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COUNTERFEIT





COUNTERFEIT
LEE THAYER
author of
“HELL-GATE TIDES,”
“THE GLASS KNIFE.” etc.
New York
SEARS PUBLISHING COMPANY


COUNTERFEIT
COPYRIGHT, 1933, BY
SEARS PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


To Ralph E. Lunt, Senior and
Junior, to Doctor Roderick By-
ington, to Mr. Harry Groesbeck,
and all those others who have so
generously supplied the necessary
technical details to my career of
crime, this book is gratefully
dedicated.





COUNTERFEIT





COUNTERFEIT
CHAPTER I
A CURIOUS place this old Island of Manhattan. A
/-m strange, incredible mass of magic rock, so full, ap-
Jl. parently, of the eternal creative urge that of its
living self it seems to raise huge towers to the sky. Crop
after crop of structural stone and steel: year after year a
turning in of the lowlier harvest, a sowing and planting for
a larger growth, that in its turn yields ever to taller and taller
plants, reared from a fertile and congenial soil; root, branch,
blossom and fruit—stone—stone and steel.
A stranger from Mars, viewing the stupendous staggering
crop, might wonder at the evidences here and there of infer-
tility, or perhaps of careless reaping. Low spots where the
yield was inferior in every way—in substance, size, color,
durability. Where, inexplicably, there persisted from a for-
mer era an individual plant as out of date in material and in
structure as the little early Tertiary tree-shrew that started
out to become man.
If there had been a Martian stalking unseen along the
streets one rainy night in this year of our era 193—, he could
have found, perhaps, no better place to consider this matter
of unequal growth than the low spot in the darkish furrow
of Twenty-ninth Street, just a little way along from the
broad, light-splashed garden path of Fifth Avenue. For
here the contrast was striking and extreme. Upon the Ave-
nue a church spire of flowered stone, that had once blos-
somed in the sun was eclipsed and shadowed north, south
and east, by towers of materiality so tremendous as to make
9
-


10
C o unt e r f e it
of its own aspirations a thing of pity. Only toward the west
was there a hint of breathing room—a space where the orig-
inal relativity between things spiritual and mundane had, so
far, been allowed to persist, at least to the eye. Here, crouch-
ing low behind the baptistery of the church, shrinking back
from the street, sheltering itself from view behind a tall,
dark board fence, was a low brick building almost as dark.
One upper window only showed tiny horizontal slits of light
between the partly closed slats of an old fashioned shutter.
In the solid wooden fence, at the end nearest the church was
an opening defended by magnificent wrought iron gates.
These, quite probably, would have been of no interest to
the problematic Martian, but they obviously were to the taxi
driver who, at about ten o'clock of that rain-swept night of
late fall, drew up before them and peered out inquisitively.
"Guess this is the place, Miss," he said after a minute, as
he pushed the glass slide behind him a little farther open.
"You want I should drive in?" The meter was ticking mer-
rily and there seemed tO'him no reason for haste. But the
girl he had picked up at the Grand Central apparently felt
differently about it.
"Oh, dear," she cried, (without affectional intent how-
ever), "it's getting so late! And I'm sure this can't be the
place. I expected to be here hours ago. I don't know what
to do. This can't be it. Nobody could live here."
"You said the first door west of Fifth Avenue on the
north side of Twenty-ninth Street. This is it, and I don't
mean maybe," said the taximan somewhat severely.
"This is a gate, not a door," the girl remonstrated. She
was small and rather nicely plump, with determined, large,
steady blue eyes. The cabman had thought his fare "cute"
when he saw her, standing beside her luggage in the bright
light of the station driveway. But there was something,
even in that brief glimpse that warned him as to behavior.
"Well," he admitted, "you're right at that—in a way.
This here's a gate, but the building back in there most likely


C ounterfeit
ii
has a door. It's up to you, Miss. Shall I take you somewhere
else?"
"I—I don't know," she hesitated, but went on quickly
"This would be Number One West Twenty-ninth Street,
wouldn't it? Someone explained to me about the streets in
New York—how they run crossways and the houses begin
to number from Fifth Avenue, so that's why I said it was
the first door"
"Telling me my business," interrupted the driver with a
little, good-humored laugh. "Well, you're O.K., Miss. This
ought to be Number One. I don't see how it could help itself
without the church had a side entrance, which it hasn't; but
if it had, that would be Number One and not much more
use to a young lady than a gate is, at that."
Merrily, merrily ticked the meter. The rain swished down
with that drenching sound of having no place to go that it
attains only on completely paved streets.
"Can you see any number on the gate?" She was sure
no one could, for she had been forcing her own powers of
sight to the limit. It was rather a preface to a request that
she was not sure she had any right to make. But it was so
awfully wet, and she had just that one good suit. "Or is
there any way you could find out if this is the right place?"
she suggested, trying to sound off-hand and experienced.
The driver proved unexpectedly resourceful. He waited
for a car to pass him then backed a little, swung out toward
the middle of the street and came forward up a sort of drive-
way so as to throw his lights slanting at and through the
gates.
"Holy snakes! What's that?" he gasped. "What kind
of a place you looking for, Miss? Not a grave yard! I
never noticed this here church had one! But if it ain't
a graveyard, then what t'ell is it?"
The immobile, whitely gleaming shapes beyond the gates
looked cold and awful in the pale glare of the car lamps. For
a horrid instant the heart of the girl in the taxi was frozen


12
C ounterfeit
with dread. Then, as her startled perceptions cleared, she
laughed with a faint touch of hysteria.
"Nonsense. They don't put Bacchantes in church yards,"
she cried. "It's just statuary. Though why"
"Gee, don't it look cold and unchancy," muttered the taxi-
man under his breath.
The girl did not hear him. "Look," she cried. "There
is a number, over at the other side of the gate. See? One
West Twenty-ninth Street. And a bell! Oh, would you
mind? Maybe there's someone in the house back there who
could tell us."
"Well, Miss, you know it ain't none of my—" He
started to say "funeral," but a glance at the pale still occu-
pants of the dark yard made him change it to "business."
"I know." The girl's voice was very sweet and appealing.
"But if you'd be so kind."
"St-t-t!" The driver's head, which had been reluctantly
thrust outside the shelter of the cab was drawn instantly back.
"Here's somebody. Maybe he knows."
A man approaching from the east had stopped beside the
gate. His head was bent against the wind. The broad hat
that protected him from the downpour had also partially ob-
scured his vision so that he was actually at the gate before
he perceived that the car standing there was waiting by
intention.
"I say, Mister," bellowed the taxi-man, "d'you belong to
this here joint?"
Perhaps it was the suddenness and loudness of the voice
that caused the other to start back. The lifted face flashed
for an instant in the slanting light. The man must have
been dazzled for he threw his hand up before his eyes.
"Oh, Uncle Nat! Uncle Nat!" The fresh young voice,
full of relief and hope, sounded clearly above the swish of
the rain. "It's Marie! Marie Lamont! Didn't you get
my letter? Oh, dear, I thought I was never going to find
you. And I was beginning to be—well, you know, just a


Counterfeit
13
little frightened. But it's all over now. I did have the
address right. And I'd have known you anywhere.
Mother always kept your picture on her desk. That lovely
white hair! Oh please don't think me silly! It's just the
relief"
She stopped literally for breath. The old man had ad-
vanced slowly through the rain and now stood glancing in
through the cab window. Beyond the swirling white-gray
shaft of the car lamps the light was dim. She could scarcely
distinguish the expression on the lined face below the float-
ing mass of snowy hair.
"You are glad I came, Uncle Nat?" she whispered hur-
riedly. "Long ago mother used to say that I could always
depend on you. Your letters were so darling and kind. But
we didn't dream it would ever seem right to accept your
offer. You said 'any time'. It is all right, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes. Oh, yes." The old man's voice was husky,
perhaps from emotion, perhaps from the weather. "Are
you—was it your intention"
"Why, Uncle Nat, you said—a home—if I should ever
need it. Is—have I chosen an inconvenient time?"
She was a brave girl but she was very young. Her
voice broke in spite of all she could do. The old man started
as if he had been stung.
"You're all alone?" he muttered. That it was a question
and not an unnecessary statement surprised her.
"Why, of course, Uncle Nat. There's no one now, you
know. I have no one to turn to—but you." The last
words were low and there was a note of uncertainty ap-
proaching alarm in the sweet young voice.
"Yes, yes. Quite right." He murmured something
about "Unexpected," "See what can be done," "Perhaps a
hotel—," as he opened the cab door and helped the girl with
her bag and umbrella.
The taxi driver did not obtrude his anxiety to be of service


14
C o unt er f eit
when his passenger alighted, but as she started with the old
gentleman to cross to the gates, he called out briskly.
"Hey! Who's paying this fare? Come back here, Miss.
You can't get away with it, if you are from the country.
Playing innocent!"
"Be silent, you!" The old gentleman spoke with quite
unexpected force and came quickly back to the cab which
was still headed in across the sidewalk, partly obstructing the
footway. At that minute a man and a boy, whose approach,
by reason of the rain and dark, had been unnoticed, paused
for the way to be cleared*. Above the noise of the starting
engine the old man's pointed remarks came to them crisply.
The taxi driver, having received his money, hastened to get
his cab out into the street again. As the lights receded
and swung in an arc they picked out in bold relief the group
at the gate. The old man, fumbling with the lock, the girl
with bright drops that might be rain on her fresh young
face; the incongruous juxtaposition of the handsomely
wrought gates with the dull and damaged board fence in
which they now grudgingly opened. The dim wet figures
of nymphs and satyrs faintly shimmering in the broad
flagged space, and beyond them the dull red and brown of the
old building—dark—save for one window in the upper
story.
The two foot passengers passed on quickly, the man re-
marking in a low, quiet voice, "The old gentleman did him-
self very well in the matter of the top-coat, Richard. Did
you notice? Very good cut. Probably from London and a
West End tailor to boot."
To which the boy responded admiringly "'Twould take
you to spot a thing like that, Mr. Wiggar. Gee, you sure
know your onions and then some. I don't believe I'll ever
make a real honest-to-God valet. But I am noticy, too, be-
lieve it or not. Only what struck me was what a doggone
funny joint it was the old bird was a-taking the easy-look-


Counterfeit 15
ing little dame into. Did you pipe all them goofy dancing
monuments, and the guy on horseback in that there yard?"
"There's no such word as goofy, Dick. Slang is very in-
elegant. How often must I tell you so? And as to the
construction of your sentences "Mr. Wiggar then em-
barked upon an expostulatory and expository dissertation
on the English language that lasted until after the oddly
assorted couple had turned the corner and had faded, one
would have thought forever, from the picture.


CHAPTER II
f j 10LL0W me, if you will, and watch where you step.
m j It's rather dark. Mind the curb. There. That's
JL right."
The old man had carefully relocked the gates and was
leading the way from the ancient cobbled pavement of the
drive, across the flags, toward a small door that could
scarcely be distinguished in the faint glow that filtered in
from the remote city lights.
The girl, half-blindly following her conductor, had to bite
her lip to keep it from trembling. Her father's recent death
had been pure agony. Her almost penniless state would
have filled her with alarm had she not been certain that she
could always find a refuge with this brother of her dead
mother; this uncle who had been a sort of fairy god-father
to her from her earliest childhood, though, owing to a com-
bination of circumstances, this was the first time she had ever
seen him. . . The first time, the very first time he had ever
laid eyes on the niece to whom he had sent every year at
Christmas such a generous check. . . . Even though ob-
viously he had not received her letter and so had no reason
to know she was coming, there was a strangeness and lack
of response in his attitude that was utterly unexpected and
that struck her cold to the marrow. It was more than in-
difference. If it had not been so absolutely absurd she
would have thought he was afraid of her.
Afraid She shivered, and though the old man
seemed wrapped in his own thoughts he was instantly aware
of the tremor that shook her.
"Sorry," he said crisply, in a low voice, as he turned a
key in a grating lock. "Come in. It's warm in here."
Though he did not mention it, it was also entirely dark.
16


C ounterfeit
17
The girl could form no idea of her surroundings and
waited, with what courage she could command, for the
switching on of a light. But none came. There was the
sound of the door closing behind her, again the complaint of
the key in its rusty wards; a faint, dull thump which she
rightly guessed was made by her bag as it was dropped on
a bare floor. Then her conductor passed her with a few
words uttered in so low a tone that she barely made them
out.
"Sorry," he repeated. "Be back in a minute. Hope you
don't mind the dark. Gas. No matches. Miserable old
hole. Just wait where you are. Won't be long."
She heard his step pass very quickly along an uncarpeted
floor, then the rapid diminuendo of feet on a stair. Some-
where above a door opened and closed. After a short in-
terval there followed the faint faraway ringing of a strident
bell. Then silence such as she had never been conscious of
before in all her young life. The swish and swirl of the
rising tempest outside, the deep hollow roar of the great city
that never pauses nor goes entirely to rest; the reverberation
that was like the sound in a sea-shell, or the fear of deaf-
ness, in ears accustomed to the voice of the wind and the
song of the leaves, only made the silence of this unexplored
place where she stood the more heart-searching.
But after a time her pride rose to her defence, burning up
the rain and tears upon her cheeks. If it had been possible,
she would have registered her sense of the callous discourtesy
of leaving her there abandoned in the strange darkness by
going out into the driving rain where, at least, coldness
and indifference were to be expected and had the merit of
being impersonal. This grudging admission to a shelter
was like a slap in the face. The few interminable minutes,
that seemed hours, filled her with foreboding, anguish and
a rising anger that for the time subdued her feeling of dread.
If she had had a little more money in her purse, a little
more knowledge of large cities in her mind, she might have


18 Counterfeit
tried to leave the place then and there. She even went so far
along this line of thought as to grope the few" steps back to
the door. Her outstretched hand touched the panel. In-
stinctively she grasped the knob and pulled, though she knew
the door was locked. She felt for the key and something
went cold inside when she realized that it was gone.
Gone! She was virtually a prisoner in a dark house,
thousands of miles away from any one to whom she could
appeal for help,—except her uncle. Surely she had made
no mistake—as to his identity. That would be grotesquely
impossible and too awful to contemplate. The address was
right. He looked like the picture he had sent them only a
few years ago. The same conspicuous shock of white hair
.... But the light had been dim. Suppose ....
Suppose .... Locked in ... . with a stranger
The darkness became suddenly filled with menace Her
heart pounded in her breast and in her throat She clutched
her courage in both hands. The suspense was unendurable.
There was no retreat. Well, then, she would go forward.
Put it to the touch. Find out where she stood,—figuratively
—literally.
With a determined straightening of her small, gallant
shoulders, she clenched her fists and abandoning her bag
where it lay she took a bold step forward.
And at that instant, from somewhere above and at quite
a little distance, she saw a light flash; a moving light, re-
flected on a wall and revealing in rapidly flickering light and
shade an old-fashioned stair well. For a second the bearer
of the light was unseen, but his footsteps, moving hastily
down the uncarpeted upper flight were distinctly audible.
Then he came into view. It was her uncle, carrying a big
lighted candle in a tall silver holder. For an instant he
leaned over the banister, peering down into the darkness.
The light that he held aloft made an aureole of his great
mass of snowy hair, while at the same time it showed to him


Counterfeit
19
Marie Lamont struck to immobility by the suddenness of
the apparition.
He did not speak but came hastily down the last flight of
stairs, and his face, in the wavering candle-light seemed to
take on a kinder aspect, though through everything he said
and did the girl sensed a strange hesitation-a note-she
found herself thinking again- of fear. Fear. Of what?
Inexplicably enough, it did seem to be of her. Not just em-
barrassment at having a young girl thrust unexpectedly upon
his hands. It was something other and deeper than that.
“My child." His eyes looked more friendly in the flicker-
ing beam from the candle than she would have thought pos-
sible. He seemed to have shed, with his outer garments,
some of the cold reserve of his former manner, but she was
aware that the glance that rested on her face was keen-
and something more. "You must forgive me if I
seemed abrupt-out there. So unexpected—your coming,
you know. You—you look like your mother, my dear. As
she did when she was your age.” He put his hand (it
was trembling slightly) upon her shoulder, drew her to him
and kissed her on the forehead. The caress was, apparently,
sincere and tender, but, the instant it was over, she felt
again that close, inquiring, watchful scrutiny.
"What is it, Uncle Nat?” she cried, suddenly clasping her
hands together. “There's a reason-after all-why you
don't want me! And I was so sure "
"No, no. Don't cry," he broke in, almost angrily. "I
do want you! I want you more than-than you can guess.
But just at the moment - You see, my dear, if I'd had
your letter, I could have arranged everything. It's just-
just- ".
“I could go away,” she interrupted in her turn, trying
desperately to keep her voice quite steady, “but you see I
never was in New York before-and--and I have hardly
any money left.”
“If I let you go out again in this storm, my name's not


20 Counterfeit
Nathaniel Etherington, and you're not my dear sister Marie's
only child I" he exclaimed with heat. "And that's ridiculous,
for you're as like her as two prints from the same plate.
I'd have known you anywhere. I loved your mother, my
child, and even if I seem old and crabbed, I love you, too.
Please don't doubt it."
He spoke with an irascible, indignant sort of earnestness
that was quaint and somehow very appealing to the tired,
lonely girl. She winked hard to shake off the salt drops
that had gathered on her tangled lashes, and suddenly broke
into a smile.
"Good Lord," cried Nathaniel Etherington, starting back.
"That—that was your mother—to the life. I made a little
picture of her—I'll show it to you . . . long ago
Here, carry the candle," he added, briskly. "I'll take your
bag. I have a little guest room, of a sort, upstairs. You'll
be comfortable for the night at least, and after that," his
hesitation was scarcely perceptible, "we'll see what can be
done—to make you more so, my child. I want you to be
quite—quite happy, you know. That is as happy as an old
man can make you."
Without more ado, he gathered up her bag and motioning
her to precede him with the candle, they started up the stairs.
She hesitated before a door on the first landing.
"Not that one, my—my dear," he called out in a hearty
voice. "It's one more flight. Perhaps I'd better lead the
way. This seems a queer sort of place to you, no doubt,"
he went on, quite gaily now, as he passed her and started up
the second and last flight of stairs. "It is an awful hole,
some people think, but when you get used to it it's not so bad.
And there are a great many advantages . . ."
Hjs taciturnity seemed to be dropping from him, step by
step. His voice rang with a queer, half exultant note. He
had left the door of his apartment open. Marie could see


Counterfeit
21
the warm light of an open fire reflected on old mahogany.
She had a glimpse of a table full of books and an easy chair.
Then her uncle turned upon the threshold. He set her bag
on the floor and to her amazement held out his arms to her.
She thought there were tears in his eyes.
"Welcome,” he said, huskily, in a very low voice. "Wel-
come to your old uncle's lonely fireside, my darling child."


