's
voice was low and controlled, “and I am not going to
waste that time in protesting further at your taking
part in this business of to-night. But, Muriel, I can't
leave you with this misunderstanding between us. I
have written many letters to you, and have torn them
all up." His speech was broken, and yet resolute.
“ You know that I love you — how deeply, you can
never know. That night at the dance — How could
I accept what was so rashly and generously offered in
a moment of beautiful impulse? — I, who had worse
than nothing? That afternoon in the Park I could
offer you at least protection and a refuge from danger,
when it seemed to me you needed them. You refused.
Now I am throwing myself on your mercy. If we are
successful to-night, and if I may really stand clear once
more before the world, will you help me to build up a
future? I could not do it myself. Alone, I lack the
courage, the will, even the desire to do so. But with


THE HORNET'S NEST
287
you I shall have all things, all courage, all faith, all
determination to succeed. Will you help me try and
make a cornerstone of what the builders rejected ?
Muriel! Will you?”
A wave of emotion swept over her face. “ It is
not fair to ask me that question now," she cried in a
trembling voice. “ There is still so much to be thought
of, so much to do – Oh, I must go!" she started up
from her chair. “I need all my wits about me. We
dare not risk a failure.”


CHAPTER XXII
As the hands of the clock pointed to half-past five
that evening, Everett Babcock was still toiling over the
composition of a business letter which Mr. Whitefield
had instructed him must be a model of diplomatic
phrasing — the iron word in the velvet expression, so
to speak.
Everett was conscientious and efficient, but not bril-
liant. Therefore, he had shut himself up in his own
little den across the hall from his employer's study,
where the rattle of his typewriter would not disturb
the great man's meditations, and had lost himself in
the construction of his masterpiece.
He was so engrossed in fact, that he remained for
some time quite oblivious of a gentle, but persistent
knocking at his door, and when he did finally awake to
the realization that some one was there, it was at the
moment when the patience of the person outside had
given way. The knob was vigorously turned, the door
opened, and Muriel entered.
Babcock, his mind still on his work, looked at her
in a sort of dazed surprise, as if he half-doubted the
evidence of his senses. Muriel was not in the habit
of seeking his companionship — quite the reverse —
and never before had he been honored by a visit from
her.
She closed the door quickly behind her, and stood
leaning against it, a dazzling and propitiating vision


290
THE HORNET'S NEST
late; so do be a good fellow, Everett, and lend me your
key to the hall door.”
She smiled alluringly at him as she made her re-
quest. Everett found her unwonted softness of look
and speech heady; but he was shrewd. His impulse
was to yield at once, and hand her over the latchkey.
But a moment's thought convinced him that by grant-
ing her this favor, he might be losing more than he
would gain. She would hardly be going out to remain
until a late hour alone, and he might thus be the means
of throwing her into the society of a dangerous rival.
Also, in case her uncle should discover his connivance,
he would certainly lose his enviable position.
He let the key which he had half-drawn from
his waistcoat pocket drop back again, and shook his
head.
“I'd like to," he said with unfeigned sincerity.
“Nothing would please me better. But it's too much
of a risk. It would be worth my job, if Mr. White-
field should find it out.”
She pouted bewitchingly. “He'll not,” she in-
sisted. “Oh, come, Everett; do be a sport for once.
I promise you that I will be the soul of discretion.
The key shall be back in your hands the first thing
to-morrow morning, and Uncle William will never
know the difference. But I- !” Her eyes held
sweet promises, her voice besought him — “I shall
never forget it!”
His inherent caution and timidity were all that
saved him now. He still hesitated.
“I don't see why you are so vicious to me, Ev-
erett?” Was that small, plaintive, almost tearful voice
Muriel's? “Of course, it is only natural that you
should range yourself with Uncle William. He's your


• THE HORNET'S NEST
291
bread and butter. But you and I might be perfectly
good pals, if you only would.”
Everett's pale eyes glowed. “You've never given
me half a chance," he complained.
“Well, I'm doing it now," she fluttered her lashes
at him, her narrow eyes gleaming through them.
“ Everett, please lend me that key."
Some faint throb of sporting blood stirred young
Babcock's even pulses.
“ I'll take a chance," he bargained with a little, un-
steady laugh; “ but 've got to have payment in ad-
vance.” He went on breathlessly, overwhelmed by his
own temerity, the color burned in his cheek. “ — I
will trade the key for a kiss.”
“Everett !” she exclaimed, and held her hands be-
fore her face. “But I've got to have the key.” She
was enchantingly appealing. “ And after all, a
kiss - "
Exalted visions flamed before his eyes. Youth and
ardor asserted their ascendency. His insufficient sup-
ply of red blood, stimulated by her apparent surren-
der, proved strong enough to rout the cautious white
corpuscles. He sprang up, and came toward her with
extended arms.
But she, too, had risen, and now she shrank
back, laughing, the palms of her hands against his
chest.
“No! No!” she cried. “Wait a moment. You
are so impetuous, so masterful, Everett, that you make
me afraid of you. You are a regular cave man.
You'd take me by storm, and before I knew it, you'd
be getting a dozen kisses.
"No," she insisted, as he caught her arms and
pressed nearer, “I only agreed to one kiss, and I'll