Counterfeit 23
"It was a swell church. One of the finest." Trant's dark
glance rested on Peter Clancy's clever, homely face. "I
don't know what there was about it he didn't like, but he
gave one glance around—and left."
"I'll bet," said Kerrigan nodding his head.
"And where d'you think he went?"
"How can I guess? You know I never got to go over,
Ray. If I'd been in the Secret Service like you, and Pete,
too, at the time instead of on the Force"
"Won't you ever stop grouching about that, Jake? Well,
anyway, I'll tell you where Pete went. To the top of the
Eiffel Tower. Sight-seeing, at a time like that! Can you
beat it?"
Kerrigan seemed to be studying the food on his well-
filled plate. "I've seen postcards of that place," he said,
slowly. "It's the highest thing you can get up on in that
sawed-off city, isn't it?"
His fleeting glance met Peter's, and they both smiled.
Between the intelligent police detective and the astute private
one there was an underlying bond of sympathy, deeply valued
by both. Somehow Kerrigan understood why Clancy
wanted nothing over him but the sky at a time like that.
"You could hardly go so far as to say you've got religion,
though, Pete," he argued. Kerrigan's own creed was a
matter of hereditary loyalty, but he considered himself per-
fectly orthodox.
"You wouldn't call it that, I suppose." Peter was half
laughing, half serious. "I haven't any banner to carry or
even a tag to pin on my manly breast, but I've come to be-
lieve—certain things." His eyes moved slowly, almost un-
seeingly, around the big, fashionable restaurant where he
was entertaining his two friends. "I've seen so much—of
the way things work—that I don't believe in coincidences any
more. I mean I don't think that it just happens that I've
been here or there or the other place. The stars don't just
happen not to bump into each other .... They follow a


24
C ounterfeit
law. If we could see far enough,—if we had sufficient in-
telligence, I believe we'd find that nothing is accidental
that everything is the result—and the cause—of
something else."
"Oh, rats," said Trant, irreverently. "You can't make
that hold water, Pete. It was only by chance, for instance,
that we met last night and that you asked me and Jake here
to dinner. If I'd walked down the other side of Forty-
second Street . . . ."
"But you didn't," said Clancy, with a frown and a smile.
"So that's that. How about endive and roquefort? And
what kind of dessert will you have? If Ray's going to catch
that train for Pondicherry and try to spot some more of those
bogus hundred-dollar bills he's so worried about, we'll have
to make it a little more snappy."
The waiter, with the air of being intimately concerned
in the matter of their choice, graciously admitted that it was
a good one, and the dinner proceeded.
Kerrigan, who had not previously heard the nature of the
Secret Service man's quest, made enquiries and Trant pro-
ceeded to enlighten him. A marvellously executed counter-
feit one hundred dollar bill had recently made its appearance,
and the Bureau was hot on its' trail. Seven notes only had
been confiscated and five of these had been traced—in one
instance immediately and in the other remotely—to widely
separated race tracks.
"As you know, a place like that, where money in wads
changes hands so fast, is a bully good place to pass the
'queer,' " said Trant, warming to his subject. "The book-
makers are pretty wise, but this note would pass in almost
any bank. In fact it was just by luck that the teller at the
Case National caught the last bill."
"There you go. Luck," said Peter. "The teller had prob-
ably been trained for years, so that he'd practically developed
a sixth sense, and you call it luck!"
He spoke rather absently. For several minutes he had


C ount er f eit
25
been watching a table in the corner, some little distance away.
He already knew the greater part of Trant's story of the
spurious notes and was hardly listening.
The Secret Service man, glancing toward him, realized
suddenly that he might be boring his host. "She's a peach
all right, Pete," he broke off to say as he followed the direc-
tion of Clancy's eye. "Looks as if she'd just come from
Sunnybrook Farm. Wonder how anything as fresh and
young as that can stand this burg."
"She likes it," said Peter readily. "She just told him so."
"Oh, come off. You couldn't hear that far," Trant re-
torted.
"No, but that's what she said," Peter asserted. "Would
you like to know her name?"
"She's a friend of yours, Pete?" Kerrigan had to twist
sidewise away from the round table to get a glimpse of the
girl in question. His companions were practically facing the
mirrored corner.
"Never laid eyes on her before, but her name is Marie.
At least he just asked if he could call her that. He looks to
me like a fast worker."
"Has Pete gone nutty, Jake?"
"No," grinned Kerrigan. "He's just showing off. Cash-
ing in on that deaf and dumb case he had once. Didn't he
ever tell you about that?"
"No. What do you mean?"
"Tell him, Pete."
"Happened after I left the Secret Service," said Peter.
"Too long a story to tell you now, Ray. I had to be in that
asylum for several weeks and I made hay while the sun
shone. Comes in pretty handy now and then."
"What does? Do you mean—at this distance"
"It isn't much of a trick in a good light." Peter spoke
with becoming modesty but was half conscious that his boy-
ish vanity was being tickled by the expression of Ray's face.
"Lip-reading. That's all. Once you get the hang of it"


26
Counterfeit
"But do you mean to tell me you can understand what that
girl's saying !"
"Sure can," said Peter, "and also what her handsome
young friend is saying to her. Which is a plenty, if you
ask me.”
"You mean you can read his lips in the mirror ?”
"Why not?"
“Pshaw, I don't believe it.”
"You don't have to."
“What did he say just now when he nearly put his chest
into his plate, Pete?” Kerrigan didn't mind a bit of stage
management in his friend's behalf.
"I didn't quite get it all," admitted Peter. “You two
were talking. He said something about eyes and stars and
that sort of truck."
"I could invent that much without causing my imagination
an inconvenient strain," Trant objected. “You can't prove
it.”
"Not unless you want to go over and ask if you, too,
can call her Marie,” chuckled Peter. “Or wait. I dare you
to go over right now and ask her if she knows Mr. John
Oliver Olmstead. Come. I couldn't make that name up,
could I? Could I, Ray? Why, what in heaven's name's
the matter?"
"Have I been talking in my sleep?" Trant's sleek dark
head was thrust forward. "I don't remember telling
you- "
"What?” Kerrigan asked eagerly. He seemed to be labor-
ing under some sudden excitement.
"John Oliver Olmstead,” Trant repeated, just above his
breath. “The girl didn't really say that, Pete, did she ?
You're having me on.”
"She really did say—" Peter's face had grown serious
-“ 'I haven't seen your Mr. John Oliver Olmstead yet. I'm
anxious to meet him.' Why do you care? What is it to
you? Who is this John Oliver Olmstead?”
breathia having did sa


Counterfeit
27
"Don't you know, Pete?" Kerrigan put in in a low tone.
"He's the head of a very fine photogravure concern on Thir-
tieth Street. In that old building that belongs to the Well-
mouth Estate. Just off Fifth Avenue."
"I know the building of course, but I didn't remem-
ber—" Peter stopped and glanced from the two young
people in the corner to the Secret Service man who was
hastily looking at his watch. "Wait a second, Ray," he
said. "Why does that name ring a bell with you?" His
keen, steel-blue eye searched the other's face.
"It's just a very odd coincidence—" Trant frowned
and glanced aside as he rose.
"Coincidence?" said Peter with a quizzical, curious smile.
"Of course it's only that." Trant sounded almost angry.
"He redeemed the bill all right and asked to keep it as a
souvenir, but the teller wouldn't let him."
"You mean Olmstead did this?"
"It's all confidential, Pete, and I shouldn't have said this
much. I didn't mean to mention any names. I was afraid
I had when you sprung it. You'll let it go no further, old
man, of course."
"Naturally," said Peter, lifting his hand to summon the
waiter. "Check, please."
"It's later than I thought," said Trant hastily. "I'll
miss my train if I don't hurry. You'll excuse me, won't
you, Pete? It's been great seeing you once more and old
Jake too. Thanks for the corking dinner. Good bye, old
scout."
He held out his hand. Kerrigan gripped it hard, and
pulled the younger man down so that he could speak to him
closely in the ear.
"Has the Bureau any suspicions about this fellow Olm-
stead?" he whispered. "Are they keeping in touch with
him?"
"Not that I know of," muttered Trant. "I understand
he's off on a business trip just now."


28
C o unt er f eit
"Oh, he is?"
"That's what the girl at the office said. He's gone to St.
Louis, I believe. Why are you so curious, Jake? Any
reason?"
"No," said Kerrigan, looking slowly up at Peter. "It—
it just struck me as a—curious coincidence—like you said."
"Good Lord! I'll have to dash," cried Trant.
"Tell us the rest of the bed-time story when you get
back," urged Kerrigan. "Don't fail to look us up."
"I won't," said Trant, turning to lift his hand in salute.
"Great luck I happened to meet you, Pete. Adios and
thanks. Adios, Jake."
"Adios means 'go with God'," said Peter as he motioned
aside the little silver tray with its heap of silver change.
The waiter grinned his acknowledgment of the sentiment and
the tip. Kerrigan's face was extremely grave as he followed
Peter from the room. They had to pass very near the small
table in the corner. The two young people had nearly fin-
ished their dinner. She was a charming little thing, with
amazingly large and candid blue eyes, a neat, determined
nose, two red lips—coral not lip-stick red—a mass of soft
dark hair and exquisite neck and shoulders above a very
pretty evening frock of gentian blue. Peter, who had an
eye for detail of every sort noted these items various, as
well as those appertaining to her escort, who might well
have been taken for an exemplar of "What the extremely,
not to say extravagantly, well-dressed man will wear."
As they stopped at the check-room just outside the door,
Kerrigan muttered something that Peter failed to catch,
for his attention had again been attracted to the small table
in the corner of the dining room. Two people had just come
in from the opposite entrance, and in passing had stopped
to speak to the occupants of that particular table. The
small drama that followed was clear in its implication, even
if it had not been possible for Peter to lip-read some of the
short colloquy.


Counterfeit
29
The man at the table rose as the late comers paused beside
it. It was the ordinary gesture of civilization, but Peter
felt that even a savage from the deepest wilds of unmapped
jungle would have been driven to make some motion of
obeisance in recognition of such beauty as now flashed and
glowed before him. A golden girl—but not the dead gold
of coined metal. Rather it was the deep, pulsing glow of
yellow flame, incalculable, dangerous. Sharp waves of
crisply flowing hair that caught the light; a sheath of me-
tallic gauze decorating a lithe, slender body that oscillated
softly, ceaslessly, almost imperceptibly, but was never quite
still. There was a tinge of gold in the clear pallor of the
skin, in the thick brows and lashes, and (though Peter was
not near enough to see) flecks of gold in the pale hazel of
her eyes.
They were flashing now as she looked at the man who had
risen to face her. Their eyes were nearly level though he
was above the medium in height.
"I begin to understand your sudden devotion to business,
George."
Peter made that sentence out though he could not be sure
of the names as the two girls were presented to each other.
Marie La something. Perhaps Lamont. Probably La-
mont. And the other name had a Van in it. First name
began with S. What was the name of the Van Zandt heir-
ess? Sylvia? No. But surely something that began
with
Kerrigan touched Peter's arm. "Come away, lad. I
want to have a talk with you."
"Yes," said Peter, absently taking his coat, hat and stick
from the check girl. "What is it, Jake? Something im-
portant?" His eyes were still on the table in the corner.
The second man, a fairly tall, square shouldered young fel-
low, with a plain rather pleasant face, was being polite to
Marie—La—probably Lamont. Peter judged from their
manner that they had met before.


30
C ounterfeit
"Where are you going from here, Pete?" Kerrigan's
voice in his ear had an urgent note.
N "Home," said Peter. "Why?" His glance shifted
swiftly to the grave face of the police detective.
"Will you be busy? Could I come along?"
"Why, certainly, Jake. What's troubling you?"
"I didn't think it was anything, and now I'm not so sure,"
growled Kerrigan. "Anyhow, I'd like you to hear the story
for yourself. This coincidence business, Pete. You were
serious about what you said?"
"Yes."
"Well then it seems—kind of—as if you ought to be in on
this. Olmstead's name cropping up so funny. And that
trip to St. Louis"
"Whatever are you talking about, Jake? What's on your
mind?"
"I can't tell you here. It's a long story and there may be
nothing to it. But I'd like you to hear it first hand. I'll
have to phone Sheehan to meet us at your place. Will you
wait here?"
Peter's eyes narrowed. "I'll be delighted," he said and
Kerrigan went hastily away. After a thoughtful second
Peter's glance went back to the table in the corner. The
golden girl had turned away. As she crossed the room, all
eyes followed her including those of Marie La—probably
Lamont, whose delicately rounded face was painfully flushed.
Her companion said something to her—and smiled with a
dazzling flash of white teeth. She responded with an odd
little daring lift of the chin, and they both rose and came
toward the entrance.
Before they reached it, however, Peter following an ob-
scure but imperative instinct, had turned hastily away. The
girl's bright low laughter, like the tinkling of little bells, was
ringing softly in his ears as he intercepted Kerrigan at the
intersection of the halls.


Counterfeit 33
less person are, perhaps, a menace. I hope I have never
been guilty in any of these directions, or in the matter of
the purely idiomatic sense in which, if I am not mistaken,
you have employed the word beans."
Peter could never be certain as to what was going on be-
hind that colorless wooden mask. No least twinkle in the
pale eyes betrayed him, but somehow the master felt that his
own inward chuckle was but an echo of something deeply
hidden in the "innard workings" of this most perfect of
servants. Anyone else would have considered the Briton
merely a solemn ass, and the keen perceptions behind that
noncommital exterior would have passed unguessed. Ter-
ence Sheehan, whose own sense of humor was irrepressible,
looked down—or rather up—his own short nose with an
almost pitying scorn but, under Kerrigan's eye, forebore a
remark that was on the tip of his tongue, and plunged eagerly
into his story.
"You see it's this way, sir." He addressed himself to
Peter, and his queer little face was filled with anxiety, de-
termination, and a kind of awe and fear. "The boss, you
know. Mr. Jack. What say? Yes, sir, Mr. Jack Olm-
stead."
"You work for him?" Peter asked, quickly.
"Didn't Jake tell you?"
"No. He said you would."
"Right. I will. I'm furnace man for the John Oliver Olm-
stead Company. I've been with 'em in Mr. Jack Olmstead's
father's time, and with Mr. Jack himself ever since the old
gentleman died and his son took over the business. It's a
matter of thirty-one years come next January. So you can
see it's more to me what comes to the lad than it would be to
these fly-by-night janitors that changes jobs every time they'
get sore about what somebody says or doesn't say."
"The janitor at your place left suddenly?" asked Peter,
jumping at conclusions.


34
C ounterfeit
Terence Sheehan blinked. "How was you after guessing
that? But so it was. And that's how it does be that I
come to know what I know, and putting two and two
together, and pondering this way and that, I thinks to myself
I'll step up to Jake's and lay the facts before him and ease
my fears and anxieties, if so be that I may." His voice had
dropped. He glanced apprehensively about and edged for-
ward on his chair.
"When was this?" Peter's eyes were keen and encourag-
ing.
"The thing that's been worrying me, sir, happened
well over a week ago. Friday, the thirteenth. I'll never
forget that day, it's me that's telling you."
"Well go ahead. Tell us," urged Kerrigan. "What's
hindering you? You went down early to the building, be-
cause you had to sweep up and get things tidy and tend to
your furnace. Come to the point, Terry. We want this
picture all in one reel. Don't try to make a serial out of it."
"Let him tell it his, own way, Jake," said Peter, quietly.
"We have all the time there is."
"Thank you, sir," said Terence with a withering glance
at Kerrigan. "The lad was always impatient. It's farther
he'd have gotten in his profession if he'd stopped to listen
to them that's older and be-like wiser than himself. If I'd
told these here facts to you, sir, now maybe you'd have
listened and so much time wouldn't have been wasted."
Kerrigan heaved a sigh, reversed the crossing of his legs
and took out another cigar. He was about to bite off the
end when it was gently but firmly taken from him, the closed
bit neatly pinched off, the cigar handed back and lighted
and Wiggar had returned to his place without having made
one unnecessary gesture or the least noise. The flow of
Sheehan's words had not been for an instant interrupted.
He was warming to his subject.
"As Jake says, I come early to the place that morning.


C ounterfeit
35
Of course I have my own key and I went down at once to
look at my fire, it having come on very cold in the night as
perhaps you remember. It was the beginning of those first
three very cold days we had."
Peter nodded.
"The minute I got inside the door I smelled a funny smell.
Maybe it's easier smelling up than down, if you get what I
mean. Anyway I says to myself, somebody's been putting
trash and maybe garbage in your furnace, Terry, and if it's
that boy Mike you can give him an earful for me. Mike
comes down and toasts hot dogs over the coals at lunch time
like we all used to do when Mr. Jack was a kid and begun
to work for his dad. Times is different now, with these
here cafeterias every second door. Mike's the only one that
comes down from upstairs, so that's why I thought of him.
He isn't a bad boy, really, but I couldn't think who else
might have put something in the fire that would be kicking
up that kind of a smell. It got worse when I got down to
it and the furnace room was hottern hell, saving your pres-
ence, sir. I went over quick to see what was the matter,
and there didn't seem to be anything wrong except that the
drafts had been left on and the coals was low in the fire-box.
I was surprised at that, because while she's an old bird that
furnace is good. I know her like I know my own wife. I
remember fixing her all up for the night. Lots of coal, and
fine stuff on the top. Ordinarily she'd keep like that all
night in the coldest weather."
"What about the drafts?" Peter asked. "Can you be sure
you turned them off?"
"That's the point I'm coming to, sir." Again Sheehan
wiped his brow, glanced aside at Wiggar, shrugged his coat
away from the back of his neck, leaned forward and went on
quickly.
"I would have swore I shut them drafts. I'm sure now
that I did, but despite it all, I'm not just certain. You see


36 Counterfeit
I was terrible mad because that swine of a janitor had gone
off and left us flat. Mr. Jack called me up to the office and
asked me to take over till they could get somebody else.
He said he was going to St. Louis on the mid-night train."
The little man stopped short. His tiny bright eyes bored
into Peter's. He edged so far forward that the back legs
of his chair left the floor.
"What I want to know, Mr. Clancy, sir," he said in a low
hissing voice, "is did Mr. Jack ever get to St. Louis? And
how and why and when did he leave his office that night?
That's what I want to know! That's what somebody ought
to make it their business to find out."
"Tell me why you think he didn't go to St. Louis." Peter's
frowning gravity was encouragement in itself.
"Tell him what you thought you saw in the furnace,
Terry," prompted Kerrigan.
"I'll tell Mr. Clancy what I know I saw," retorted Shee-
han. "As soon as I opened the furnace door I noticed it.
You know how hard it is to burn up wool, sir, and also how
it smells. Well there was a kind of a lump of something."
He winced and his face was white. "I struck it with the
poker and it fell apart. I thought it was only the burned
out remainders of woolen cloth. Maybe it was just that—
and nothing—else ... I hadn't been upstairs then, mind
you, so I wasn't thinking so much about it. I knew if I
was to save the fire I'd better get on the job right away, so
I stoked up the old bird for keeps . . . and then I went up-
stairs."
"To the office floor," Kerrigan put in as Sheehan paused
once more.
"To the bosses office first." The older man corrected the
statement with anxious urgency. "It was the place to start
cleaning up anyway, but it seems to me now as if something
told me to go there as quick as I could."


Counterfeit 37
"That's your imagination, Terry. Mr. Clancy just wants
facts."
"And who are you, Jake Kerrigan," Sheehan retorted
hotly, "that's to say what's facts and what is not? Ain't
a thought just as good a fact as the big foot that you're
always putting into the middle of an argument? Wasn't
the telephone and the radio once just a thought in some-
body's mind? Didn't somebody just imagine"
"Sure, Terry, sure. You're right," Kerrigan interrupted
soothingly. "So something told you to hurry up and get
to the bosses office, and there you found"
"I found the place all upset, Mr. Clancy," exclaimed Shee-
han, too intent on his story to argue further. "Chairs was
thrown about. A glass was smashed on the floor. The
drawers of Mr. Jack's desk was all open and the papers
scattered, hither and yon."
"Were the locks broken?" Peter asked, quickly.
"No, sir."
"Mightn't it have meant only that Mr. Olmstead was care-
less and had been in a hurry to pack what he wanted to take
away with him. Knowing that you were the one who would
clean his office, Sheehan, he would have been sure every-
thing in it was safe."
"That's true enough, sir," agreed the little man. "And
it's what Jake and the others would be pointing out. But
there's more to it than that." With a stern face, he put his
hand in his pocket, drew out a small parcel, carefully
wrapped, and balanced it on his knee. "Mr. Ingalls and
young Mr. Harden went all over the bosses papers and things
in his office. They're sure that nothing was missing and
maybe they're right. But how do they know? I ask you
that, sir. If a thing isn't in a place, how do vou know it
had ought to be, when maybe you never knew it was there
in the first place at all? Answer me that. And how can


38 Counterfeit
you explain my finding these, after I went down to see was
my fires o. k.?"
Slowly the little man rose and went over to the table beside
which Peter sat. He placed the packet before his host, and
with a queer, bitter gesture of the outflung hand said, "Open
it, you, sir. Maybe you won't be quite so glib with your ex-
planation as Jake was. Maybe you'll see what I see—some-
thing—wrong." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Some-
thing dead—dead wrong."


CHAPTER V
rHE crackle of the stiff paper sounded loud in the en-
suing stillness. Peter laid aside the three rubber
bands that had held it in place and delicately, with
the tips of his fingers, pressed back the folds and exposed
the contents of the package to view.
Three inconsiderable items. A smallish lump of gray
metallic substance that had been rubbed clean but still showed
flecks of foreign matter inbedded in it. A few inches of
what might have been a piece of pipe—except that no piping,
whether made of clay or metal would, conceivably, have been
charred like that, for it was burned black and was at the
very point of disintergration. The third object showed no
signs of having, literally, been through the fire, but it was
damaged—broken—crushed. A flat pencil holder of gold
with a ring at the top but no chain. It was meant to con-
tain one of those flat lead pencils, the kind that Wiggar
insisted on Peter's using, because they did not cause an un-
seemly bulge in a waistcoat pocket. There was, however, no
pencil in the holder, the flat sides of which were crushed
together until, at the open end, they almost met.
Breathing heavily, Terence Sheehan reached out and
turned the small golden object the other side up. Plainly
marked upon the surface were the initials J. O. O., and in
smaller script the abbreviation, Jr.
For several minutes Peter gazed upon this odd collection
with a concentration so intense that his whole body appeared
perfectly rigid. At length he lifted his eyes and looked
across at Kerrigan. There was neither wonder nor criti-
cism in his level voice.
"So you passed all this up, Jake?" he said.
"Yes." Kerrigan spoke defensively. "And so would
39


40 Counterfeit
you, Pete, if— Go on, Terry. Tell him the rest. He'll
see why it was only reasonable I didn't get excited."
"Oh, reasonable! You and your reason," exclaimed
Sheehan, with scornful impatience. "Listen, Mr. Clancy.
Let me go on with my story, and see after all do you wonder
I'm afraid something's happened to the lad—for Mr. Jack's
still a lad to me, sir, though he must be nearly as old as what
Jake is."
"And able to take care of himself, you can be sure of
that," growled Kerrigan.
"How do you know he is?" Terence rounded on the
police detective. "How do you know there ain't some plot
—some devil's work afoot? I tell you the way his office
was mussed up wasn't reasonable—unless there'd been some
kind of hell to pay there. I think so now—and I thought
so then when I first seen it, like I just told you. The minute
I come into the room and saw the way things was I thought
it was a case for the police, but naturally I didn't want to go
beyond my rights in the matter, so I started to call young
Mr. Harden. I had the receiver off the hook before I re-
membered he'd gone off for over Sunday. So then I tried
to get Mr. Ingalls and I did get his apartment but he'd spent
the night somewhere else.. Being pretty well fussed up by
that time, not liking for to think the thing was up to me,
I'd about made up my mind to ask Jake for some of the
perfessional advice he finds it so hard to part with, when it
come over me, what with this and that, I'd give my furnace
more than enough time to burn herself up and if I didn't get
down to her quick and shut her off I wouldn't have no fire.
I hoped maybe Mr. Ingalls would come in early like he
sometimes does"
"Mr. Ingalls," Peter put in as Sheehan stopped for breath.
"He's the Manager?"
"The General Manager. Next to the boss. Yes, sir."
"Is his first name George?" Peter asked quickly, and re-
ceiving a surprised affirmative he nodded and waved the mat-


Counterfeit 41
ter aside. "Good. Go on Sheehan. You dashed down
to see about the furnace"
"Yes, sir." The little man drew a panting breath as if he
had that minute hastened back to his duties. "Up to that
time, you understand, Mr. Clancy, robbery was the worst
thing that was in my mind. I hustled down to the cellar,
and although I most generally keep one light burning there,
and the one was on at the time, it didn't, somehow seem
enough, with all the dark corners there do be in an old build-
ing of that sort, so I puts on all the lights there was as I come
along. There's quite a good bunch, for Mr. Jack had them
put in himself, and the place was light as day. Naturally
I went to the furnace as quick as I could"
He stopped and pointed, with a knotted finger that was
not quite steady, at the flattened pencil holder.
"That was lying on the floor right in front, or almost right
in front of the furnace. I knew the minute I seen it what it
was and whose it was. But how it come there? Believe
you me that was something else again! How could it of
come there, Mr. Clancy? Answer me that. They all side-
step it. They say this and that. And I'm asking you! Mr.
Jack always carried that. There's no one in the place hasn't
seen it a hundred times. Years ago he used to wear it on
his watch chain, but after he'd been to the big war he'd
throwed away his chain and wore his watch on his wrist
like you do. Just the same he kept that little gold pencil.
He used to brag about how he'd never lost it—not once in so
many years. If you asked him a question, out would come
his little pencil. A great one for figuring he was. 'Put a
pencil to it, Terry,' he used to say to me, when I'd be ask-
ing his advice. 'Write it all down,' he'd say, 'and then you
can see where you'll be at'."
"You saw a good deal of him?" Peter asked quickly.
"Did he ever come down into the cellar, for instance?"
"Well, of course when he was a lad he did, and once in a
long time he'd drop down, kind like, or because something


42
Counter/e it
needed fixing—the plumbing or that—you have to watch an
old building. But if you mean was he in my furnace room
recently, I can tell you truly he was not."
"I told him he couldn't be sure of that, Pete." Kerrigan
leaned across the table to make his point. "How does he
know Mr. Olmstead didn't go down there that night, before
he went to take the train. He might have wanted to—to
burn—something . . . and have dropped his pencil. If he
put his foot on it, as seems likely, he wouldn't have seen it,
and if he missed it later he probably would have no idea
where he dropped it."
"Exactly where was that, Sheehan? Can you tell me?"
Peter asked. He had nodded at Kerrigan's explanation but
had kept his eyes fixed on the working face of the old Irish-
man.
"You know how the bottom door of a furnace extends
out onto the floor, sir?" Sheehan drew three sides of a
small rectangle with his stubby finger on the polished ma-
hogany of the table, and indicated the wall of the furnace
by continuing the line out to the right instead of carrying it
to the left which would have closed the square. "This angle
here. Quite close in. That's where I found it."
"Mum-ra-m," said Peter. "It was mashed like this when
you first saw it?"
"Just as you see, sir."
"Could you have stepped on it yourself, maybe? You'd
already opened drafts and put on coal. The light, appar-
ently, at that time wasn't too good. Don't you think it
might have been yourself that did the damage?"
"No, sir." Sheehan spoke emphatically. "I didn't have
to go on that side at all. The coal is to the left. And of
course I'd not have to go that close in, nor would anyone
want to with the furnace as hot as what I found it."
"Didn't you have to close or change the drafts? They
were on, you said. If the fire was so hot wouldn't you
have shut it down?"


Counterfeit 43
"It's easy to see you don't work much around furnaces,
sir," said Sheehan, earnestly. (Wiggar thought, sardonically,
as he looked at his own perfect and immaculate handiwork,
that this was truth at least.) "You must leave the drafts
open for a little while after you put on fresh coal. I'd left
the drafts just as they was—all open. I'd shook her down,
but the shaker is at the left and I hadn't touched the bottom
door, which, you understand, you don't have to open except
when you take out ashes."
"Then how do you figure that the pencil case came there,
Sheehan?" Peter's man-to-man attitude and tone of respect
were well calculated to inspire confidence and elicit con-
fidences.
Terence reached back between his legs, drew up a small
chair that was just behind him and seating himself beside
the table, rested his arms upon it. His voice was low and
full of horror as he said: "I can think of just but the one
way, sir. It's been haunting me day and night ever since
the boss didn't come back. And even before that, as you
might say right along from the start. Look you, Mr.
Clancy, he called me up to his office—about Chris Olsen, the
lazy lout, going off without a day's notice. He says, just
like I'm telling you, 'Terry,' he said, 'can you carry on until
I get back, or shall I get Mr. Ingalls to hire a new janitor?'
'How long will you be gone Mr. Jack?' says I, and he says
it's only a flying trip; that he'll surely be back by Thursday."
"Last Thursday? The nineteenth?"
"Yes, Mr. Clancy. Last Thursday, as ever was. He told
me with his own lips that he had to be back in New York
by then. Some important business. He didn't say what.
And here it is the Tuesday after and no word yet!"
"That's wrong, Terry. He's off his nut, Pete—at least
about that. There've been two telegrams."
"Oh, yes," Sheehan agreed, hastily, "but that was just at
first. There's been nothing since"
"There was a wire he sent from the train," Kerrigan said


44
Counterfeit
impatiently. “And another after he got to St. Louis. Terry
has just gone hay-wire, Pete. He has it in his head that
that somebody had made 'way with Mr. Olmstead and burned
-well—some things—in his furnace."
"That fire was hot enough to burn anything." Sheehan
bit the lip that he had drawn down across his teeth. “It
did darn near blister my face when I grabbed up that little
pencil thing of Mr. Jack's. You can guess what I felt like,
sir. The way his office looked . . . that bunch of woolen
cloth .... I could still smell it. Seems as if I could never
stop smelling it . ... and then that little bit of shiny gold
that was most as much a part of Mr. Jack as his own hand
.... lying there where it could easily have fell out of his
pocket-if-i- " A heavy shudder shook him. He
groaned and covered his face with his hands.
Peter frowned. His eyes were veiled as he looked down
at the rough gray head. Kerrigan could see that his con-
frere was taking the matter very seriously. He was about
to insist again upon the impossibility of the horror that Ter-
ence imagined, when Peter spoke.
“What did you do, Terry, when you saw what it was
this bit of gold?” His voice was very kind and sympathetic.
"Do? I went wild! Yes, sir. I went clean off my
head.” The face that Sheehan raised did not belie his words.
“I thought, my God! And straight away I went at them
ashes! I thought there'd be something—there'd be-some-
thing, and I dug 'em out as careful as if there was a chance
-I mean as if it would mean anything to him—if what I
thought- ”
He could not go on. Peter said quietly: “You found
nothing but this bit of bone "
"You think it is bone, sir?” Sheehan interrupted. His
haggard face was gray.
"It could hardly be anything but bone, but it could quite
easily have belonged—to some animal. It's much more than
probable that it did. Remember that and keep your courage


C ounterfeit
45
up. Now, what do you make of this little lump of some-
thing that you salvaged It looks as if it might be silver . . ."
"It is silver, Mr. Clancy. I took it to a fella I know that's
in the assay business. Pure silver. And I ask you, sir,
how that much fine silver got into my furnace?"
"You have an idea about that yourself," Peter said,
quickly. "What is it?"
"I can only think of one thing." The old man gnawed
at the side of his finger, and tapped his teeth with it as he
spoke. "Mr. Jack carried his keys on a long silver chain.
It might make up maybe that amount of silver. You'd see
him take his keys out of his pants pocket and whirl them
about at the end of the chain whilst he was talking to you.
I mind he did that very thing the last time I ever seen him
alive."
"Oh, Terry, you make me tired," Kerrigan rapped out.
"Didn't I point out to you when you blew in Sunday night,
all het up about this business, that a man doesn't telegraph
from the place he's going to, half way across the United
States, on Friday morning"
"He wasn't in St. Louis Friday morning," corrected Shee-
han, with heat. "It was from the train came the message
Friday."
"Let me get this straight," said Peter. "Do I under-
stand that Mr. Olmstead wired his office twice?"
"Yes." "Yes, sir." The two Irishmen spoke together.
"Who received the messages, Terence? Do you know?"
Peter asked hastily.
"Sure. I was in the office when the first one come. And
I was so glad I—I"
"Was it delivered by hand, or did it come over the wire?"
Peter pretended not to notice the little man's agitation.
"It was phoned in."
"To whom?"
"Mr. Ingalls took it. Right then. Right when he and
Mr. Harden was looking to see was anything missing in


46 Counterfeit
Mr. Jack's office. After I'd showed them—those things."
Sheehan motioned to the three small objects upon which the
lamp on the table seemed to focus its rays.
"Do you remember—or did you hear the wording of the
telegram?"
"I didn't hear the words. Mr. Ingalls said—'What? Oh.
Good!' Like that. 'Good!' he said again and then he
jumped up from the phone and he says, 'It's all right, Terry,
my boy. Whatever's happened you don't have to worry
about your boss. He's just wired from the train for you
not to forget, Barry 'Barry is Mr. Harden, the secre-
tary, and the message was about some kind of business that
I didn't know nothing about of course, but they understood
it; so that seemed o. k. and I was that glad I went down
to my furnace room, and took out the wee small bottle I
keep there in case I need it, and I had a small drink all to
myself."
"I don't blame you for that," said Peter, "but I guess I'm
a bit mixed. I understood you to say that Mr. Harden
was out of town for the week-end."
"I only thought he was," Sheehan corrected himself. "He
came in almost as soon as Mr. Ingalls did."
"Why did you think he was going to be away?"
"He told me so himself. He's a nice lad and often stops
to pass the time of day when we encounters each other."
"The secretary, I think you said? Do you mean a private
secretary—or belonging to the company?"
"I never thought about that. It's on the letter paper,
though. John Oliver Olmstead, president, and young Mr.
Harden, secretary."
"Then he's an officer of the company," said Peter, in a
matter of fact tone. "Did he happen to tell you why he
changed his mind?"
"About coming back? No. Believe me I'd other things
to think about at that time, you can take it from me."


Counterfeit
47
"Were the two young men very much worried when you
told them your tale?" asked Peter.
"At first they sure were, but when the message came and
they couldn't find that anything was missing out of Mr.
Jack's office, they said it must be o. k. and he'd probably
be able to tell us about the pencil and all when he got back.
But he hasn't come, Mr. Clancy. He hasn't come. He said
Thursday. And this is the Tuesday after."
"But there shouldn't be any cause for alarm," said Peter,
kindly. "A man would think nothing of staying away that
long."
"He'd important business. He told me so himself," Shee-
han reiterated "And they've had no word to say why he
doesn't come back I've asked every day I don't know if
I ought to try can I get a man to take that shifty Swede's
place, so every day I go up and clean things up a bit and ask
what shall I do about it And every day they say wait, since
Mr. Olmstead told me to do that. 'He'll be back soon. Don't
worry,' Mr. Ingalls says. He told me about the telegram
from St. Louis Monday, the day it came. But there's been
nothing since. Nothing. Nothing. And those bits of
things," he flung out his hand in a passionate gesture, "from
me own furnace staring me in the face. Jake laughed at
me Sunday, Mr. Clancy. He said of course Mr. Olmstead
had maybe gone on a bit of a bender and hadn't bothered
to report back home. But I don't believe it. I don't be-
lieve he ever left New York. What I do believe is this,
sir. And thank God I've got someone to listen to me that
takes me serious.
"I think Jack Olmstead was done away with, that night in
his own office, and that it was not him—but his murderers
that sent in those telegrams!"


C o unt er f eit
49
from the back and we ought to be able to fix it so you could,
too, Mr. Clancy."
"From the back? Your building doesn't run through to
Twenty-ninth Street, does it?" asked Kerrigan.
"No, but the estate does. The Wellmouth Estate. Don't
tell me you don't know about that, Jake, me lad, with half
the world trying to horn in on the inheritance now that old
Miss Wellmouth has died."
"Oh, of course I know," retorted Kerrigan. "And as
well I know that your old building belongs to them. What
I didn't know was that the Wellmouths owned through to
the other street, or that your building and the one behind
it had any connection."
"Well, at that, they have and they haven't," said Sheehan.
"We've got a world-without-end kind of a lease, and our
building has been kept up pretty good by Mr. Jack and his
father before him. But the other place, the one on Twenty-
ninth Street, has been let for this and that, and I guess Mr.
Etherington is the only tenant that's stuck. Neither would
he have stayed if it hadn't been so handy-like, and being there
so long he's got used to it and maybe likes it. But if I had
to walk past all that white statuary, nights and all, to get into
the street, it wouldn't be suiting my fancy and I'm here to
state the fact."
"What does he mean by statuary?" asked Peter, glanc-
ing up at Kerrigan. "Wait! I know. I have it now. It's
that antique place with the gates, just back of the Schuyler
Memorial. Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth. I see. The Olm-
stead concern is on Thirtieth. One of the employees lives
in this place on Twenty-ninth Street. And there's a con-
nection at the back you say, Sheehan? That sounds very
promising. How do I find my way in?"
"Suppose I was to tip Mr. Etherington off," the old man
suggested, eagerly.
"Mr. Etherington." Peter repeated the name. "That
wouldn't be the Mr. Thomas Etherington I used to know?"


50 Counterfeit
"No, sir. Ours is named Nathaniel. He's a real old
man, too old to be a friend of yourn."
"I like old men," smiled Peter, "but this evidently isn't
the same. What does Mr. Nathaniel Etherington do?"
"He a fine engraver, sir. The best they come. Old Mr.
Olmstead was that proud of the work he done he used to brag
about it to anyone that would listen. He was the highest
paid of anybody in the shop in the old gentleman's time,
but now that they do so much with machinery and chemicals
and the like, I guess there's not so much work for him.
Not but what Mr. Jack will always keep—would always
have kept "Sheehan stopped and swallowed hard.
"Have you said anything to Mr. Etherington about your
fears in regard to Mr. Olmstead?" Peter spoke with kindly
gravity.
"No, sir. Him and me ain't just what you might call
in-tim-it, sir. But I think he'd do anything he could for
Mr. Jack. Shan't I see him and put him wise about showing
you the way in?"
"Hum-m-m" said Peter, softly. "I'm not so sure. If
we could manage it between ourselves, just for the present,
until we have a chance to size things up, Terence, perhaps
we'd stand a better chance of not confusing the issue."
"I—I see what you mean, sir." Sheehan's doubtful tone
belied his words.
"Tell me what you can of the way the land lies and I'll
try to find my way in."
"Alone?" asked Kerrigan.
"Were you thinking of coming, too?" Peter inquired
thoughtfully.
"Don't you want me, Pete?"
"Perhaps not just at first. You're official, Jake, and I'm
not. The whole thing may be a mare's nest. Nobody has
called in the police. You might find it embarrassing."
"All right," said Kerrigan, rather shortly. "I'm plenty
busy. How does Mr. Clancy get in, Terry?"


Counterfeit 51
"I don't know so much what he'll be up against, coming
in from Twenty-ninth Street, until he gets to the back door."
The sharp little eyes were flashing with excitement. "I've
never been beyond the same, myself, but I'm thinking that
it's a passage along the side of the old antique store and
that they're none too particular about keeping it locked. Once
through it, sir, you're in a little bit of a wee yard and the
only other door there is my own. I'll be watching for you.
You won't even have to knock."
"In case it doesn't pan out right to go the round-about
way, Pete, you can come in the regular entrance and who's
going to think anything about it?" said Kerrigan. "I mean
anybody that matters."
"If you know already who matters and who doesn't," said
Peter, soberly, "you're smarter than I am, Jake."
Kerrigan flushed. "I don't pretend to be that—not after
the last case you and me got mixed up in. But I do have
an idea now and again, and right at this minute my idea is
that Terry'd better be chasing himself and putting his body
to bed and his mind to rest. I still don't believe your boss
has been murdered, Terence Sheehan." The police detec-
tive's voice was full of gruff kindliness. "I think he'll be
turning up, maybe sooner, maybe later, but in any case I
can tell you this for your sins, you old Omadhaun, if you've
got Mr. Clancy really interested, you've the best chance of
getting the truth that is to be had."
". . . . Though whether he's to thank his lucky stars that
you're in this game, Pete," Kerrigan resumed a few minutes
later, while Wiggar was showing Terence Sheehan to the
door, "is a question in my mind."
"Sit down again," said Peter, frowning. "Let's talk
about this a little more. You had this story from Sheehan,
as I understand it, last Sunday night."
"Yes, sure. But don't you see, Pete, the man, Olmstead,
had only overstayed his original plan by less than three


52
C o unt er f eit
days then. And what's there to be alarmed at, finding a bit
of bone in a furnace"
"The furnace of an office building," Peter remarked,
thoughtfully. "But, of course, there might be many ways
of explaining the bone. Just the same, Jake, I think if you
don't mind we'll have Perkins examine it. We might just
as well know—about it."
"If Perkins definitely states that it did not belong to some
animal, then I'll believe it, but not till then, Pete."
"And the lump of silver?"
"Might have been anything," growled Kerrigan. "May
even have been that key-chain Terry spoke about. There's
no contesting that the little gold holder must have been Mr.
Olmstead's, but what's to prevent his having burned some
things there himself, like I said, and dropped the pencil
holder by mistake."
"I'm doubting some, if not all of that, Jake. But so far
we've very little to go on. We don't dare jump at conclu-
sions—about one single little item. I have a hunch we may
see some queer things before the whole business is cleared
up. This pencil case, now." He picked it up from the table
where Sheehan had almost reluctantly laid it a few minutes
since, when he turned the three salvaged articles over to
Kerrigan. "There are several points it brings into question
in my mind. If only you had been the one to discover it
in the first place, Jake, we'd possibly have been able to get
fingerprints from it. Now, of course, we get nothing but
Terry's and maybe our own. If only a professional had
had the job of sifting those ashes, who knows what we might
have been able to discover. Now they're almost certainly
gone beyond recall. It's been—eleven days. Sure to have
been collected in that time."
"Then what do you hope to find when you see Terry's
furnace room to-morrow, Pete?"
"I have a hunch what to look for, but whether I find it
or not?—That's the question."


Counterfeit 53
Kerrigan waited for further elucidation of that last re-
mark, but Peter's lips remained closed and his eyes fixed on
vacancy. At length the police detective broke the short
silence. "What do you make of those two telegrams, Pete?"
"How do you mean?"
"Were they a fake?"
"Terry was there when the first one came through," Peter
considered, "so Ingalls must have received it."
"But it was phoned in. Anybody could have done that."
"Yes. But Terry said it was a matter of business that
the two young officers of the Company both understood."
"Why do you say 'young'?" asked Kerrigan, sharply.
"Do you know them, Pete?"
"Sheehan referred to one as 'young Mr. Harden.' As to
the other, I know him by sight, and so do you."
"I never laid eyes on—" Kerrigan stopped. "By
George, was it—"
"George!" Peter repeated. "Yes, it was George. The
fellow in the restaurant. The girl called him Mr. Ingalls,
and the young chap that came along, accompanied by that
Beautiful Being, called him George. The girl, whose name
we know to be Marie, had spoken of John Oliver Olmstead
— You could hardly put those three things together and
have any doubt about the correct answer."
"Sure as you live," murmured Kerrigan in a tone of won-
der, half to himself. "Ain't it a strange thing, Pete? If
that girl, that you call Marie, hadn't mentioned Olmstead's
name, and you hadn't been showing off to Ray Trant, we'd
never have gotten wise that Olmstead was mixed up, some-
how, with Ray's counterfeiters, at least to the extent of
having one of those queer bills in his possession. And
putting that with Terry's story, that I happened to know
about"
"Happened?" said Peter with a half-smile. "Yes, Jake,
happened—just the same way that a magnet happens to at-
tract steel."