292
THE HORNET'S NEST
give it in my own way. You go and sit down where
you were.”
" I'll do anything you say for that kiss.” He spoke
huskily.
“ Then sit down there," she commanded, pointing
to his chair. “ I'm afraid of you, Everett, so I'm
going to tie you up." Flushed, laughing, she began
to unwind a silk sash from about her waist.
It all seemed part of an amusing, fascinating game.
That was the spirit which Muriel threw into it. So
he obeyed her.
“I'll sit down to please you, but no tying up,” he
laughed. “It would be just like you to leave me that
way."
"I am no highwaywoman," she returned. “You
know I always play fair. You'll get your kiss, but I
simply will not be grabbed.”
“ All right, then." Still laughing, he fell in with
her mood.
Deftly she threw the scarf over his shoulders and
slipped it down his arms, binding him fast to the chair.
“ There!” she cried. “Oh, dear, I've laughed so
much that the tears are running down my cheeks.
Wait until I get my handkerchief; it's in the pocket of
my coat.”
She moved across the room, caught up her velvet
cloak, and then stood behind him silent for a moment.
“Where's my kiss?” he demanded.
As he asked the question, she swiftly slipped between
his parted lips a gag which she had prepared in ad-
vance, and tied it securely at the back of his head.
He made an inarticulate effort to cry out, twisted
his head about and plunged in his chair; but the scarf
held him fast.


CHAPTER XXIII
An hour later, as Muriel took her seat opposite
Whitefield at the dinner table, she had with apparent
insouciance dismissed all disturbing mental pictures of
the poor secretary who had trusted her, struggling in
the darkness to free himself from her silken bonds,
and also of the unsurpassed cracksman whose precise
and exquisite manipulations were at the moment men-
acing the invulnerability of her uncle's safe.
Dempsey presented a tray. “The cigarettes you
sent James for, Miss Muriel.”
Whitefield shook his head at the sight of them, but
benevolently. Muriel laughed back at him, deviltry
in her olive eyes.
“ James is on the door again, Uncle," she mocked.
“ Wicked burglars can't break in now to steal our beau-
tiful family skeleton.”
He drank his Scotch whiskey and soda, and looked
at her appreciatively.
“May I venture to remark that you are looking very
beautiful to-night? Is that a new frock?”
“Yes. I am going on to a play after dinner,” she
accepted the compliment smilingly. “But about that
matter of importance I wanted to discuss with you?"
“Matter of importance, eh? Well," he was still
jovial, “ you've certainly chosen your time wisely.
I'll probably give you anything you ask for this eve-
ning, even to the half of my kingdom.”


THE HORNET'S NEST
295
“I may ask it,” she replied; “or a quarter of it,
anyway."
Whitefield chuckled.
“ The half of my kingdom isn't worth much to-
night, my dear,” he said. “This is pay-day, you must
understand, and it's little they've left me but my bare
bones.”
Muriel took a sip of wine.
“ Settling all your debts, Uncle? That's good.”
There was a hint of significance in her tone —
whether he fancied it, or not — which made him
vaguely uneasy. He applied himself to his soup, won-
dering what she might be up to. As the plates were
removed, though, she spoke again so frankly that he
decided he was unnecessarily suspicious.
" It isn't much use to try to do any talking while
the servants are in the room, is it ? ” she said. “One
has to break off every time anything is served. I
think I will postpone my important ‘something'
the matter I wish to discuss with you — until we reach
the coffee."
“I didn't expect to find you so sensible," he re-
turned. “The dinner table is the last place on earth
for a family conference, anyhow. Nothing is so up-
setting to the digestion. I and my appetite both thank
you for the respite, my dear. For women have enough
respect for their food to put off any kind of a discus-
sion or wrangle.”
So, with that, they turned to indifferent topics, until
presently Whitefield happened to ask her what play
she was planning to see that evening.
“I really don't know," Muriel answered. “I just
accepted an invitation from Mrs. Vansittart and Miss
Gansevoort to be one of their party.”.