54
Counterfeit
"Beg pardon, Mr. Peter." Wiggar, noiseless as a shadow,
was placing a tray and glasses on the low table that he had
rolled up close to his master's elbow. "Might I mention
a small matter that may possibly be of interest at this junc-
ture?"
"Don't tell me you know something about this case, Wig-
gar," Kerrigan exclaimed. "That would be a little too
much."
"About the case, no, sir." Wiggar did things with bottles
and glasses that diffused a pleasing aroma in the air. "It is
merely the locale, if I may put it that way, that has recently
come under by observation. I won't trouble you by intrud-
ing a merely personal matter, but I have had occasion sev-
eral times, latterly, to pass through Twenty-ninth Street."
"Still trying to find Dick Jarvis' people?" remarked Peter.
"Excuse me. Yes, sir. Quite so, sir. There's a per-
son who has a little shop on Sixth Avenue. I've been to
see him several times."
"Any results?" asked Peter with interest.
"Not yet, sir, but I still have hopes. What I meant to
call your attention to, sir, had, however, nothing to do with
my poor efforts. It was merely that in passing through
Twenty-ninth Street last Monday, or rather I mean a week
ago last night it was."
"Yes, yes," said Peter hastily. "We understand. A week
ago this Monday night."
"A much clearer expression. Thank you, sir. As I was
saying—or rather as you were saying—" (Kerrigan's
Celtic impatience would have forced him into making an
effort to hurry the deliberate Britisher, if Peter's wary eye
had not held him in check.) "It was a week ago this Mon-
day night that Richard and I chanced to be passing through
the block between Sixth and Fifth Avenues, in order to take
the uptown bus. It was raining very hard at the time,
which is perhaps the reason why I remember having to stop


Counterfeit 55
a moment in front of that odd looking—incongruous is per-
haps not too strong a word?"
"Not a bit," Kerrigan agreed, hastily. "Call it what you
like. A funny joint"
"The incongruous piece of property," Wiggar's tone was
a trifle severe, though his face was entirely blank, "which
you, sir, have been discussing. The statuary inside, and the
gates. That brought a picture to my mind when Mr. Shee-
han mentioned them, and when he spoke of the building
having only one tenant it also made me ask myself this
question. What became of the young lady?"
"Young lady?" Kerrigan's head went up, and both men
regarded with an access of interest the wooden looking
person who was serving them.
"Apparently she was just arriving," said Wiggar, im-
perturbably. "She had a very large suit case, that the old
gentleman set down upon the wet pavement whilst he was
unlocking the gates. Very bad for the leather, but he could
hardly have managed the bag and the lock at the same time."
"An old gentleman?" considered Peter.
"With white hair, much too long to be in the mode,"
observed Wiggar. "Which caught the attention as the rest
of his appearance left little to be desired. A very correct
English top-coat, perhaps a little too good, considering the
inclemency of the weather."
"And the young lady?" Peter's lips twitched. Wiggar's
keen observation where his own chosen profession was in-
volved rarely failed to tickle his master's sense of humor.
"Was she properly dressed?"
"Very simply and neatly. As if she had come from a
journey. I'm very sure she had, and that she went in with
the old gentleman. The cab had been dismissed. It oc-
curred to me, Mr. Peter (I hope you won't think me in-
trusive), that perhaps, if you are planning to make your
way through that"


56 Counterfeit
"Incongruous piece of property," Kerrigan supplied has-
tily.
"Thank you, sir. It might be useful to know of the pos-
sibility that there may be a young lady in residence."
"In addition to the old man, who is probably the Mr.
Etherington that Sheehan spoke of," said Peter. "He will
have gone to his work in the other building by the time I
get there. I'm glad you told us, Wiggar. I wonder where
she comes in."
"You'd better wonder how to keep her out," retorted
Kerrigan. "I hope we're not going to get any dames mixed
up in this case. If Etherington"
"Jake," Peter interrupted sharply, "You're thinking too
fast. Don't try to figure possibilities until you get more of
the pictures developed. We know nothing about anybody,
yet."
"We know Olmstead has disappeared . . . after having
been caught trying to pass a bogus one hundred dollar bill."
"We don't know any of the details of that. If the coun-
terfeit is as good as Ray seemed to think it, you or I might
quite innocently take it from somebody, and pass it along,
and never notice anything."
"Would I be handling one hundred dollar notes and never
notice?" Kerrigan remarked sarcastically.
"If the government raised your salary to what you de-
serve, Jake, old pal," said Peter with a broad grin, "you
might. What I mean to say is, Olmstead, having one of
those spurious notes in his possession, might mean much—
but it might also mean little. It's these things that are wor-
rying me." He leaned down to gaze again at the three little
objects that still lay on the table. "We'll get Perkins to give
us his opinion on this." He poked the black and gruesome
relic. "You see what you can find out about this hunk of
silver, Jake, arid leave this pencil case with me for the pres-
ent. Will you?"
"For the present, yes, Pete. But I'm not quite easy in my


Counterfeit 57
mind. I think maybe I ought to be doing something—
official.""
"Why?" urged Peter. "It's only as a private individual
and through your social connections"
"Meaning you and Terry?" Kerrigan laughed, but his
eyes were troubled.
"Meaning Terry and me," agreed Peter. "It's only
through us that you know there's anything serious going on."
"That isn't so," Kerrigan corrected hastily. "It was what
Ray let slip that made me sit up and take notice."
"And would he be glad to have you advertise the fact
that he did let that name slip out?" countered Peter. "Nay,
nay, and then some more. Still I agree with you, Jake, that,
knowing what we do, we can't just sit down and let things
take their course. If Ray were here I think it would be up
to us to tell him what we know. But he isn't, and there are
things that ought to be done in the meantime. I'll attend
to some of them. Confound it, when stuff like this is handed
out to me, I have to see it through. I'm made like that."
"And perhaps you think I'm not," said Kerrigan rather
tartly.
"Bless my soul, Jake, are you telling me? What I just
said was, I'll attend to some things that I believe I can pull
off, but the most important thing right now you'll do much
better than I could. It's simpler for an official"
"To what?"
"To find out what we've got to know before we can study
about anything else."
"You mean—you mean the telegrams, Pete!"
"Right. The telegrams. If they were—actually—tele-
grams, Jake."
"If they were! Sure. You bet. We can get that in-
quiry started, pronto." He half rose as he glanced about
for the telephone that Wiggar was already bringing toward
him. "Thanks." He placed the instrument on the table


58
C ounterfeit
and started to dial. "The first wire—that was from the
train"
"Late Thursday night or early the morning of Friday the
Thirteenth."
"Unlucky day," growled Kerrigan. "Western Union?
Night Superintendent, please. Captain of Detectives Ker-
rigan speaking. Thanks. Hello. Yes. That's right.
Nineteenth Precinct. Will you send to my office the first
thing in the morning this information."
At a graphic gesture from his master, Wiggar had placed
a pad and pencil between the two detectives. Peter wrote
rapidly, and Kerrigan, reading as the words appeared, spoke
into the transmitter.
"Late Thursday night or early the morning of Friday the
Thirteenth. From a train somewhere between New York
and St. Louis. Don't know what road. Telegram addressed
to either George Ingalls or Mr. Harden, care John Oliver
Olmstead Company, West Thirtieth Street, this city, and
probably signed John Oliver Olmstead. Read that back."
Peter went on writing while Kerrigan listened. The room
was very still. Wiggar, like a graven image, waited in the
shadow. Not a gleam of the eye betrayed the fact that he
was tensely alert. After a minute's silence, Kerrigan nodded
his graying head and spoke again into the telephone.
"Another wire from St. Louis Monday the Sixteenth.
Same address, same signature. We want the text of both
messages and the place where they were handed in. Also
what office here received them and transmitted them by
phone."
A few details to insure prompt action and Kerrigan hung
up the receiver.
"That's that," he said, rising and stretching his arms.
"And I thought it was a quiet evening we were to have to-
gether, Pete, my lad, with maybe a game of rummy."
"Instead of maybe a rum game," said Peter with a grim-
ace. He put his hand on the other man's shoulder as they


CHAPTER VII
rHE night of Monday the Sixteenth it was that
Terence Sheehan, hugging to his breast the news
that Mr. Jack had arrived safely in St. Louis, had
gone home with a relieved and thankful heart. It was that
same night, but several hours later that Wiggar observed
the entrance of Marie Lamont upon the stage of this strange,
involving drama. And as Terence Sheehan (who had never
heard of her) at the apparent ending of his anxiety, slept
peacefully, so Marie, (who, it seemed, would never be likely
to know of the existence of the little Irish furnace-man,)
felt herself, after her uncle's tardy but sincere welcome, to
be at the end of her troubles, and went quietly and hopefully
to sleep in the little guest room that she had helped him to
prepare for her.
He had insisted, with an odd kind of eager diffidence, in
helping her spread sheets and blankets on her bed. The
things were exquisitely clean and smelled of lavendar. He
laughed at the way the girl sniffed at and enjoyed the old-
fashioned scent. In fact he laughed a good deal and yet
there was an undercurrent of nervousness that Marie found
difficulty in explaining to herself. Her uncle was a "char-
acter," undoubtedly, and she hoped that accounted for every-
thing.
In the morning she woke to a haunting sense of strange-
ness not unmixed with dread. That minute of incalculable
duration, when the ego finds its way back through the con-
voluted mazes of the brain, was heavy with foreboding. It
was not until she had opened her eyes and taken in the
quaint, prim comfort of the room, and the domesticated and
contented appearance of her bits of wearing apparel and
toilet accessories in their new habitat, that the feeling of
60


Counterfeit 61
discomfort and uneasiness was partially dispelled. It would
take much to obliterate that first impression last night—the
rainy darkness of the strange city—the more inimical dark-
ness of an empty hall and the more daunting strangeness
of the heavy locked gates and the absence of a key in the
lock of a fastened door.
It was the sound of whiffling and splashing in presumably
cold water in the bathroom next door that wakened her.
She decided with a half smile that no one would make those
noises if the water were warm, and that her uncle was trying
to be quiet for her sake, but found it difficult. She snug-
gled down in the blankets to wait her turn since the apart-
ment boasted but the one bath, and fell asleep again.
The next time she woke, one small, seeking ray of sun-
light had come into the room and was pointing a derisive
finger at the two shoes that seemed to be just stepping off
the edge of a braided rug. They did look very helpless, little
and forlorn, for the bright polish with which they had
started on their long journey was dimmed, like her hopes.
She tried not to think of that. Perhaps it wouldn't be so
bad after all.
The smell of coffee greeted her as she peeped out into the
hall. She could hear her uncle talking over the telephone
in the living-room. Not the words, only the sound of his
voice. There was the draft from an open window some-
where that whisked around her bare ankles and drew the
door to behind her with a sharp bang.
Instantly the telephone conversation ceased and Nathaniel
Etherington came hurriedly into the hall.
"Good morning, my dear," he said. He smiled at the
little tousled, kimono-wrapped figure that turned at his ap-
proach, but the swift glance that he flashed across her face
was questioning and somehow, in a way she could not have
described, vaguely apprehensive.
"Good morning, Uncle Nat." Her clear eyes questioned
in their turn, though he appeared unconscious of the fact.


62
C ounterfeit
"How will you have your eggs?" he asked with an eager
air of hospitality. "And how soon will you be ready? Don't
hurry. I'm taking the day off and I wouldn't miss having
my breakfast with—with you sitting opposite . . ."
He broke off, though she felt he had been going on to
say more. She answered his questions and hurried through
her bath for she was anxious not to keep him waiting. As
she came out presently into the hall she heard him again at
the telephone. This time he was talking louder and she
could hear an occasional word. Someone he addressed as
Miss Fanny. Though the heels of her slippers made quite
a little noise on the waxed floor he went right on with what
he was saying.
"That's very, very good of you. I'll be most grateful. It
settles rather an embarrassing problem for an old man.
Thank you again, Miss Fanny. I'll bring her down as
soon"
Realizing that the pronoun feminine in the last sentence
could hardly mean anyone but herself, Marie Lamont slipped
hastily into her own room and closed the door. No matter
how funny things were she was not going to "snoop," she
told herself, scornfully.
A little later when they were sitting at the table, her uncle
explained the matter diffidently and with apparent regret.
"Of course I'd like to have you here, my dear, but it's
really no place for a charming and delightful young lady.
I should have foreseen that you would be that. I mean to
say, you know, an antique bachelor is no companion for
one so—well, so altogether the sort of thing—I'm not used
to paying compliments, nor to women's society, my child. I
do it very badly. I'm a crabbed old recluse. I can't ask
you to put up with me and with my sketchy menage. I do
my own cooking, you see. There's no place for a maid."
He spoke hurriedly and as if to forestall an interruption,
but Marie did not have that determined little face for
nothing.


Counterfeit 63
"I'm a very good cook," she put in firmly. "We'd have
no use whatever for a maid."
He looked pleased, but shook his head. "Wouldn't do,
my child. I couldn't have you worrying your pretty head
over an old hermit's likes and dislikes. I can't keep from
swearing when things go wrong. I have some very annoy-
ing habits and I'm too old to change. I won't change. I
don't like myself as I am, but I'm not going to watch those
eyes—so like your mother's—finding out all—all my weak
points. Dear me," he exclaimed almost angrily, "don't look
at me like that. I—There are many reasons why I'd like
to have you with me," and she was sure his eyes were wistful
though his lips were firm and his voice was brusque to the
point of irritation "but I musn't—I musn't indulge myself at
your expense. Anyhow it's all settled. I know one woman
I can bank on. She's the salt of the earth. Has charge of
the antique shop downstairs. Sees to it that my place up
here is kept in order. She has an apartment somewhere up-
town and an extra room. It will be suitable. Bound to be.
Miss Fanny Kinsella knows what's what!"
"You mean you want me to live with her?" Marie's heart
sank. The call of blood is strong in some natures, and in
spite of all his oddities and his sometimes repelling manner,
her heart warmed toward this handsome, distinguished-look-
ing old gentleman who was the last relative, so far as she
knew, that she had in the world.
"You—Surely you don't mind," he asked and glanced at
her sharply.
"She's a stranger, Uncle Nat."
"Well, but so am I, my dear. Really and in fact you know
nothing about me. I don't think anyone who's been alone
as much as I have would be nice to live with. Wait until
you see Miss Fanny. You'll be glad of the change, I prom-
ise you."
"Hasn't she been living alone?" Marie was quick


64 Counterfeit
enough to guess that this paragon was not young and prob-
ably had no family.
"Um-hum. Well, it hasn't spoiled her. You'll see."
"But I thought I could make it up to you—I mean by
keeping your house, Uncle Nat. I don't want to be a
burden," Marie expostulated with an engaging seriousness.
"If you won't let me, I'll have to find something to do to
earn money. I can't take everything and make no return."
"Oh, dear me," Etherington exclaimed with sudden exas-
peration, "the money doesn't matter at a time like this. I
have enough to make you comfortable, but you must let me
do it in my own way. I don't want you to feel under obli-
gation. You aren't. It's better for you to be with a woman
—a lady—though the phrase, if not the kind of person, has
gone out of fashion. She'll think of nice things for you to
do to amuse yourself—to occupy your time. I have to work
all day and sometimes far into the night. You'd be miser-
ably lonely."
His voice ceased suddenly. He clenched his napkin in his
hand and half rose from his seat. Someone was running up
the uncarpeted stairs outside, two steps at a time.
"Hello, Uncle Nat! What's all this about your taking a
day off?"
A young man burst, without ceremony, into the room.
He was fairly tall, with broad, athletic shoulders and a very
pleasant face, Marie thought. His surprise at seeing her
was obvious. He stopped just inside the door, and hardly
had enough presence of mind left to close his mouth at the
end of his question.
"Barry! I might have guessed no one would have come
thundering up like that but you." Old Nathaniel threw
down his napkin and presented the intruder to the girl sitting
there so cozily at the breakfast table. "Will you let me pre-
sent Mr. Barry Harden. My niece, Miss Marie Lamont.
She came unexpectedly last night from California."
Young Harden recovered his sangfroid almost at once.


Counterfeit 65
He murmured some conventional phrases of surprise and de-
light at meeting her. Marie liked the way his hair stood up
crisply from the parting that showed when he bowed before
her, and the way his ears were set close to his head, the quick
intelligence of his eyes, the laughter that gave a sort of
sparkle to his deep voice. In her interest in summing up
these various points she lost a little of what her uncle was
saying.
"Well, of course. I can understand that," Mr. Harden
remarked, "but that portrait of Galsworthy ought to go to
the Lincoln Press tomorrow and I don't like to have anyone
retouch the plate but you."
"Rosen can do it plenty well enough. He'll be glad of the
chance, too. Give it to Rosen, Barry. You don't appre-
ciate that man. He's just as good as I am—or better."
"John Olmstead doesn't think so, and neither do I. If he
were here he wouldn't let you off."
"But he's gone—to St. Louis, wasn't it? When do you
expect him back, Barry?"
Marie was surprised that the nice-looking young man
glanced quickly at her before he answered. There seemed
to be no reason, for he spoke almost at once. A common-
place reply. If it had not been for the instant uncertainty of
his manner she would never have remembered that he said,
"He has to be back next Thursday to attend a meeting of the
Board of Trade. We had a wire from him yesterday."
"Well, you get Rosen to touch up that portrait if it needs
it," her uncle repeated. "It isn't every day that a man has
a beautiful brand-new niece to chaperone. By the way,
Barry, before you go back to the shop—you'll excuse me,
my dear?"
Etherington drew the younger man aside. There was a
short colloquy. Marie saw Mr. Harden nod once or twice,
saw him put his hand on Uncle Nat's shoulder, and nod
again. She caught a few words. "To-morrow night. Yes.
I understand." Automatically she picked up her uncle's


66
C o unt er f eit
napkin, folded it and laid it beside her own. Then she began
to straighten up the table. The two men went on talking.
Presently she heard Mr. Harden say, quite sharply, "No.
Sorry. I can't. Haven't that much money on my person.
Besides you don't need to—I mean leave it to me. Anything
I can do for you, sir "His voice dropped again.
A few minutes later he took his leave. The room looked
Somehow different after he had gone. A little worn, aged
and austere. She helped her uncle move the breakfast things
into a small neat kitchenette where they left them. While
they were thus occupied he explained that Barry was an
officer of the John Oliver Olmstead Company where he,
himself, had been employed "since before the memory of
man."
"They could do without me well enough," he finished,
"but it was rather nice of the boy to pretend they couldn't,
wasn't it? I think you're going to like him, my dear. I have
every confidence in him, myself."
He hurried her a little after that—"Not to keep Miss
Fanny waiting longer than we must, my dear."
Marie had repacked her bag reluctantly, but had made no
further objection. After all, since for the present she must
accept the necessities of life from her uncle, how could she
possibly dictate terms or conditions of any sort.
In silence she followed him down the stairs that she had
mounted with such a beating heart the night before. It had
been too dark then to notice anything but the most salient
details. It was little better now. The two doors on the inter-
mediate landing were closed. The dusky skylight at the top
of the house was the only means of illumination until they
reached the ground floor. Here were visible two doors. A
narrow one, with a glass panel in which was embedded a
heavy wire mesh, obviously was the one through which they
had entered the previous night. At the left, as she faced this,


Counterfeit
was the other door and it was to this one that her uncle went
immediately. He swung it open, looked inside, nodded,
beckoned to her and passed quickly through, doffing his hat
as he did so.
“Miss Fanny Kinsella, most marvelous of women, I salute
you!" The quaint humor of the exaggerated gesture and
phrase did not detract from the real chivalry that underlay
them. Marie looked quickly past him, eager to see what
sort of person she was to have for a companion-a duenna.


CHAPTER VIII
y^T FIRST Marie Lamont could distinguish no liv-
/-§ ing human being in the crowded mass of objects
•a -M- that confused her sight. It seemed as if she must
have stepped backward "Through the Looking-Glass," for
practically everything had its back toward her. Tall ancient
chests, clocks, bureaus, all exhibiting their incontestibly
wormeaten rears. A Niobe mournful to behold, though
showing little but inexcusably sad folds of heavy drapery.
A cast of the Milo Venus, with that lovely gracious slant to
her brave shoulders. A mummy case showing a worn and
broken base where it had lain, who knows how long, in some
forgotten tomb. A prancing faun with a stub of neatly
curling tail to match the pattern of his ambrosial locks. It
was at a point beside his uplifted, gleesome leg that Marie's
disconcerted gaze came to rest.
"How do you do, my dear?"
The small face that appeared for an instant between the
mummy and the faun was alive with intelligence and humor.
Shrewd laughing eyes passed swiftly over Marie's hesitant
figure, and the girl felt that no least detail had escaped that
penetrating gaze. It was uncanny, and for that fleeting in-
stant quite unnerving.
"How are you, my dear?" The conventional words were
repeated as Miss Fanny Kinsella made her way around
numerous unseen obstacles and appeared in her entirety in
the small open space where they awaited her. She looked
up, and it was a long way up, into Nathaniel Etherington's
face. "Do you mean to tell me that you're handing over
all this youth and charm to me?" she asked in a quick, neat
voice that went so perfectly with her quick, neat little curls
and hands and feet and even with her neat and probably
68


Counterfeit 69
quickened breast that one felt she must have been entirely
designed and turned out complete by One concern.
"You may believe that I regret the necessity, Miss Fanny.
It's only that I know how much better off she'll be in your
hands." The old gentleman looked down at her as she
looked up at him.
"My home surroundings are a little more human I will
admit," said Miss Kinsella, folding her arms. "Why your
uncle insists on staying in a place like this when he doesn't
have to, my dear, is beyond me. It's bad enough in the day-
time, but what that yard out there must look like at night
I hate to think. If the Wellmouth Estate offered to pay
me a million dollars a week to live here"
"You'd know the world had gone mad, Miss Fanny,"
chuckled Nathaniel Etherington. "When they still make us
use gas, for lighting, and I've had to put in all the con-
veniences myself the idea of giving up a million dollars to
anyone for anything is not conceivable to the normal mind.
But we're taking up your time."
"Time," cried Miss Kinsella, with a quick gesture that
started at her elbows and made her hands fly up like two
small birds. "What is it they say now? Time is the prin-
cipal thing of which I have nothing but. Is that right, Miss
Marie Lamont?"
"I never heard it before—and I hope you'll just call me
Marie, Miss Kinsella." The little frozen places in the girl's
consciousness began to thaw though the unaccustomed
sound of the broad a and the way this new acquaintance
slurred certain words but pronounced others with great pre-
cision made her feel something of the hesitation an inexperi-
enced person often has in meeting one of another race or
clime.
"I surely will be glad to. That's very dear of her, isn't
it?" The little lady turned again to Etherington. "I'm
sorry I can't go up with you, but everything is arranged.
Here's the key and a note to the man in the hall. Marie


70
C o unt er f eit
will easily recognize her room. There are only two bed-
rooms and her's is tidy. Make yourself comfortable, my
dear. I have to be here until five, but after that I'm a free
woman. What are you doing with her this afternoon?"
Etherington explained his plans of which Miss Fanny
Kinsella heartily approved. He and Marie would take a
cab up to the apartment, where he would give her time to
establish herself. There was a trunk to be seen to and per-
haps other small matters. They would lunch somewhere
and go to Roxy's in the afternoon. He was as gleeful as
a boy.
"It's a long time since I've allowed myself a holiday, and
this is an occasion par excellence," he said, beaming down
at them both. "I beg that you'll do us the honor of dining
with us, Miss Fanny. It will make the day complete."
She demurred a little but Marie could see that she was
really delighted. And well she might be for the dinner was
the crown of a very successful day. The restaurant he
chose was one of those French ones that by reason of serv-
ing quite exquisite hors d'ouvre, special entres, long thin
crisp rolls like tiny walking sticks, sweet butter and more
heavy comestibles of equal excellence, has expanded through
a series of English basements and around unexpected gar-
dens until a guide is required to locate the table that has
been previously reserved.
That was, indeed, the end of the day, for old Mr. Ether-
ington pleaded some necessary duties he could no longer
avoid, and put them in a taxi, prepaying (in fact, to make
sure, overpaying) the driver. He stood at the curb with
his soft hat in his hand, his white hair blowing in the wind,
until the traffic drew them into the current, and that was the
last Marie saw of her eccentric relative that night.
She had been excited and interested all day and as nearly
happy as the recency of the loss of her father would permit.
Her uncle, too, had been all that she had hoped he might be.
It was only when night began to fall that the strange un-


Counterfeit 71
easiness she had before noted seemed to claim him for its
own. Several times during the dinner he had looked at his
watch. Her question as to whether he had an appointment
disconcerted him and he disclaimed the idea with some heat
and yet—and yet—he hurried them a little over their coffee
and was reluctant and yet eager to see the last of them.
Marie pondered over the queer inconsistencies of his at-
titude until she fell asleep. When she awoke next morning
Miss Fanny was already astir. Her small face was bright
with welcome when Marie put her head out of the door,
and by the time breakfast was served with a running inter-
mittent fire of quaint comment, the strangeness of the situ-
ation and the sense that she might be on probation with this
keen little elderly lady had almost entirely disappeared.
As she handed Marie the toast Miss Kinsella asked,
"What can we think of to amuse you to-day, my dear? The
Metropolitan Museum? One can spend the whole day there
to great advantage. There's a fairly decent restaurant."
"I suppose I couldn't go down to—to my uncle's with
you, Miss Fanny." The girl's tone was tentative for she
was not sure how the form of address or the matter of her
remark would be received.
The little lady smiled above her coffee cup but seemed
rather doubtful. Marie was, however, so obviously lonely
that it did not require a great deal of pleading to effect a
compromise. Miss Fanny would take her down and they
would see whether Mr. Etherington had any new plans.
When they arrived at Twenty-ninth Street the great gates
were still locked and the chatelaine of this anachronistic
castle had to open them with a key. In spite of which fact,
Sam, the darky janitor, who came a few minutes later, re-
ported after a hasty trip to the top of the house, that Mr.
Etherington had already done gone to work.
"The Olmstead Company is just back of us," Miss Fanny
explained, "and your uncle often goes through from the
back door at the end of the hall, into the basement of their y


72 Counterfeit
building. It saves going out into the street. You'd better
go on back, Sam, and don't let me find the dish-cloth with
soap in it again to-day."
"No-um!" Sam showed all his white teeth. He had
been a Pullman porter, cook and waiter, besides a number
of other things but he never seen no lady to wuk for like
Miss Fanny, no how.
"You'd better stay here until he's finished," the little
lady remarked as she took off her hat and coat and hung
them in an old armoire at the back of the low, crowded
room. "Sam does his work well, and is perfectly trust-
worthy, but he does turn things upside down while he's at
it. That's why your uncle won't let him touch his work-
room, which is on the next floor. I dread to think what it
may look like in there. I have an eye to his living-quarters,
but he won't even let me move a thing in that den."
"I think you're very good to my uncle, Miss Fanny. He
appreciates it a lot, too."
"It's nothing. Nothing." She shrugged her neat square
shoulders. "I can't help meddling. It's my nature. I've
grown old dusting and taking care of old things. I'm paid
to do it down here. I must do something I'm not paid for
or I'd feel myself to be poor indeed."
"Do you keep all these things lovely and shiny, the way
they are?" Marie asked with a quick look.
"Sam does the heavy work and I—" Miss Fanny's face
was a queer mixture of expressions—"I do the sort of
things that ladies were supposed to do in years gone by—
dust the fine china—take care of the delicate objects—
there are shelves full that I wouldn't dare to let Sam
handle."
"Would you let me? Oh, Miss Fanny, could I help you?
I'm very careful. And neat, too. I really am, And I'd
love it. There's something about this place—I can't tell
you—I don't know myself—but I have a queer feeling"
"This place is enough to make anyone have strange feel-


Counterfeit 73
ings," the older lady interrupted, quickly. "I'm not sure
it would be at all kind to let you stay even temporarily. The
house is old and full of queer noises. Everything in it is
old and getting older. Creaking at the joints, like myself.
It's a temptation to me, my dear, to have something bright
and young to look at. I admit it. But I don't often give
in to my weaknesses. Perhaps—I could talk it over with
Mr. Etherington. He might feel that, during the day, until
you make some young friends for yourself, it would be
better—safer"
"Oh, you are a duck," cried Marie, snatching off her hat
"May I hang my things with yours?"
At lunch time when Nathaniel Etherington came hastily
through from the narrow old paved yard at the back, to ask
about his niece, he found her cheerfully drinking tea and
eating sandwiches at Miss Kinsella's desk.
"I don't know what you'll think of this," remarked that
lady. "Temporarily I'm employing your niece as an assist-
ant. I'll release her the minute you say so, but she brow
beat me into submission, as she will you if you don't watch
very carefully. Until she makes some young friends I be-
lieve I'm better for her than just walls and furniture."
"You're a priceless person, Miss Fanny." He bowed
with old-fashioned elaboration. "I'm more than grateful to
have you take her in charge. I hope you and she will both
be home tonight. Barry Harden asked if he might call."
Marie looked up quickly and caught a swift exchange of
glances.
"That's very nice," said Miss Kinsella, smiling. "Young
Mr. Harden is impertinent of course, but rather charming.
He's one of my few clients and therefore most precious.
What time will he be coming?"
"He said something about taking Marie to the theatre.
Would you like to go, my dear?"
The memory of the short colloquy between her uncle and
Barry Harden, snatches of which she had caught, brought


74 Counterfeit
the hot blood to her cheeks. Uncle Nat had asked him to
take her to the theatre and had offered to pay. That Har-
den had agreed to one proposition and not the other did
not help a great deal. Her proposed escort had been an-
noyed, and it was only because he wanted to do a favor for
her uncle that he had consented to take her. Her first im-
pulse was to refuse, but old Nathaniel's ingenuous pleased
expression made that impossible to her. If there was an-
other reason for her considerate acceptance of the invitation
she did not acknowledge it to herself.
Barry Harden telephoned at dinner time. He found he
had some tickets for "Whether or Not." Had mentioned it
to Mr. Etherington and wondered if Miss Lamont would
care to go.
"I wish I didn't know it was entirely safe for you to go
without a chaperone, my dear," said Miss Fanny, laughing.
"They say 'Whether or Not' is a great success and I have a
very strong weakness for your escort."
"I wish you were going," said Marie, and thought she
meant it.
Barry Harden looked even more attractive, to her inex-
perienced eyes, in evening dress. She was thankful that
Miss Fanny had told her to wear a low-cut frock. There
was a great thrill in the drive down through the lavishly
lighted streets with the huge signs flashing across the black-
blue-purple of the sky, making it seem, not the old familiar
heaven that one might go to when one had finished this
earthly course, but rather a heavy dark velvet roof that was
manufactured by man to keep himself from feeling small
and cold and ineffective.
She thought this, but she did not say it to her companion.
He was very pleasant and courteous and did most of the
talking, but she realized, with that quick intuition it seems
as if some women must be born with, that his mind was
elsewhere.
And his heart, also, she thought to herself during the first


C o unt er f eit
75
intermission, when she saw his face light up suddenly with
a smile that any woman might have been proud to inspire.
If she had been older or had had more social experience
she probably would not have turned to follow the direction
of Harden's eyes. He, however, was quite unconscious that
she had done so. His gaze was fixed on two people who
had come in after the house had been darkened, making
quite a commotion, and had taken places a little in front and
to the right. These two had turned and were looking for
someone to come in from the back of the house. At that
minute the queer yellow eyes of the girl caught Harden's
signal. She smiled gloriously and then glanced with utter
indifference at his companion.
Marie felt as if she had completely faded from sight and
left only an empty chair. Glancing quickly away, however,
she found that she had power to attract at least one pair
of eyes. They were finer ones than Barry Harden's, too,
and the man who used them to considerable advantage was
a little older and much handsomer.
She had a chance to realize this more fully later. As soon
as the long intermission started the girl with the yellow hair
and eyes rose and she and her companion made their way
to the aisle.
"Wouldn't you like to walk around a bit?" said Barry
Harden. "This is rather a long play."
"Oh, yes," Marie agreed quickly. The minutes had
flown as far as she was concerned and she had thought
"Whether or Not" must be one of the most thrilling plays
that had ever been written. Now the edge of enjoyment
was not so keen.
In the lobby Marie's eyes as well as those of Barry Har-
den went straight to the group that surrounded but in no
wise eclipsed the dazzling beauty of the girl who was its
focus and centre. Harden stopped to light Marie's cig-
arette and his own. The girl was thankful that she could
smoke, even though she didn't like it very well, for all the


76 Counterfeit
other brilliantly dressed women in the lobby were lighting
up or puffing fragrant clouds from long elaborate holders.
Even as he held the lighter for her she knew that Barry
Harden's eyes and thoughts were elsewhere. Still he hes-
itated to join the laughing group, several of whom had
waved a greeting when they appeared. Was it because she
was not—not their kind? Marie thought with a horrid
qualm. He was being very polite and considerate—to a
little country girl. And she had thought her frock quite
fine, grown-up and sophisticated when she bought it.
"Hello, Barry, old man."
Marie looked up to see that quite wonderful pair of eyes
fixed upon her again. The man who thus greeted her com-
panion had detached himself from the other girl's train and
had come half across the lobby to join them.
"Hello, George." Harden's voice had in it an eager re-
lief that Marie was quick to notice. "May I present Mr.
George Ingalls,—Miss Lamont."
He was too innately courteous to dash away but Marie
knew he was longing to be gone. They chatted about the
play for a few minutes before Harden felt he could excuse
himself.
"Another lamb to the slaughter," remarked Ingalls in a
low, laughing, confidential tone as Harden crossed the lobby
and joined the gay group at the other side. "Shirley tries
to add a new scalp every month and usually succeeds."
"She's wonderfully beautiful," said Marie, feeling very
small and young. "Who is she?"
"Shirley Van Zandt, one of the greatest heiresses in
town," said Ingalls, keeping his eyes fixed with flattering at-
tention on Marie's fresh young face. "And," he added
with smiling lips, "until now I would have said she was also
the most beautiful girl in New York."
"I can't think there are any more lovely ones than she,"
said Marie, flushing.
"You probably wouldn't realize that there was one," said


Co unt e r f e i t
77
Ingalls with just the right amount of banter to season the
flattery and make it taste, to an inexperienced palate, like
an acceptable compliment. "To tell you the truth, Miss
Lamont, some of Shirley's conquests find her overpowering
after a time. She's too obviously wonderful, if you realize
what I mean. Too rich. Too glorious. Like those great
golden hothouse chrysanthemums. To a person of trained
sensibilities the fresh scent of violets is more appealing."
Sophisticated, tired gray eyes with long black lashes, seek-
ing — seeking — insatiable. A young impressionable un-
touched nature, suffering from a feeling of youth and pov-
erty. The delicious flattery of having attracted a man of
such obvious experience at a minute when a sense of slight
was rankling in a suddenly awakened heart.
It was only a few days later that Peter Clancy, from a
distance, in a fashionable restaurant, sized George Ingalls
up as a "fast worker." It was true that no opportunity had
been missed or neglected. Ingalls discovered that Marie
was helping Miss Kinsella in that queer old shop, with which
he was already familiar, and he often made an unconven-
tional call, running for a few minutes from his own office,
through the basement of the one building and the hall of
the other.
At first his pursuit had been merely a matter of instinct,
like that of a hound who sees a charming young hare run-
ning through the grass. But Marie's intelligence and fresh
young beauty combined with her crystal honesty became
in an unprecedentedly short time a distinct allure to his
seasoned senses. He took great pains with Miss Kinsella,
and was more than ever friendly with old Nathaniel Ether-
ington whose work he had sufficient taste and knowledge to
sincerely admire.
It was, therefore, with her uncle's consent that he had
taken Marie to dine on the night of the twenty-fourth. The
old gentleman would have preferred Barry Harden as es-
cort for his niece, but that young man had many social con-


78 Counterfeit
nections and was nearly always engaged. Old Nathaniel
had known Ingalls a long time. He wanted—rather des-
perately—to make Marie happy. And he felt that he could
not—must not—take her out at night himself.
There was no harm in a "kent" gentleman taking a lady
to dinner. If her uncle had been a witness of the short
scene in the restaurant that Peter Clancy and his two com-
panions had observed, he probably would have thought
nothing of it. And surely he would not have foreseen that
the casual mention by his niece of the name of his employer
would have such far reaching consequences. Peter Clancy
was afterward to wonder what the old engraver would have
felt if he had known at that time that Marie Lamont's
lightly expressed desire to meet Mr. John Oliver Olmstead
was destined to set fire to a train of circumstances that was
ultimately to bring down in a cataclysmic wreck a structure
that had been built up in many secret anxious hours.


CHAPTER IX
^YuRELY—oh, surely that's enough, Mr. Peter!"
. ^ Wiggar stood back to get the effect of his reluctant
*<^J ministrations.
"A little more dirt back of the ears," said Peter Clancy
relentlessly. "Did you ever see a perfectly clean plumber's
assistant?"
Wiggar shudderingly did as he was told.
"Now rub the rest on the seat of my breeches," said
Peter. "That's pretty good. Turn the glass so I can see.
This is a daylight job and we have to be careful."
Mr. Peter did not often go in for disguises of this char-
acter, Wiggar thanked his lucky stars, but when he did, he
certainly was thorough. It would take a lot of washing to
get that gray stuff out of his hair. It did make the color
less conspicuous and was perhaps necessary. No one would
have the least idea that the plumber was more than "sandy"
in complexion, if they remembered him at all. Looking
Mr. Peter over carefully his valet decided it was highly im-
probable that anyone would notice him particularly, so con-
vincing was the make-up and the characteristically listless
slouch of the ordinarily upright figure.
"Now hand me that black grease paint," said Peter. "I'd
better do this myself."
"Not your nails, sir." It was torn from Wiggar by the
acuteness of his feelings.
"There's the bell," grinned Peter. "You needn't watch
the further desecration of my sacred pusson."
Wiggar departed hastily. The thought of what might
happen when the restraint of his presence was removed lent
wings to the valet's feet. It did not seem possible that he
could have gone down two flights of stairs and come up
again when he reappeared at the door.
79


8o
C o unt erf eit
"It's Captain Kerrigan," he said, slightly out of breath
but otherwise quite unmoved. "He has come over, himself.
And wishes to see you, sir. Very important matter."
"Kerrigan?" Peter had been rubbing the polish off his
shoes with some ashes from the fireplace. Now he leaped
to his feet, transferred the remaining grime from his hands
to his rusty coat, looked himself over once more in the long
triple mirrors, nodded quickly and with a word to Wiggar
went hastily down the stairs to the lower floor of his duplex
apartment.
He paused on the landing the fraction of a second. A
flash of mischief came into his eyes and he knocked hesi-
tatingly at his own living-room door.
There being no one else there Kerrigan said, "Come in."
Entered a shiftless, slouching young man in overalls
partly covered by a dusty coat. His cap was on his head
and he carried some tools in one dirty hand.
"Boss in here?" he asked in a thin flat voice.
"No," said Kerrigan. "But he'll be down in a minute."
"Bet he's down here a'ready," said the plumber's assist-
ant shifting a wad of gum to the other side of his mouth.
"What?" cried Kerrigan, coming a step nearer. "Well,
for the love of Mike! Pete!"
"All dressed up and some place to go." Peter laughed,
but his face changed swiftly as he looked at the police
detective. "You've got news, Jake?"
"Yes," said Kerrigan, while the anxious frown deepened
on his rugged face.
"Western Union?"
Kerrigan nodded and put his hand in his pocket.
"They have no record!" It was Peter who made that
statement, scarcely above his breath.
"You're right, Pete." Kerrigan took out a note book
and glanced at it. "I've had—" he named several officials—
"on the wire. I think there can't be any slip-up on the facts.
No St. Louis office has any record of a telegram addressed


Counterfeit 81
to anyone at the John Oliver Olmstead Company at any time
since Friday the Thirteenth. We can't get on the track of
any train message sent there. There were only two wires
phoned in to that Company from the night of Thursday the
twelfth to the morning of Tuesday the seventeenth. One
was to that young Harden, Sheehan spoke of. It was from
a girl named Van Zandt—Shirley Van Zandt. Breaking a
date. The other was to John Oliver Olmstead, not from
him, and just said—Here it is. 'Rush plates Anvers Auto-
mobile Catalogue.' signed, you see, by Chalmers Press,
Trenton. It came from there, too, and is obviously ordinary
business."
"And that," said Peter slowly, dusting his hands, "is
that."
"Yes," said Kerrigan quickly. "What d'you make of it,
Pete?"
"You began to suspect last night, Jake, when Sheehan
was going over his story, that those two wires might not
have been real, didn't you?"
"Of course, if what Terry believed was true, they couldn't
have been," Kerrigan agreed, rubbing his nose with a stubby
finger. "But, Pete, you know it would not be at all easy
to do what the poor old man thinks might have been done.
It would have been taking a terrible risk—let alone the hor-
rible—the sickenin' job it would be to"
"Don't let's think about that right now," Peter broke in.
"There are fiends who can nerve themselves to do anything.
We've got to hold that fact in the back of our minds."
"If that bit of bone was just from some animal," Ker-
rigan was thinking aloud, "Perkins will be able to prove it.
You believe it was, don't you, Pete?"
"I told Sheehan I thought there was every probability.
I meant just that. Every probability, Jake."
"But not certainty."
"Well—no." Peter rubbed his cheek, thereby adding still
more realism to his makeup. "How can we be certain—of


82
C o unt erf eit
anything? Even if that bit of bone has nothing to do with
the case, some things were burned—I think deliberately
burned—in that furnace, Thursday night or Friday morn-
ing. And almost certainly they had belonged to John
Oliver Olmstead. It may only have been his clothing . . .
effects of his that would be recognized if—well, say if a
body was picked up in the river."
"Glory be," said Kerrigan, under his breath, and wiped
his forehead. "To think I laughed at poor old Terry when
he told me Sunday . . . This—this murder—or whatever
it turns out to be—would be hooked up, somehow, with
Ray's present job, I suppose."
"Looks like it," Peter agreed. "Olmstead may have had
some ideas of his own about that counterfeit bill they caught
on him. He may have discovered something, that night in
his office."
"Something—or somebody?" suggested Kerrigan.
"Either—maybe both. Apparently there was some sort
of fight. You wouldn't upset chairs and break glasses if
you were just looking for something all by yourself, even
in another man's office. My eye, Kerrigan! I wish I could
have seen that place before it was cleaned up."
"Terry might have been excited and exaggerated it all."
"He might," responded Peter. "And then again He
mightn't. I have an idea—that—somebody—was pretty
desperate."
"Meaning whoever was responsible for those telegrams—
that weren't ever sent." said Kerrigan, thoughtfully.
"But were, actually, received." Peter was talking half
to himself. "There was, apparently, no pretense about that.
What, in your opinion, was the object, Jake?"
"To gain time, of course. To keep them from suspect-
ing, at his office, that Olmstead hadn't ever—gone to St.
Louis."
"Then it must have been someone who knew his plans."
"Sure must have been."