THE HORNET'S NEST
299
:
revolver straight at the “Hornet," who with his back
to him, was just removing the Colvin papers from
the safe. Then, his eye turned to Ashe, who sat on
the arm of a chair, watching the “ Hornet's ” marvel-
lous manipulations.
“Caught at last, Vernon!” His vindictive sneer
was like a shout of triumph.
The “Hornet” closed the door of the safe, gave a
final dexterous twirl to the combination, and turn-
ing, faced his uncle.
"Prentice?” The pistol wavered in Whitefield's
grasp. He took a step or two into the room, threw
the weapon on a table beside him with a little clatter,
and sat down suddenly. “Prentice! Well! What
the deuce does this mean, man? Why, you stood to
make millions with me behind you. Have you gone
crazy — throwing such chances away to rob a safe?”
" I'm throwing away nothing," replied the “Hor-
net.”
“What do you want with those papers ? " demanded
Whitefield. “ Are you one of the ' Hornet's 'gang?”
His heavy brows were almost drawn together. There
was a deep, vertical line between them. A puzzle, in-
credible and unsolvable on any basis, confronted him.
At his question, the “Hornet" merely shrugged his
shoulders, without making answer.
“Well, my man, you are in a net, with your friend
there to keep you company. It's a tight net, too, no
breaks anywhere. I've got three or four husky fel-
lows just outside the door," he jerked his thumb over
his shoulder, “and there are two private watchmen on
guard outside the house. You fellows could never
have got in, if it hadn't been for my vicious niece
here," he nodded toward Muriel.


300
THE HORNET'S NEST
“ The Hornet " laughed, and threw himself into a
chair; lazily extending his hand, he took a cigarette
from the table, and lighted it.
“Tight net, eh? Looks like it on the surface,
doesn't it?” he said.
“It does not merely look like it. It's a fact,” as-
serted Whitefield. “Any reason why it shouldn't be?”
“Several reasons,” drawled the “Hornet.” “The
first one is that it's going to put you in a queer posi-
tion. I'm Heinpstead — Fletcher Hempstead, you
know.”
“What?” Whitefield gripped the arms of his
chair. “Fletcher Hempstead?” He studied him,
squinting his eyes, and pursing his lips. “ By George,
I'd believe you, if you had a scar."
“I lent it to Vernon there."
Whitefield appeared struck dumb for a moment,
looking from one to the other.
“ H'm!” he commented with sneering contempt.
“A trick that's quite worthy the pair of you. And so
- you are the Hornet ’? Low-down crook and
thief, eh?”
“We Whitefields can't afford to indulge in such
pot-and-kettle repartee among ourselves, Uncle Wil-
liam. Yes; I am the ‘Hornet,' by some, laudatory
brother-professionals considered the best cracksman
in the world. It took Whitefield brains, and initiative,
and nerve to reach the top of the ladder. You can't
beat us.”
“ I guess I've got you beat,” returned his uncle with
conviction.
“Did I suggest the rather difficult position you
would find yourself in, if you resorted to extreme
measures?" interrogated the other pointedly.


THE HORNET'S NEST
301
“ You've got to show me that. Bluffs don't go to-
night.” Whitefield was curt and brief. “There's a
murder charge in this, remember."
“All right;" the “Hornet” dropped his languor.
“ I'm Fletcher Hempstead, and I'll blazon that fact to
the skies.”
“ Bah!” said Whitefield. “Don't imagine that I
would let any sentimental reasons stand in the way
of giving you your deserts. And you, too, Vernon -
whoever you may be.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the “Hornet” as if he had just
remembered something. “Do excuse my negligence,
Uncle William, and let me introduce - Mr. Ashe
Colvin.”
Whitefield went a bit pale. “ Colvin ? Colvin!”
he muttered. “I knew he was in it somewhere, but
that scar fooled me.”
“And will you let me state that my cousin, Miss
Fletcher, also stands with us,” continued the “ Hor-
net.”
“ That doesn't surprise me," his uncle spoke with
vigor. “She has always been ready to double-cross
me — contrary vixen. But it doesn't make any
difference what sort of combination you've got.
Turn over those papers, or I'll take means to make
you."
The “Hornet” laughed scornfully. “Just start
something, Uncle William. When the police come in,
I shall simply demand that a representative of the dis-
trict attorney be sent for. I can clear myself from
the charge of murdering that unfortunate cop. But
there is worse than merely killing the body,” he flung
out an arm toward Colvin,“ that you'll have to answer
for."