Counterfeit 83
"And Terry said that both those fellows in the office,
Harden and Ingalls, understood the references to particular
business mentioned in the wire they received while he was
there in Mr. Olmstead's office. I wonder if Ingalls—it was
Ingalls who took the message—I wonder if he wrote it
down. We may have to find that out—later—Jake. If
it speaks of some specific matter—it would narrow our
inquiry down—to the persons who were conversant with
those particular facts."
"Them college words don't go so good with your outfit,"
Kerrigan remarked with a half-smile that lightened some-
what the preoccupation of his worried face. "Watch your
step, Pete, my lad. I don't suppose," sarcastically, "you're
taking Wiggar with you."
"But would I like to make him up to match?" laughed
Peter. "I wonder if he'd stand for it. I wonder—" But
he did not say what, though Kerrigan waited for him to
finish the sentence.
Instead, Peter excused himself and went upstairs. He
returned almost immediately and a few minutes thereafter
the police detective took his leave.
"I suppose I can't drop you anywhere," he said as they
went downstairs. "I have a car outside."
"Being taken to my job by a captain of detectives would
give me a grand entrance," said Peter, "but I'm afraid I
must deny myself the spectacular effects. The Sixth Ave-
nue Elevated is more my style at present. Good luck to you,
Jake."
He waved his hand with a motion toward his cap and
went slouching down the street—a mechanic who should
be out of work if he wasn't, so careless, lazy and stupid
did he appear. For, once launched on an adventure, Peter
made the most of it. At present he was the thing he simu-
lated. That he was moving quickly no one would have
guessed. Bent knees and sliding feet, however, covered
the distance and went up the long stairs in record time. He


84 Counterfeit
had intended to get down to Sheehan's furnace-room as
early as possible and would have been there by this time if
he had not been delayed by Kerrigan's news.
It was worth waiting for, however, he thought, as, a
little later he turned the corner from Sixth Avenue into
Twenty-ninth Street and went on along the street at his
earlier pace. Ever since Sheehan's disclosures of the pre-
vious night he had been going over in his mind every bit
of evidence, studying it now in this light, now in that. Al-
most from the first he had doubted those messages. If they
had been true, and Olmstead had really gone to St. Louis,
the inquiry would have carried them far afield, even if, with
that evidence in hand, any inquiry at all had seemed neces-
sary . . . But since those messages were false there was
no question but that the adventure which he was about to
undertake was a necessary—and perhaps—dangerous one.
A plot of some kind. That was obvious. Involving
whom? Ah—that was another matter. More than one
person must be in it, Peter thought. To make—and print
—a well-executed counterfeit bill of any denomination—was
no small matter. To pass a number of notes of large de-
nomination successfully, presupposed certain conditions—
and persons of a certain condition. So far they had only
recovered seven spurious notes, but there might be many
more already in circulation. . . . Would there be a well
organized gang to deal with? Underworld racketeers who
had induced—perhaps terrorized a clever engraver
Peter had reached the old dingy wooden fence. The big
Spanish iron gates were open now though he was the only
person in the street who seemed at all interested in that
fact. He turned with a careless, slouching definiteness into
the flagged yard and glanced about him.
In the daytime the old statues and fountains that stood
about looked less weird than at night but hardly more in
character with the busy street outside. The building be-
yond, Peter realized at a glance, had once been a large stable


Counterfeit 85
to which, at some remote period, a story had been added
making three floors in all. There was a sign on one side
of the big arched door and the shiny brass of the handle
showed that at least one half of it must still be in use.
It was the small door beyond, however, that interested Peter
and to that one he bent his steps. Quietly, but without other
attempt at concealment, he turned the knob. The door was
locked.


CHAPTER X
# #OW C'N I get into the cellar, Miss?"
m M An uncouth man in soiled overalls opened the
JL. JL. door into the antique shop and stood before Marie
Lamont. He did not take off his cap and his back was
toward the light so that she scarcely saw his face, though at
the time she took no note of that fact.
"Who is it, Marie?" A quick, alert little person appeared
from behind a mummy case that stood there, as if she had
suddenly materialized. "Oh," she said, on seeing Peter,
"What do you want, young man?"
"Gas," said Peter in the flat, thin voice he had used be-
fore that morning. "Leak in the pipe somewhere. Got to
locate it, lady. Where's the cellar?"
East Side accent, manner, tone and makeup corresponded
perfectly. He stood with his hands hanging, in no ap-
parent hurry to go to his work.
"Sam's out, isn't he, Marie?"
"Yes, Miss Fanny. I sent him for that lot of cheese-
cloth you wanted."
The luck of the Irish, thought Peter to himself.
"Then I'll have to show you the way, young man. The
janitor's out. I don't know where the pipes are or any-
thing."
"'Sno matter," Peter murmured as he followed the little
lady along the hall, "I'll find 'em. 'Smy business."
She showed him the cellar door. It was at the back of
the hall, under the stairs, and faced another door that in-
terested Peter far more keenly. However, he opened the
one she pointed to, and without hesitation went confidently
down into the dusty, musty darkness, guided by the light
from a hand torch that he had taken from the pocket of his
overalls.
86


Counterfeit 87
Presently, having returned to the shop, Miss Fanny Kin-
sella heard the plumber pounding on the pipes down below.
He seemed to be testing them at various points. And just
then something quite unusual happened. A customer came
in. A real customer who knew a good deal about antiques
and their values. Not a handsome man, but dressed in
perfect taste, though so quietly it would have been difficult
afterward to describe him.
When he first entered he appeared not to be aware of
Marie, who was at the far end of the room. Perhaps it
was owing to the confusion of objects surrounding him, or
because he had just come in out of the light. As she came
forward, however, he apologized gracefully for having
rapped so peremptorily with his stick on the floor to bespeak
attention. He had a good English accent and used un-
usually handsome words. He was very much interested
in the queer assortment of antiques and asked intelligent
questions about them. Miss Fanny was quite charmed and
for the benefit of Marie as well as the stranger, gladly ex-
pounded the histories of those objects of art and use the
record of which she knew. Most of the stock, she said,
had been taken for debt by the Wellmouths. Some of it
was very good, as one could see, but a good part of it was
composed of inferior articles weeded out from finer collec-
tions. The statuary outside was more or, less damaged and
could hardly be expected to find a purchaser, but the articles
inside were sometimes sold and anyhow someone had to be
there to look after them. Assured of the interest of her
audience, Miss Fanny became quite frank. "The Well-
mouths," she said, "never did really try to dispose of any-
thing. They accumulated property—by foreclosure many
people said—lot after lot, building after building, and just
let them stand. I don't know what will happen to it all now
that the last of the family is gone, but for many years,
heaven forgive me, I've thought of poor old Miss Carrie


88
Counterfeit
Wellmouth as an old hen sitting on unhatchable golden
eggs."
The stranger seemed to appreciate this sally, though just
how he conveyed the impression that he was highly enter-
tained it would have been impossible to say, his face remain-
ing always quite blank and expressionless. But though his
ultimate purchase was only a small piece of very good old
Sheffield plate, Miss Fanny did not in the least grudge the
time he had taken to select it. It was something to have an
intelligent listener, and though she was hardly aware of it
herself the older woman was indirectly playing up to the
niece of Nathaniel Etherington. A wish to be of interest
to someone so young and charming—a craving for society—
for recognition—a longing to feel that she still was of value
and had a place in the world . . .
Miss Fanny Kinsella had much to occupy her mind that
morning. It was little wonder that she entirely forgot the
plumber who had gone down into the cellar to test the pipes.
There had been nothing, in fact, to recall him to her at-
tention. Almost coincident with the entrance of the cour-
teous Englishman, the noise in the cellar had ceased, for
Peter, down below, had heard the slam of the shop door,
followed by the thump of a stick on the floor, two raps and
then two more in quick succession. It was the signal he and
Wiggar had arranged between them just before he left his
apartment with Kerrigan that morning.
"That means a clear field for as long as he can hold 'em,"
Peter muttered to himself, as he crept softly up the dusty
cellar stairs. "The girl—there in the shop—is the one I
saw with George Ingalls at Cherie's last night .... Prob-
ably—almost certainly she's the one Wiggar warned us
about—the one he saw coming in. here with the old man
Monday night. Etherington? Etherington. I don't know
why, but somehow I'd like to know more about Etherington
.... This handy back entrance .... May be nothing to it,


Counterfeit 89
of course .... But while I'm here—and he's at work over
there—perhaps I'd better just take a peek . . . ."
Voices in the shop. Though the door into the hall was
tightly closed, Peter could hear the rumble of Wiggar's
deep bass. Soft-footed as a cat he went rapidly up the
dim stairway and reached the first landing. All that he
knew was that the old engraver lived in the building. He
did not know which floor. If there were only one tenant,
the detective reasoned rapidly, he would probably climb no
more steps than was necessary. There were two doors.
Peter tried the nearest which was the one at the back of the
short hall. It was locked, but that presented no difficulties
to an expert. A faint scraping sound, a slight click and the
door fell softly open.
Peter stepped inside and shut it carefully. It was a sec-
ond before he could distinguish anything, for the old slat-
shutters at the windows were almost entirely closed. A
little light, however, came through the chinks and after a
second he was able to perceive that he was in a rather large
chamber, extending across the width of the house, at the
back, and therefore facing north, in which wall were three
windows.
This much he took in almost at a glance and at the same
instant he realized with a start that these were not living
quarters as he had expected. The furnishings, instead, were
of a far more illuminating and interesting character. As he
became more and more accustomed to the faint gray light
he was able to make out in one of the windows a curious
sort of table, or work bench, with a framework covered by
some thin white transparent material, set on a slant between
the bed of the table and the window. There was a big
electric bulb with a reflector hanging above and a lot of
small tools lying beneath. The room was cluttered with
racks and queer looking frames, among which stood a large
camera mounted on a heavy base.


90
C o unt er f eit
An engraver's private workshop, Peter considered, his
glance darting! hither and yon in the dim obscurity. Ether-
ington's almost certainly, and private without a doubt. Pri-
vate, yes—he pulled himself up short—but might be per-
fectly innocent for all that. An expert craftsman—an
artist—hampered by the limitations of modern commercial
art—how natural to indulge his taste in his leisure hours—
after his day's work was done .... A ruling passion that
could drive—as Peter's desire to know—to clear up ambigu-
ous circumstances—was driving him. Why was he prying
into the affairs of this old man whom he had never seen—
might never—Hush! What was that?
For a flash Peter's heart almost stopped beating, and in
that flash he had slipped from in front of the door and had
gained the lee of a tall rack that was partly filled with what
he afterwards found were sheets of paper, laid flat. In
that hurtling instant he knew nothing except that it was a
shelter, and that there was a step—his heated perceptions
said a stealthy step—on the landing immediately outside the
door. The long breath he drew had scarcely filled his lungs
when a key rattled very faintly in the keyhole of the un-
locked door. There was a twist and then another; a mut-
ter of uncertainty as the door opened silently and was as
soundlessly closed.
Peter bent to gaze through the small aperture that dis-
closed itself between one of the piles of paper-stock and the
shelf above it, slightly below the level of his eyes. He
could see little of the figure that had paused just inside the
door except that it was dressed in dark clothes of a vaguely
unusual and old-fashioned cut and that, above the shadowy
face, there floated a quantity of snowy hair. It was a sec-
ond only before the man stooped and secured the doof from
the inside. Peter guessed that if the action of the lock had
not passed entirely unnoticed the man had concluded that he
had been merely inexpert in manipulating the key, for with-


Counterfeit 91
out further hesitation, and with hardly a glance about the
room, he went hastily over to one of the windows and stood
for several minutes gazing through a crack in the dilapidated
shutters. All his movements were singularly noiseless and
in the silence Peter felt that he ought to do something to
quiet the swift, strong beat of his own heart lest it be per-
ceived by the still figure crouching in the far embrasure.
Why would Etherington leave his legitimate work to come
spying here? Peter questioned, controlling his breath so
that it made not the smallest sound. What was he gazing at
so intently? What could he see from that window? And,
worst of all anxieties, how long would his vigil last, and
what would he do when it was over? If he were to walk
around behind that partially open stack, if he were to put
on a bright light even, he might easily discover the dirty,
unprepossessing workman who was hiding there. Explana-
tions then would be in order and the fat of Peter's investiga-
tion, so far as he was concerned, in the fire. He would be
hors concourse—useless, and Jake would be justified in re-
gretting that he had not taken an official hand instead of
letting his clever young friend go it alone. Clever! Peter
could hear the police detective's sly chuckle and Raymond
Trant's open derision of the old pal who was such a "nut"
as to imagine he had been singled out by some High Circum-
stance for some definite service . . . Perhaps it was just as
well for Peter that at the time he had no further dread
than this. It had not occurred to him then that he might be
looking at a desperate man—that he might be in dire
physical danger. If he had known then what he learned
a few minutes later. He must have acted the same way in
any case. There was no retreat. Instinctively he had
chosen the best available place. The closed door, presum-
ably that of a closet, in the wall behind him was too far
away. He must remain where he was and take his chance,
the while he thanked heaven that he was in a position to


92
C ounterfeit
watch for the next development in this more and more ab-
sorbing adventure.
After what seemed hours to Peter's excited imagination,
the white head was raised slowly from its position at the
broken slat, and became almost as dim and obscure as the
rest of the room; only here and there it caught the low re-
flected light as it moved across to the bench in front of the
second window. Here the man paused again. A beam of
light from a hand torch that he carried came into being
and was flashed across something that lay upon the work
table. The white head was bent low, studying the object
that the tiny lamp, now shaded by a long, thin hand, re-
vealed.
The man touched nothing. Said nothing. Just stood
there, minute after minute. At last with a sigh that was
almost a groan he shut off his flashlight and went back to his
first position at the damaged blind.
Peter's muscles were getting cramped. He could shift
his weight from the left foot to the right but would not allow
himself to change his position otherwise. If he must be
discovered in this ambiguous situation he was determined
that it should be fate and not himself who was to blame.
He thought of Wiggar and wondered how long the adroit
fellow would be able to hold the entire attention of the two
occupants of the antique shop. He thought of Terence
Sheehan who was waiting, waiting for Kerrigan's friend to
appear.
Then—agonizingly—he felt the inner membrane of his
nose begin to tickle. Swiftly he caught the threatening mem-
ber between thumb and forefinger and held it like grim
death, letting his breath come slowly through his lips. If
he were to sneeze! The ignominy of it! He pressed his
forefinger across the root of his nose, while the vision of
Tom Sawyer and Injun Joe flashed up with its immemorial
shudder. If only
The man in the window straightened to his full height


Counterfeit 93
and came slowly forward. He moved as one entirely fa-
miliar with his surroundings and with the same noiseless-
ness as before. He passed within a few feet of the rack
behind which stood Peter wrestling with the small and im-
placable imps that threatened his disclosure. Desperately
Peter shut his teeth and held on.
There was the tiniest click of a key turning in a lock;
the slightly increased light as the door into the hall fell
silently open. A second more. The light vanished. Again
the key—and in the ensuing silence Peter dropped to the
floor, muffled his face in his coat—and found that the tick-
ling imps had left him as suddenly and unreasonably as they
had come.
It had been a bad fright, however. He mopped his fore-
head with a grimy handkerchief before he got again to his
feet. He must spend no more time here, he decided. Only
a second in which to discover what it was that could be seen
from that broken shutter. Like a flitting shadow he crossed
the room and put his dusty red head where the white one had
been only a few minutes before.
Well, there it was. The small paved court or back yard
that Sheehan had told him about. The lower story of the
house in which he stood jutted out beyond the upper ones
and cut off the corner of the court so that the entrance to
the Olmstead building was beyond his range of vision, but
he could see the windows of several floors very clearly.
Directly opposite was an office if one might judge by the
furniture that stood close to the window. Nothing else
could be seen, however, for the sun had found its way into
that narrow crack and the window shades had been pulled
half way to the sill to cut out the glare.
In two of the windows above that, Peter observed the
same sort of semi-transparent screen that was upon the table
in a like position at his own right hand. There seemed to


94 Counterfeit
be nothing more of interest so far as he could tell. A work-
man in the opposite building came once and again within
view. And that was all.
Wish I knew more about this business, Peter thought to
himself as he hastily left his post of observation and crossed
over to the work-bench which had focused his attention as
soon as he came into that dusty room. Have to see what
the old bird was looking at, he decided, before I go on my
way ... I can't make out what he was up to—slipping
in here so quietly—for all the world as if . . .
His thoughts stopped as a car does when the brakes jam.
After a second he said, "Good lord," under his breath. He
had turned his flashlight so that it threw a steady beam down
upon the engraver's bench, where, in the middle of an ord-
erly disorder of small tools lay a rectangle of softly gleam-
ing copper, upon the surface of which, delicately traced with
exquisite precision, was an oval surrounding a half-finished
portrait. All the lines were cut into the plate so that the
image, though shown only in the varying depth of metal,
and without any sort of pigment, was quite recognizable.
The Father of his Country. There was no mistaking the
bold features, the high brow and puffed-out hair.
Breathlessly, with a hand that shook with excitement,
Peter took a small roll of currency from his pocket and
running through it hastily extracted a one dollar bill. He
looked at it long and seriously, and then at the plate upon
the work-bench. The block of metal was slightly wider
and much deeper than the greenback, but the portrait, in pose
and in such detail as Peter's inexperience could make cer-
tain of, was identical. Frowning, he folded the bill in the
center and placed it lightly on the plate. In both dimen-
tions the ovals corresponded to a hair.
Peter drew back and his face turned pale under its grime.
If the person who had engraved that plate had known that


CHAPTER XI
j^\lD MR. ETHERINGTON just pass through this
m M way?" Peter was breathing rapidly as he pushed
A—^ Sheehan back into the privacy of the furnace
room.
"Sure, sir, I didn't see him," Terence replied. His bright
little eyes were blinking with the effort to reconcile the ap-
pearance of his present interlocutor with that of his host of
the previous evening.
"Have you been standing there by the door waiting for
me all the time?"
"I certainly have, sir, for hours and hours—of course
except now and then when I've had to be about my duties
and what not. I had to put fresh coal on a few minutes
before you showed up, but it only took me a second or two,
as you might say . . ."
Peter glanced at the size of the furnace and at its distance
from the door that led into the hallway which in turn com-
municated with the area and the back court. It was plain
to see that the old engraver could easily have passed through
there without attracting Sheehan's attention if the latter had
been at work in the furnace room.
"I guess Mr. Etherington isn't kept very busy these days,"
Peter observed, in a carefully casual tone, as he moved
slowly about the vault-like room. "Comes and goes pretty
much as he pleases, I suspect?"
The question, for such it obviously was, seemed wholly
irrelevant to old Terence, but he answered promptly.
"So far as Mr. Jack was concerned he could. Same as
me. Not that I'd lie down on me job, or Mr. Etherington
either. But we've both been in the business too long to
need watching. I does my work and he his. What we or
96


Counterfe i t
97
any of the old hands do after that is their own affairs, and
nobody butts in or needs to."
"Right enough," said Peter, heartily. "Do you happen
to know what Mr. Etherington does with his spare time?"
"I do not, sir, and that's the truth. The old gentleman
keeps himself to himself. Though maybe that young niece
they talk about bein' so pretty may make a change in him."
"Oh, a niece," said Peter. "Lives with him, I suppose."
Terence frowned. Why was Mr. Clancy standing there,
gassing away, instead of doing his stuff, whatever it might
be?
"I don't know nothing about the girl except what Mr.
Ingalls says," he remarked, shortly. "He's been running
through here back and forth, many times during the day,
ever since she come. He likes to talk, Mr. Ingalls does.
He'll tell you all you want to know."
"Thanks." Peter accepted the rebuff with a grin. After
all, what did the girl matter? Unless—unless she repre-
sented—to her uncle—a need for money—for more money
than he could legitimately earn? . . . Peter put that question
behind him and to Sheehan's relief, proceeded at once to
more obvious concerns.
"Show me exactly where you found the little gold pencil,
Terence," he said, alertly, moving toward the furnace. "Is
that the place? I see. Now suppose you put it back just
where it was."
The old man received the crushed pencil case from the
detective, and with a stern, somber face bent and placed it
close to the angle made by the projection of the bottom
door.
"It was as far in as that?" Peter was studying the posi-
tion with intent gaze. "Are you sure?"
"So help me, sir, it was lying exactly like I'm showing
you. I near burnt my face when I stooped to pick it up,
the fire was that hot."
"Hum-m-m," said Peter. "You keep the place nice and


98 Counterfeit
clean, Terence. Was it all swept up as well as this that
morning when you found it?"
"It sure was, sir."
"No ashes there in the corner?"
"No, sir."
Peter looked thoughtful. Then he put his hand into his
trouser pocket and brought out a pencil case of his own,
exactly like the crushed one on the floor except that it was
made of silver. He held it out to Sheehan. "Put it in
place of the other, Terence," he said, quietly, "and then step
on it for me."
"Step on it? Spoil your good little pencil, sir?"
Peter nodded. The old Irishman frowned, uncompre-
hending, but did as he was bid. With great care he substi-
tuted the silver case for the gold one, taking pains with its
position. He stepped back to make sure that it was exact,
then, under Peter's eye he moved forward and placed the
toe of his heavy boot on the small shining bit of silver.
"Well?" said Peter.
The little man stepped back and scratched his head, while
his small eyes flashed in unbelief from the undamaged pencil
case to the face of its owner.
"Maybe the silver's stiffer—or maybe I'm not heavy
enough," he ventured, uncertainly.
"Try putting your heel on it," said Peter.
"But I can't. Not without getting up against the fur-
nace. And it was awful hot at the time. Remember that,
sir."
"Just the same it was a heel that bent Mr. Olmstead's
pencil case. There are marks on it that couldn't be made
any other way. Look here. You can see it for yourself."
"That's right, sir." Sheehan looked through Peter's
small but powerful magnifying glass, and then up at him
with renewed confidence and admiration. "But a heel, sir?
Now you try it, yourself, and see can you put your weight


Counterfeit 99
on it and not bump into the firebox. There now! You
see?" His excitement was rising. "It can't be done."
"Which is just what I imagined from your description last
night, Terence." Peter's voice was grave and thoughtful.
"But I had to make sure."
"Of what, sir?" The little mica-like eyes were gleam-
ing.
"That the pencil was crushed—somewhere else—and then
kicked or thrown or dropped—where you found it."
"Sure. That's right. That would be it," said Sheehan,
eagerly. "But," he hesitated. "I don't see that it gets us
much furderer."
"And that the pencil wasn't in the holder when it was
stepped on." Peter spoke as if communing with himself.
He appeared not to have heard the little Irishman's last re-
mark. "The pencil," he added, softly. "The pencil. If
we could find that? You haven't seen one of these little flat
ones lying about anywhere, Terence?"
"I have not then, sir."
"When you were sweeping up? In Mr. Olmstead's
office? That morning. Or any morning since?"
"No, sir."
"If it had been around here—or in the coals—do you
think you would have noticed it?" Peter's voice sounded
urgent. His eyes travelled around the whitewashed walls
and the well-swept floor.
"On the floor I would sure. In the coals? Maybe I
would then, and maybe I wouldn't."
"It could have been burned up," said Peter half loud.
"But why would anybody take that trouble?" Terence ob-
served, eagerly. "To burn the pencil and overlook the little
gold cover that we could all swear to that it was Mr.
Jack's?"
Peter's keen glance met that of the anxious little furnace
man. "There might be several answers to that question,
Terence," he said slowly. "I have a hunch that if we could


100
C o unt er f eit
locate the pencil we might be able to eliminate some of them.
Supposing—always—that it wasn't destroyed .... Some-
how this whole pencil business gives me pause. I may be
crazy, but I'd like mighty well to see what's under—or
maybe mixed up with the coal there."
"Glory be!" cried Sheehan, starting back.
"Don't let your imagination run away with you, old
man," said Peter hastily. "We'll probably find nothing; but
in the case of a disappearance, when there's anything of in-
terest in a cellar, especially in a clean one like this where
there's practically no other place to hide—anything—it's only
routine stuff to go through the coals. Are you game to
help?"
"Yes, sir," said Sheehan, with a wan look. "It'll not
be so much of a job as it would be next week when the bins
will be filled for the winter." Without suggestion from
Peter he switched on all the lights and led the way. "These
two be empty as you see." He waited in silence, watching
the detective as the beam of his flashlight probed every
inch of the rough walls, ceiling and floors. There were
broom marks but no footprints in the blackish dust. Peter
nodded and went over to the third bin which was quite near
the furnace and was, perhaps, a quarter full.
"There's almost no chance," said Peter, half aloud, seiz-
ing a shovel. "It's been over a week . . . However . . .
Let's shift it over there Easy does it. Watch every spoon-
ful. Spread it out a little. That's right."
For several minutes the two worked in grim silence. Peter
told himself he was a fool to labor like this—just on a
hunch ... To back up an intuition that he was not ready
to expose to Trant's ridicule, or even to the more indulgent
criticism and disbelief of Jake Kerrigan .... All the prob-
abilities were against. . . and yet . . .
Suddenly he jumped forward with a gasp and stayed
Sheehan's hand. "Steady there! Don't move," he cried
in an excited undertone. "By heaven, I was right." His


C o unt erf eit
101
face took on a look of something almost akin to awe. Then
he stooped and picked up from the coals at the old man's
feet a short piece of flat lead pencil. "That's all," said Peter
in a still voice. "For the present we need look no farther."
"Not look—But Mr. Clancy!" faltered Terence. "If
something—something—wasn't burned—but could be
buried . . ."
Peter put his hand kindly on the little man's shoulder.
"There's no body buried under the coals, if that's what
you're afraid of, Terry," he said. "Even if there was noth-
ing else to prove it, I'd bet my last dollar on this bit of
pencil. That's evidence that certain things happened—and
that certain other things—no matter what the appearance
—did—not!"
"For heaven's sake tell me what you mean, sir," pleaded
Sheehan. "If there was murder committed"
"If there was murder committed," Peter repeated, firmly,
"it wasn't in your cellar, Terence. I'm as sure of that as
that I'm standing here. There's more than coal-dust been
thrown into our eyes: more than ashes to sift. Somebody's
up to tricks. In spite of the things you found in the fur-
nace, there was no body disposed of there. You mark my
words. Don't you see that if "He broke off sud-
denly and listened. "Who's that coming?"
"Don't know," Sheehan replied hurriedly. "If you don't
want to be seen"
There was no one to hear the rest of the sentence, for
like a flash Peter had whipped into the half empty bin and
flattened himself out of sight against the inner wall. The
heavy footsteps he had heard advanced quickly along the
narrow cement passage and turned into the furnace room.
"Jake!" Sheehan spoke the name aloud. "I thought
you weren't expecting to show up here."
"Where's Clancy?" Kerrigan asked sharply. His face
was a study. "I thought he'd be here on the job."
"And you were right as usual, Jake," said Peter, emerg-


102
C o unt er f eit
ing quietly. "What's up? What the dickens has happened
to make you look like that?"
Kerrigan turned slightly, caught Peter's eye, and with a
shift of his own indicated Terence. Peter, nodding his com-
prehension, spoke to the little man across Kerrigan's broad
shoulder.
"Slip outside and keep watch, Terry," he said, in a low
confidential and importunate tone. "Much better that no
one sees Jake or me right now, and especially the two of us
together. If anyone comes, whistle, 'Erin's Green Shore',
and we'll do a fade out."
"O. K," said Sheehan, bristling with importance. "I'll
see that no one bothers the two of yez. But when you're
through if you wouldn't mind telling me"
"Sure. Sure we will" said Kerrigan, soothingly. "Beat
it now, Terry, and don't forget to whistle."
The little old man nodded again and slipped away. They
heard him moving along the passage in the direction of
the stairs.
"What is it, Jake?" Peter asked in a low voice.
The other drew a long breath and shook his gray head.
"It's what I least expected, to tell you the truth," he whis-
pered. "A good many possibilities were in my mind, but
not this one. It didn't seem reasonable. In spite of those
telegrams being a fake I didn't really believe anything—
terrible—had happened to Olmstead. I didn't yet take so
much stock in the things Terry found in his furnace here.
It would be a dangerous and clumsy way to dispose of a
body. You thought it most unlikely Peter. Didn't you?"
"I only thought it last night," Clancy replied quickly.
"This morning I'm sure."
"Sure?" Kerrigan's jaw was thrust forward as he looked
into those clever keen blue-gray eyes. "Shows how much
you know, Pete. Shows how1 much I do. I was so certain
it was impossible—the thing poor Terry was afraid of—that
I only took that bit of bone to Perkins because—well because


Counterfeit
103
I didn't want to take a chance on making any more slips."
"The bit of bone!" Peter repeated, catching Kerrigan's
arm. "Don't tell me—why it can't be—Perkins has it
analyzed already?"
"He was in the laboratory and he did it right away," said
Kerrigan in a hard voice. "There isn't any doubt about
his findings. You can't get back of his, returns."
Peter started back. His voice was a shocked mixture
of incredulity and repudiation. "Don't tell me," he said,
"don't tell me that it was"
"It was human bone" said Kerrigan steadily, and looked
at Peter with tragic, repentant eyes.
r


CHAPTER XII
tense silence, “and Terry found it over a week
1 ago!" The words ended in a stifled groan.
Peter looked around him as though he had just awakened.
His face was a blank empty mask.
“Why don't you say something, Pete," urged Kerrigan.
“The little man will be coming back in a minute and for
the life of me I don't want to tell him. If you'd seen the
way he carried on Sunday night! This chap, Olmstead, is
more than a son to him.”
"Don't tell him," said Peter in a low voice.
"But I can't let the thing pass now, with all this evi-
dence of a crime-a horrible sickenin'crimen having been
committed.”
"No," agreed Peter. "You'll have to start an investiga-
tion, but it needn't be with Sheehan. He's already told us
all he knows."
he'll have to know sooner or later."
"Make it later,” urged Peter. “Make it the last thing we
do. There's plenty of work between us and a real show-
down. More work, if the truth must be told, Jake, than
either of us suspected. The bone being—what Perkins says
it is--wipes all the figures off my slate, and I'll have to
begin again. Even if only part of a body was-cremated
here "
"Perkins says it was almost certainly part of the leg
bone,” Kerrigan interrupted in a low, grim voice, "of a
fairly tall person.”
Peter frowned heavily and shook his head. "I'm not only
at sea. I'm in the middle of the ocean, Jake," he replied.
104


Counterfeit
105
"And I thought I was getting along so nicely. I had a
hunch last night about something and I came gaily romp-
ing down here to show you how good I am. Now all I
can say is that as a detective I'm no better than I should be.
There's going to be no intuitional short-cut to this party.
We'll have to get down to brass tacks. Study the person-
nel, check up on everybody in sight, figure out motives and
all the rest of the weary routine. I suppose you'll start
your inquiries here, in Olmstead's office?"
"That's what I thought," said Kerrigan. "Those two
young fellows Terry spoke of ought to be able to put us
wise to a few things."
"The general manager and the secretary," Peter remarked
thoughtfully. "Yes. They ought to be able to tell you a
good deal about Olmstead. What his habits were. Who
were his friends——"
"And enemies," Kerrigan put in meaningly.
"Enemies, yes," Peter repeated slowly. "Sometimes a
man's enemies are those of his own household."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Kerrigan, crisply.
"You've found out something, Peter. You've got your eye
on someone you think may have pulled this murder."
"I have nothing to say about the murder—yet "said
Peter soberly, "but I found something just now that we'll
have to pass on to Ray Trant as soon as he gets back.
Listen to this."
Then hurriedly but clearly, Peter related his experience
in the old engraver's private work-shop. He was an excel-
lent raconteur and while he told each fact with precision
the story lost nothing in dramatic effect.
"Etherington!" exclaimed Kerrigan, excitedly but in a
low voice. "He'd be just the man to pull the counterfeit
stunt—but this other thing, Pete? Murder's a different
kettle of fish. He had the opportunity, o. k., the way you
describe things, and I can see where he might have a motive,
but, man, he and Olmstead were friends. I know it from


io6
Counterfeit
Terry. All the old hands were devoted to the Olmsteads,
father and son. Does it seem likely"
"Nothing in this whole darned show looks reasonable to
me now, Jake. I've got to have time to think things over
and to get more dope." Peter's eyes were fixed upon the
ground. "Are you going upstairs now?"
"Yes. And you?"
"I'm not sure, now," said Peter. "I'd thought"
He broke off quickly. Echoing down the narrow stone
hall came a whistle, so clear and shrill it surely would have
"awakened the hearts" of Terry's brethren, had they been
"slumberin' on Erin's green shore." Then the music
stopped and the furnace man's voice sang out loudly. "Is
it yourself, Mr. Ingalls, and are you going calling on the
young lady again this morning?"
Kerrigan did not hear the reply. Neither did Peter, for
suddenly and quite clearly he had made up his mind.
"In there with you, Jake, and not a word till I tell you,"
whispered Peter in haste, shoving the surprised police de-
tective out of sight behind the wall of the nearest empty bin.
"Not a sound. You'll understand. Just wait."
Kerrigan, sufficiently inured to Peter's methods, complied
without a murmur. He saw his friend pick up a broom
and give it flourish. After that he had to depend on his ears
for information.
"Who's that?" asked Ingalls, somewhat sharply, as he
came with Sheehan to the door of the furnace room. "Who's
this fellow? And what is he doing here?"
"Excuse me, sir." The brogue that Peter put on now
was richer and juicier even than Sheehan's. "I'm just after
helpin' Terry out. I hope you don't mind, sir. Since the
Swede left, the little man has most wore himself out intirely,
and as I was out of a job meself, owing to the Deepression,
I says to him, 'Terry, me boy, it's a good turn I'll be doin'
you, and maybe meself to boot, if the gents upstairs is as
good as you always sez they are. Leave me help you with


C ounterfeit 107
the sweepin' and such like and if the gents likes what I does,
maybe we can come to an agreement,' I sez. I ain't afraid
to deliver the goods and see does they like the way the likker
tastes before I get me pay, see? That's me, Boy!"
"I should think your friend might start on himself," said
Ingalls, superciliously. "I don't believe we could stand for
a janitor that looks like that, even if he is a friend of yours,
Terence."
"He—he looks better when he's washed up." Sheehan
gulped but got the words out somehow. "Maybe you'd
leave him have the job, temporary, just to help out until—
until Mr. Jack gets back. I don't suppose you've heard"
"No. I'll tell you as soon as he writes us. I said I
would," said Ingalls rather shortly. "You're like an old
hen, Terence. If the chief wants to take a vacation, without
being bothered every other minute, the only way he could
do it would be not to let anybody know where he went."
"Yes, sir, but"
Ingalls was moving away. Peter, broom in hand, stepped
forward. "Just until the Boss gets back, sir," he pleaded.
"Pay me what you like. It'll be better than what I'm after
gettin' as it is. Half of nothing and hardly that for two
months, true as you live, and Maggie and the childer—sure
there's five now and another so near I don't know will
Maggie be in the hospital when I get home at night or will
she not. If you've kiddies of your own, sir,"
"Oh, lord," said Ingalls, waving a well-manicured hand,
"he'll have me sobbing on his shoulder in a minute, Terence.
If he's a friend of yours and you want him, go up and see
Harden about it. He's the one that hires and fires—not
me.
"Oh, thank you, sir," said Peter fervently. "You've a
kind heart. I can see it on you. A happy woman Maggie
will be when I tell her I've got a job. Glory be "He
stopped abruptly. Ingalls had gone through into the court
and had slammed the door after him "All right, Jake,"


108 C o unt er f eit
he said in a changed tone. "Sorry I was so abrupt.
Thought I'd better cinch my job before you appeared in the
offing."
"You sure don't do things by halves, Pete," grinned Ker-
rigan. "A swell helper you're going to have, Terry, me
lad."
"If he helps find Mr. Jack, I'll do all the sweeping and
cleaning and be tickled to death." Sheehan's voice was
shaking with excitement. "D'you want I should take you
up to Mr. Harden now, sir?"
"You might dust me down a bit and maybe I'd better take
a layer or two off my face and hands." Peter's tone was
quiet and business-like. "Do you mind waiting a few min-
utes more, Jake? It will be a ringside seat for me if I
can get young Harden to take me on."
"He'll do it, sir," said Terence eagerly. "He'll do it for
me, I know. It wouldn't be necessary to fool him, though,
unless you want to, Mr. Clancy, because he's worried about
Mr. Olmstead, too, and he'd be glad as I am to have your
help."
"That's probably so," said Peter, glibly, "but let's not let
anybody in on this but you and Jake and me for the present.
We know we won't give anything away, but who else can
we depend on? Eh? It means a little playacting and maybe
Mr. Harden wouldn't be so good."
"Maybe you're right." Sheehan yielded readily. "Al-
though if it's playacting you want, young Mr. Harden would
be just your man. The whole bunch of them belongs to
some kind of a swell club that gives amacheuer plays. Mr.
Jack gives me tickets when they have a show. He's good,
the young boss is, and so is Mr. Ingalls, but for all that
you'd have to hand it to Mr. Harden. He sure is the best
of the lot. And funny! Say"
"Terry, this is no comedy we're putting on," said Ker-
rigan soberly. "You'd better do what Mr. Clancy says
and keep everything you've told us under your own lid, see?


C o unt er f eit
109
Don't put anybody wise to anything. Not even your old
grandmother. Now get along up with Mr. Clancy and see
that young Harden takes him on. Watch your step, Terry,
and good luck to you both."
Mr. Barry Harden was busy writing when, having re-
ceived permission, Terence Sheehan entered apologetically
and introduced his companion, or rather allowed the latter
to introduce himself, which he did with voluble aplomb.
"It's Pat Callahan me name is, sir," said Peter instinct-
ively keeping his own initials, "as it was me father's before
me and I'm about as honest as he was, which isn't saying
too much, God rest his soul; but Terry'll be telling you that
I'm a good worker and that I'm needing a job something ter-
rible. Himself it is that's most wore out doing two men's
work, sir, and while I know he's not been kicking as you
might say, sure and all, you could give me a tryout, for the
sake of me wife and the kiddies. And you can pay me
what suits you for the first week. Then, if you want me
steady, it'll be whatever you paid that slippery Swede, and
if I aint worth more than any squarehead that ever slung
a can then the good little people wasn't at my christenin', and
I can't say you no fairer nor that."
"All right. That's fair enough," said Harden. He was
frowning, but Peter felt that the young man's uneasy, anx-
ious expression had nothing to do with himself. Sheehan
was, apparently, like Caesar's wife, above suspicion, and his
request for a man to take the place of the defaulting Swede
so natural as to cause no comment. "Better get him started
right away, Terry," Harden continued. -*'I noticed the
waste cans upstairs were practically empty, everything all
over the floor and the place looking a sight. No "as
Sheehan started to apologize, "I don't blame you, old man.
You've kept the offices fine and that's more than you're paid
for. Glad you found a good man for us. Tell Mr. Clark,
as you go out, that we're putting him on."
Peter expressed his thanks with convincing fervor and the


no
Counterfeit
two men withdrew. Before they had reached the door,
Harden's dark head was bent again over the letter he was
writing. Peter had been near enough to see that it was not
on office stationery. He had noted, also, that the waste
basket contained several torn sheets of the thick, creamy
paper. This and all the other visible aspects of the room
he had taken in while purposely prolonging his plea for an
engagement. When he closed the door, with a last back-
ward glance, the scene before him remained permanently
engraved on its own tablet in his remarkable memory, and
as Terence conducted him through the building he added
picture after picture, mapping and arranging the rooms and
floors in their proper order in his mind.
"You're not really going through with it, sir?" Sheehan
paused on the stairs to whisper in Peter's ear. "Them
cans of waste is awful heavy, and as to the sweeping"
"You bet I'm on the job," said Peter eagerly. "I have
but the one regret, Terence."
"And that, sir?"
"That Wiggar can't see me."
"Wiggar? You mean the gentleman I seen last night?
The one that looks out for you?"
"The gentleman—that looks out for me. Yes," grinned
Peter. "He'd have a fit. But I'm glad of the exercise.
Stick by me long enough so everybody'll know I have been
given the freedom of the city, and then lead me to those
cans."
With an answering grin, heavily burdened with gratitude
and admiration, Sheehan led the way. What was on the
detective's mind he had little idea, but here, at last, was
someone who was taking seriously the disappearance of the
head of the firm that had had the little Irishman's un-
swerving allegiance for nearly a lifetime: who was ready
to make personal sacrifices in an endeavor to find the master
who as boy and man had been capable of inspiring an
almost fanatical devotion in the old retainer. Terence was


C o unt er f eit
in
ready now to follow unquestioningly Clancy's every lead.
"Is it your wish that I should start cleaning up in here,
Terry?" The rich brogue and the gay rather loud voice
caught the attention of several men who were nearest the
door that Sheehan opened. They did not notice, however,
that the speaker had the little furnace man by the arm and
was propelling him, gently but insistently, down the length
of the room. It was a large one, almost the entire floor
or loft and near by were a lot of racks for paper stock, the
same kind that Peter had sheltered himself behind earlier
that morning. He viewed them now with a feeling of grati-
tude. There were also a number of cameras and various
paraphernalia whose use Peter could only guess. Half way
down, on his right, was a big dark room, the door of which,
for the moment, was open. As, with gripping fingers he
impelled Sheehan past the door, Peter saw within the black-
lined walls and ceiling, the long sink, the floor stained with
chemicals, and the square pane of blood-red glass that, when
the door was closed, would be the only outside light.
He noted this all automatically, for his mind was intent
on something that had immediately caught his attention at
the farthest end of the room. Seen through two doors that
opened side by side were high windows, screened with white
translucent material set in a slanting frame. A long shelf,
or bench ran beneath. The partition that gave privacy to
this end of the loft was made of matchboards, dusty and
old, and extending to the ceiling. One of the doors, and the
frame in which it hung, however, was of newer, unpainted
wood, and the partition between the two small rooms was
fashioned from some sort of plasterboard.
Peter was handing out to Sheehan a rapid fire of ques-
tions about his new duties as they drew ever nearer, but
his inner thoughts were fixed on the bent head that he
could just see through the newer of the two doorways. A
remarkable head it was, with its crown of shining hair.
As easy to recognize, Peter thought, as the "white plume of