THE HORNET'S NEST
303
“ Search them," directed Whitefield. “I just sur-
prised them at work on my safe. Be careful; they
are probably armed.”
The “Hornet " laughed again. “ Why expose your
ignorance of technique, Uncle William ? You belittle
my professional standing. Nobody but a yegg or an
amateur would carry a 'canister' on an expedition
like this.”
The man who had been going over the “Hornet's ”
person gave an exultant exclamation, and drew from
inside the latter's waistcoat the case containing the
sapphires.
"Jewels. My wife's sapphires," commented White-
field, as they were laid upon the table. “Anything
else?"
“Only this.” The detective a little doubtfully held
up the package containing the Colvin papers. “Is
it yours, sir?"
“ Yes.” Whitefield took the envelope and glanced
through it. “And taken from my safe, too. But of
no importance," he laughed. “Merely some old,
worthless securities.” Negligently, with even a touch
of drama, he tossed them into the heart of the
fire.
He was rather superb as he stood there, nodding in
malevolent triumph. Colvin gave a gasp. “Whip-
sawed," muttered the “Hornet.”
But Muriel — ? The panther sprang again. Be-
fore any one realized what she was doing, she had
thrust her hand into the flames, caught up the blazing
papers, and was stamping them out on the floor.
A flash of fire ran up her scarlet and gold frock.
Colvin pushed the startled men about him aside, and
catching her in his arms, dragged her away from the


304
THE HORNET'S NEST
burning papers, and frenziedly beat at her dress with
his hands.
It was over in a moment, and but for her blistered
fingers and scorched gauzes, Muriel was unharmed.
But the papers on the hearth had charred to a flutter-
ing heap of ashes.


306
THE HORNET'S NEST
“and went at once to Belle Davis to find out how I
could get in touch with you. Of course I asked for
those papers, and she,” Retta's voice choked, “she
told me that this sneaking brat had Alimflammed her out
of them. You'd better believe I lost no time in get-
ting to Miss Phillips's flat, and I waited there for her
to come home. She didn't dare lie to me, and she
confessed that she had sold the package to Mr. White-
field. But I had to make sure, so I dragged her here,
and now -"
Whitefield broke in hastily and authoritatively. “I
can settle this,” he said. “There are too many in
the room. You men wait outside the door,” giving
his orders to the detectives. “ Dempsey, James, Ste-
phen, go about your business. Go on. Clear out.
“Now what does this mean?” he turned threat-
eningly to Hazel Phillips as the door closed behind
them.
“Can't help it, Mr. Whitefield,” she shrugged her
shoulders. She jerked the crisp, new bills from her
blouse, and tossed them on the table before him.
“ Fifty thousand isn't enough to go up the river for.
And this woman knows enough to send me for twenty
years. She can prove it, too.”
As Hazel gave back the money, Retta flew across
the room, and cast her arms about the “ Hornet,"
crooning over him like a mother, utterly oblivious of
the presence of the others.
But although he had thrown an arm about her, his
keen, incisive mind was grappling with the possibili-
ties of the new situation. His eyes telegraphed a swift
question to Colvin, and as Colvin nodded back, his
expression showed that the same thought was in his
brain.


THE HORNET'S NEST
307.
The “Hornet” pushed Retta aside not ungently.
“Dear Uncle, we've got you!” his harsh voice purred.
Whitefield stood at bay. “Got me, how?" He
tried to make his voice as insolently secure as
ever.
The “Hornet” permitted himself the luxury of a
chair. Taking out a cigarette, he lazily scratched a
match.
“ Colvin," he waved his hand with the smoking
match between his fingers toward Ashe," you're the
lawyer. Suppose you explain.”
Colvin leaned his elbow easily on the mantelpiece.
“I think that Mr. Whitefield fully understands,” he
said. “He has destroyed the papers, but their ex-
istence and the character of their contents can be proved
by oral testimony. Hazel Phillips, Mrs. Johnson here,
and — was it a Belle Davis you mentioned, Mrs. John-
son ?- can all swear that this package was endorsed,
'The Colvin Papers.' Hazel Phillips has here ad-
mitted that you, Mr. Whitefield, paid her fifty thou-
sand dollars for the recovery of that package as the
one taken from your safe. In view of all these facts,
and of the peculiar circumstances surrounding the res-
toration of the package, can you doubt that any court
in the land would fail to accept as genuine the copies
of those papers which I hold, and have retained all
these years? ”
Whitefield took up the sheaf of bank-notes which
Hazel had thrown upon the table, and ran them over
through his fingers as if counting them. He was evi-
dently thinking hard and fast.
His glancing eyes under the bushy brows shifted
from Colvin to the “ Hornet,” to Retta, to Hazel Phil-
lips. “The sworn testimony of a gang of crooks!”


THE HORNET'S NEST
309
paled until the painted scar on his cheek stood out in
liyid prominence.
“You are quite right, Mr. Whitefield,” he said.
“I cannot see my friends lose.”
There was a sharp exclamation from Muriel, but
before she could speak, the “Hornet " was on his feet.
“What are you talking about?” impatiently. “It's
my own affair, if I stand to lose anything. The entire
blame for this present muddle rests on me. I planned
it, engineered it, was sure of putting it through.”
Whitefield turned to Ashe. “There, you see. A
deadlock. You are hardly the man to accept such a
sacrifice, I take it. And yet,” he lighted another cigar,
“ there is a way out.”
“Mr. Colvin," he threw all the weight of the dy-
namic Whitefield individuality into his proposition,
" you have submerged your identity in Vernon. Well,
* Vernon' has made a very good impression. Why
not remain ‘Vernon'? I do not deny that you have
suffered through me, although I do maintain that I
acted in self-defense. Financially speaking, you were
just about to cut my throat, and naturally I took means
to protect myself. That is all a dead issue, though.
'Vernon'to-day could make a fine place for himself.
His social, political, or business ambitions would be
furthered to an unlimited extent. It is well worth
considering.” He looked at Ashe with a keen ex-
pectancy.
Colvin rested his hand upon the back of a chair
as f he felt the need of some support. In the last
five minutes he appeared to have grown five years
older. The snap and the life seemed all to have gone
from him.
"I don't know," he said slowly. “I cannot


THE HORNET'S NEST
311
his teeth. “Vindictive to the last. You she-devil!”
His eyes were like coals of fire.
“I am not vindictive,” Muriel cried. “I am too
indifferent to you and Freda, and even to my cousin
there, to be vindictive. But you two can't dance, and
leave the other man to pay the piper. This is one
of the things that shall not be covered up any longer,
no matter how much dirty linen we Whitefields have
got to wash in public.”
" By Jove, you're right,” said the “ Hornet.” “ But
look here,” he moved up closer to the table; "there
must be some way out of this. There's a way to get
around anything on earth, if you've only got the wits
to see it. It strikes me that we might arrange a
compromise."
Muriel threw her head up. “Never!” she ex-
claimed.
“Hold on a minute, Cousin. I'm not trying to pre-
vert Colvin's complete vindication. But he's been
waiting for it fifteen years; can't he wait a little
longer?”
Ashe looked puzzled. “I don't quite get your drift,
Hempstead. What is it you want?”
" Simply this. New York isn't going to be a very
pleasant place for you, Uncle William, after all this
comes out, and it's no paradise for me. But South
America is waiting to welcome us both."
“Ah?” Whitefield stood a moment reflective.
South America as a last resort was not an entirely
new idea to him. But he still fought for terms.
“With time to arrange my affairs in this country,
and place them under an efficient management where
I should still exercise control, it might be done,” he
granted. “There would also have to be sufficient


312
THE HORNET'S NEST
time allowed properly to swing the deal upon which
Fletcher and I are engaged.”
“How much time?" questioned Colvin.
“Ninety days?” suggested the “ Hornet.” “ That's
long enough, isn't it, Uncle William?”
“ Possibly. We can go into that later. I have
your assurance, I suppose, Mr. Colvin, that there will
be no prosecution of any kind, or action against me
in the courts?”
This was the question for which Colvin had been
waiting. “On one condition," he said. “I have no
desire for revenge. I am seeking only my rehabili-
tation. And to obtain that, I must have a written
statement from you which will contain the substance of
those burned documents, and fully exonerate me.”
“ You couldn't well ask more, Uncle William," said
the “ Hornet." “ Scandal soon dies, and South Amer-
ica is a long way off?”
There was a brief silence. It was broken by Hazel
Phillips, who during this consultation had been sitting
huddled in a chair, intently watching the face of first
one man and then another. Now she stood up, but-
toned her jacket, and straightened her hat.
“So ends my career in high finance." She gave a
little, bitter, reckless laugh.
Whitefield turned with a start, and looked at her;
he had quite forgotten her presence. A flicker of
aroused interest passed over his furrowed face.
“Hold on,” he said. “Not so fast. I keep my
bargains. And don't think I'm out of it, either. I
have said I would make your fortune, and I'll do
it.
"I have a curiosity to see how far you'll go. Here,"
he pushed the fifty thousand dollars to her across the












JANT 1952
AN 12 54 H