112
C o unt er f eit
Navarre," though this was not in the forefront of the
fight, but prosaically bent above a plate of burnished copper.
So intent was the old engraver upon his work that he did
not lift his head nor turn until the two men were actually
inside the small, oblong room.
"Excuse me, Mr. Etherington, sir," Sheehan began un-
certainly. He knew Mr. Clancy wanted to come straight
here, but he had no notion why.
"I'm the new janitor, sir." Peter, his brogue well oiled,
stepped forward with an ingratiating smile. "A friend of
Terry's, and the little man's saving the life of me by giving
me a job. You know what they say about a new broom,
and that's me all over, saving your presence, but I'm not
so dumb that I don't know there's maybe things in a joint
like this a fella'd better be leaving alone when he cleans.
Things that might be rubbed or scratched, or maybe might
be wet or something, see? If that's so, just you point 'em
out, sir, and I'll try me damdest to be careful. Glory be
but that's some beautiful fine work you do be at. Is it a
pitchure of somebody, now?"
Etherington looked up with a quick, sidelong glance.
What he saw was a rather stupid, well-meaning, pleasant
face surmounted by a cap from which protruded a few
wisps of dusty reddish hair. Also he saw Terence Shee-
han's well-known map-of-Ireland countenance.
"A portrait. Yes." The engraver seemed somewhat
contemptuous of what he was doing. "Rich man. Ugly
as sin. Fat. With whiskers. Wonder you didn't take
it for a landscape. Moonrise over the bushes."
Peter laughed. He really was entertained by the elderly
gentleman's odd conceit. A sense of humor. Well, why
not? Some criminals joked on their way to the scaffold.
Not very good jokes, perhaps . . . Etherington had gone
on speaking.
"All you have to be careful of when you clean—What's
your name? Pat? All right. All you have to look out for


C o unt er f eit
113
is the stuff under this rubber sheet. Understand? I cover
all my work with it when I'm through and there'll be no
dirt or trash under it for you to take away."
"O. K.," said Peter glibly. "I'm on, and I won't touch
nothing under the rubber thing. I'll be awful careful. If
I can cinch this job, well say! Will the missus be pleased
or will she be pleased? Wouldn't you like I should brush
the floor up a bit for you now, sir? No? Well I could
empty your trash basket, anyway."
It was a new hand trying to make himself solid; a new
broom calling attention to how clean it could sweep. Thus
Peter, to all and sundry. Etherington heard the new jan-
itor say practically the same things to August Rosen, in the
next room, to the photographers and retouchers outside.
He was evidently bent on nailing down the job Terence
had wangled for him. If the old engraver had any sus-
picions at first, Peter's manner soon allayed them. Ether-
ington's waste basket had been surrendered without a pro-
test. The loose waste from Rosen's room and from the
rest of the floor filled the big metal can nearly three-quar-
ters full. So cleverly did Peter work that Sheehan left
him, after a short time, with no misgivings. Therefore
there was no one to note that between the contents of
Etherington's basket and the trash beneath there was a care-
fully spread newspaper effectually segregating it from the
rest.


V.
-■
CHAPTER XIII
m jPl" SAID Kerrigan, through the open grating of
a I the elevator shaft. He had left Terence's furnace
room and had walked around the block to give
Clancy time to get himself oriented. Passing the antique
shop on Twenty-ninth Street he had paused to glance through
the gates but had not gone in for many reasons, among
which was the fact that he had descried Wiggar, hat in
hand, turning in the opening door to make his adieus to
someone within. Accurate information of all that could be
determined from a view of the inside of the shop being
therefore on tap, as it were, Kerrigan went soberly upon his
way. Again entering the Olmstead building he saw the
combination freight and passenger elevator coming down,
"tip," he repeated as the floor of the open car descended
across his line of vision.
"Down," remarked the elevator boy, in bored contradic-
tion.
Kerrigan said nothing, made no sign; but the only pas-
senger in the elevator, from a position directly behind the
operator and in close juxtaposition to a large can of trash,
lifted his hand to his dusty red head in smart salute, and
favored the police captain with a hopeful knowing grin.
Pete's fallen on his feet again, Kerrigan thought. Wish
I had his luck. Luck. If cleverness—and being willing to
go to any kind of trouble is luck . . .
"Floor?"
The returning elevator had its door slammed behind Ker-
rigan who was the only passenger, and the car began its
perfunctory ascent.
"What floors have you?" asked Kerrigan, sarcastically,
for he knew that, excluding the wholesale hat show room
in the store at the street level, there were but three.
114


Counterfeit 117
stand how you know all this, but your facts are correct.
Mr. Olmstead is six days overdue. Not quite a week.
There's nothing curious in that, really. It isn't as if it
was the first time." >
"He's gone away before without explanation?" Ker-
rigan sat up alertly.
"Yes. In a way. I mean to say, Captain Kerrigan, you
know how many things there are in a concern of this sort
that somebody wants to put up to the chief. Well, there's
the telephone, the telegraph, and the wireless. Easy enough
to get in touch with anyone if you know the address. Every
year or so John—I mean Mr. Olmstead gets to feeling that
he's at the end of his string. So he goes away without
telling anyone where."
"Anyone?" Kerrigan's little eyes looked out sharply
from under their drooping lids. "Not his family? His
lawyer?"
"He hasn't any family."
"You and he live together, Mr. Harden. Don't you?"
"Yes."
"Not related, though?"
"No."
"And he didn't, on the previous trips, leave an address
even with his secretary?" Kerrigan's tone was an achieve-
ment in the fine art of blending a knowledgable disbelief
with an inviting friendliness that asked for confidence. The
younger man hesitated and suddenly Kerrigan changed his
method.
"It's no use beating about the bush any longer, Mr.
Harden," he said. "I must tell you that certain facts have
come to the knowledge of the police which make it necessary
for us to look into this matter of the disappearance of Mr.
John Oliver Olmstead on the night preceding Friday, the
thirteenth of this month."
"Why Friday?" Harden objected quickly. "We heard
from him on Monday. You mentioned the wire yourself."


n8 Counterfeit
"Who received that message?" Kerrigan asked in so sharp
a tone that the young secretary's head went up with a jerk.
"I'm not sure. Miss Ashton, I think." <m
"Miss Ashton. Could I speak to her?"
"I'm sorry." Kerrigan could not read the look in Har-
den's face. "Miss Ashton is no longer with us."
"Oh," said Kerrigan. It was a little puff of sound, as
when a candle is blown out. "Well, I suppose she made a
record of the message. Could I see that?"
"Certainly. If you'll excuse me. It may take a few
minutes to have it looked up. She did the filing. Oh"
he broke off, "there's Ingalls. Maybe he can tell you."
Someone had come into the next office and slammed the
door. Harden went quickly across and opened another door
that was in the middle of the partition between the two
rooms. Kerrigan heard the short colloquy that ensued.
"Hello, Barry! Well, well, old man, great piece of luck.
You'll never guess!"
"All right, George. Let it ride a minute, I"
"You must hear this before you breathe again, my dear
fellow. You ought to be keen about it as I am, sharing
her the way we do."
"Sharing whom? Do be serious for once, George."
There was an odd sort of deadly note in Harden's voice.
"Oh—h—h," laughed Ingalls. "I'm not talking about
Shirley. Take her if you can make her and heaven bless
you, my lad. No. I mean our new stenographer. Vice
Emily Ashton, fired. What would you say to old Ether-
ington's lovely niece? Eh? Crazy to get work to do so
she won't be an expense to the dear old chap. She took the
touch system and all the rest in school. An answer to
prayer, what ho? And she'll be with us to-morrow. Now
tell me I'm not a clever person."
There was a slight pause then, followed by a few sen-
tences that Kerrigan failed to catch. He heard Ingalls say,
"What?" in a startled tone. After which Harden asked


C ount erf eit
119
if the general manager knew under what head the copies of
the two wires would probably have been filed. Ingalls'
answer to this was inaudible but almost immediately there-
after the two men came together through the communicat-
ing door.
"This is Mr. Ingalls, our general manager," said Harden,
drawing the other quickly over to the desk. "Sit down,
George."
"I can't understand what interest the police can possibly
have in the fact that our Mr. Olmstead has prolonged his
vacation." Ingalls' handsome eyes glanced keenly into
Kerrigan's face as he acknowledged the introduction.
"Terence Sheehan says he showed you two gentlemen the
condition of Mr. Olmstead's office on the morning of Fri-
day the thirteenth," said the police detective, watching the
two officials warily. "It was pretty well upset, wasn't it?
Am I right in supposing this was the room? Yes. And
that desk in the window was his?"
"That is Mr. Olmstead's desk," said Harden hastily, with
a slight stress on the verb.
"This one, I presume is yours, Mr. Harden?"
"Yes."
"Was this, too, turned out and ransacked?"
"Ransacked was hardly the word in either case," Ingalls
objected. "It was more as if John had packed hurriedly.
Wouldn't you say so, Barry?"
"I assure you, Captain Kerrigan, there was nothing miss-
ing" said the secretary, the vertical furrow deepening upon
his brow. "I went through all the papers. I know the
contents of the chief's desk as well as my own. The cir-
cumstance was odd, but there really doesn't seem any expla-
nation unless, as Ingalls says, Mr. Olmstead was looking
for something—some data"
"That he might have wished to destroy?" Kerrigan inter-
rupted. "That he might have burned in the furnace? Come,
gentlemen. Be frank. You must be convinced that Mr.


120
C o unt er f eit
Olmstead went down to the cellar for something, else why
did Sheehan find his little gold pencil case there? Answer
me that."
"So it's Terence has been taking his crazy ideas to the
police, is it?" said Ingalls, impatiently. "The man is like
an old hen, Inspector. There really was no significance in
what he found. Except, perhaps, that Mr. Olmstead did go
down to the furnace room for some reason just before he
left."
"You think that do you?" asked Kerrigan quietly.
"Well, yes." Ingalls replied, frankly. "It looks that
way. We all know he wouldn't be parted from that pencil
except accidentally and Barry, here, happens to be sure he
used it the last time he saw him, which was the afternoon
of the day he started for St. Louis. Naturally we were a
bit upset until we got his wires."
"And since then you've seen no cause for worry?" Ker-
rigan had turned sidewise to the desk, but the glance that he
shot at the two younger men was direct and keen.
"Of course not." The general manager spoke lightly.
"Mr. Olmstead is a peculiar man and does things his own
way. He knows that the place will be run all right in his
absence. We have authority to act in all emergencies.
When he's ready he'll wire us again, or just come along
back ..."
Kerrigan held up his hand. "One minute, Mr. Ingalls.
Your chief won't wire you again this trip. If he does tele-
graph, it will be for the first time."
"What?" Harden asked with apparent incredulity. "Why
there have been two messages"
"Received," Kerrigan supplied with stern emphasis.
"Phoned to this office, I grant you. But they were never
sent through any telegraph station."
"Never sent—why that's ridiculous!" cried Ingalls. "I
took the first one myself."
"Did you write it down?" asked Kerrigan, quickly.


Counterfeit
121
"I made a memo of—of the facts." The general man-
ager spoke sharply. "It was a night letter. I didn't get
the exact words, of course. I'm no stenographer."
"May I have the facts then?" Kerrigan's voice seemed
to have turned a trifle sour.
"It was just business. You wouldn't understand."
"But you did?" Kerrigan spoke urgently. "Then let me
try. I'm not as dumb as I look. Give me the gist of the
matter."
"It referred to an order for a special fine grade of paper
we're using in a series of catalogues for Merced Motors,"
Ingalls responded readily enough. "He was afraid we'd
run shy and told us to order another ream from the India
Paper Company."
"Specified the name of the paper concern and the name of
the catalogue?" asked Kerrigan.
"Yes."
"Wouldn't one name have been enough for you to under-
stand what was wanted?"
The two young officers of the Olmstead Company ex-
changed glances. Harden spoke. "Yes, perhaps. But in
a night letter one doesn't have to economize words, and the
chief would have wished to be explicit. It's an important
job and the paper is expensive."
"Supposing you two gentlemen had been away, who else
in the place would have known the details of this particular
piece of work?" Kerrigan seemed to be studying the pat-
tern of the heavy, inlaid linoleum on the floor. "Where
the paper came from. The possibility of shortage . . ."
"A dozen people would know more or less about the
catalogues," Ingalls replied promptly. "I'm not sure if
anyone but you, Barry, knew the paper stock was getting
low. The telegram was to remind you, but John had told
you already."
"Yes," said Harden. "He spoke of it that day. I would
have remembered, too. Only I expected to go off for the


122
C o unt er f eit
week-end. He might have thought it would slip my mind."
"Ah. I see. Naturally. Naturally. But you didn'^
go off, as it happened?" Kerrigan's tone was quite casual.
"No."
"Do you mind telling me why?"
"It has nothing to do with the matter under discussion."
For some reason Barry Harden flushed darkly.
"I can tell you why, Inspector," laughed Ingalls. "Our
girl turned us down."
The angry blood surged higher in the bronzed face of
the younger man. He started to say something but bit his
lip and remained silent. Kerrigan waited a brief second;
then he said: "Very well, gentlemen. Now let's get back
to the other telegram. There's a record of that?"
"Of course there must be," said Harden impatiently.
"Where did Miss Ashton put it, George? It would be filed
with the Rockland stuff in your room, wouldn't it?"
"It might have been sent right up to old Etherington,"
suggested Ingalls. "Then goodness knows where it would
be."
"The thing is pretty important," said Kerrigan insist-
ently. "Suppose you look in the file first, Mr. Harden."
"Very well." Harden started to the door.
"I'll do it in half the time," said Ingalls getting to his
feet.
"Don't bother," retorted the secretary and went quickly
through into the next room.
"It's about a job Mr. Etherington's working on?" asked
Kerrigan, covertly watching the general manager's face.
"Yes, it is," Ingalls replied promptly. "Quite a special
job, in fact. The message was really for Etherington,
though it was addressed to me. It's a set of plates he's
working on. Oh, here we are," he broke off as Harden
came back with a sheet of copy paper in his hand.
"May I see it?" asked Kerrigan, reaching for the paper.


124
C o unt e r f eit
Also he'd rather telegraph than write any day. And who
else knows about the things he speaks of? Really, Inspec-
tor, I hate to say it, but I'm sure somebody's been pulling
your leg, and that whatever reason you may have to think
otherwise, the two messages were actually sent by Mr. Olm-
stead, one from the train and the other from St. Louis."
"And I'm equally positive," said Kerrigan weightily,
"that they were never sent through any telegraph office.
If you gentlemen wish to differ from me, that's your privi-
lege. We won't argue about it now. But I'll just ask you
to explain to me a few points in this last message. Who is
this Uncle Nat he mentions?"
"Mr. Nathaniel Etherington."
"Not really a relative, though, I imagine, from what you
said, Mr. Harden?"
"No. Just a very old friend. He's always called him
that, however."
"Mr. Etherington is very well liked evidently." Kerrigan
paused slightly and Ingalls responded with a laugh.
"Well liked or well hated. The old man's a character,
but a wonderfully skilled master-craftsman. The best we
have."
"Except Rosen." Harden contradicted. Kerrigan felt
that the secretary, for some reason, would not be averse to
starting an argument with the general manager. Was there
bad blood between the two? Or was Harden just possibly
staging a diversion? He had gone on argumentatively,
"You must admit, George, that in some respects Rosen
has it all over Mr. Etherington."
"He couldn't touch Etherington on these Rockland por-
traits and you know it," retorted Ingalls. "He hasn't the
delicacy of touch or the artistry to"
Kerrigan felt it was time to intervene. "Pardon me, Mr.
Ingalls, but what is this Rockland matter you speak of?
The name mentioned in the telegram is 'Rock'. Does that
mean Rockland?"


C o unt er f eit
125
Harden hesitated. "Well, in confidence, it does," he said
slowly.
"Not John P.?" exclaimed Kerrigan.
"Yes, it is. John P., Junior," Harden admitted. "We're
doing some special work for him."
"Personally? Or for the Bank?"
"Personally, but it's rather important that it shouldn't
leak out," Ingalls put in. "So you won't mention it, In-
spector"
"Captain," corrected Kerrigan, "if you don't mind. Or
just plain Mister. A title's no more use to a detective
ordinarily than a uniform would be, if you get what I mean.
Now as to the job for J. P. Junior, it's not likely I'll have
to mention it, but why shouldn't I? Eh?"
"Only because it's to be a surprise—for his wife or his
father or somebody," explained Harden. "An edition de
luxe, privately printed. 'History of Early American States-
men' he calls it. Wrote it himself, I believe. He's quite a
scholar. We're making the illustrations. All steel engrav-
ings."
"Portraits?" asked Kerrigan, looking thoughtfully down
at the piece of flimsy blue paper he had all the while been
holding.
"Yes. Portraits mostly. A few copies of old prints.
Historic buildings, landscapes—that sort of thing. Why?"
asked Ingalls curiously.
"Nothing. No reason," Kerrigan replied in an offhand
manner. "Just like to find out everything about everything.
Matter of habit... I want to check each point in this fake
telegram. Hum-m-m, let's see. This missing plate, men-
tioned in the wire, now. What would that be? The one
that's got to be made over without further delay. Who
knows there's a plate missing? Eh? Who besides you
two, Mr. Olmstead and Etherington? Answer me that."
The tone was so sharp that both men looked up startled.
Ingalls spoke quickly. "No one. No one but ourselves."


126 C o unt er f eit
"How can you be sure of that in a concern the size of
yours?" remonstrated Kerrigan.
"Because we've taken every precaution," Ingalls retorted.
"After Etherington made the sample plate on which the
contract depended, all the rest have been engraved by him
at home in his own private work-room. We're not doing
the printing here. Not equipped to handle the whole book
and the Rivermount Press in Boston is printing it. The
plates have been sent to them as they were finished. We've
been very careful. Rockland's name is so important that
any leak would mean a news item. So I still insist that since
Barry, Etherington and myself were all in this shop when
that wire came in "He pointed to the paper in Kerri-
gan's hand,—"it must have been the chief who sent it and
it can't possibly be a fake."
The police detective leaned forward on the desk, fixed
the two young officers of the Olmstead Company with a
hard eye, raised a warning finger and spoke with stern au-
thority. "It doesn't matter what you think, gentlemen, or
how easily you can explain away the various items that
have been brought to your notice. The police are convinced
that something terribly serious has been going on here, and
they propose to find out what it's all about. The first thing
we come up against is the two bogus telegrams, and believe
it or not, it's bogus they are and no mistake. Therefore,"
he waggled his finger portentously, "the identity of the
sender is what we're interested in first and foremost. On
your own showing, while a number of people could have
sent in the first one, those who knew enough of the facts to
be able to put in the second message were limited to your
chief, you two and the man who is making the plates for
Rockland."
Ingalls nodded and started to speak, but Kerrigan stopped
him. "Just one minute," he said sharply. "You seem to


Counterfeit
127
forget about this missing plate here which is the one thing
in that wire that makes me sit up and take notice. Missing,
says he. How missing? Ask I. Lost, strayed or stolen?
Lost,” he repeated slowly, "strayed or stolen. Which?"
"Stolen," answered Harden just above his breath.
“Then there was one more person that almost certainly
knew every fact in that faked wire, gentlemen," said Ker-
rigan striving to conceal his sense of triumph. “One other
person—and that was the thief.”


CHAPTER XIV
ND WHAT did they say to that?" Peter Clancy
leaned back luxuriously against a large folded
towel, while Wiggar, whose disapproval was
spread like a thin transparent glaze over his wooden count-
enance, carefully dried his master's gleaming red locks.
Kerrigan had been repeating, word for word, the story of
that afternoon's interview. Now he paused, and his answer
to Peter's question was a trifle crestfallen.
"I thought I had them there," he said, "and maybe I had
at that. The thief, I said, the one that stole the missing
plate, would be bound to know about the Rockland job.
You'd think that, wouldn't you, Pete?”
"Sounds reasonable to me,” Peter encouraged.
"Well, then, maybe it is, and again, maybe it isn't. You
see the plate that was stolen was the very first one that old
Etherington made a sample—that just had a job number
and nothing else. Nothing at all to connect it with Rock-
land—or 'Rock' as the telegram called it. So, apparently
the thief might not have known anything about who it was
for."
"Hum-m-m," said Peter. “They're sure the plate was
actually stolen, I suppose ?”
“Yes. They say it disappeared from Etherington's room
-the one in the Olmstead shop I mean. The old man in-
sists that he left it, covered with a waterproof cloth, on his
work-bench, at night, and it was gone in the morning."
"If this was the plate used to secure the job how did
Etherington happen to have it?” Peter showed how deeply
Kerrigan's narrative had interested him.
"That's what I asked," the police detective concurred,
eagerly. “I thought it would have to be a finished plate
128


C o unt er f eit
129
for Rockland to be satisfied enough so he'd sign a contract.
But they say J. P. Junior was going to Europe and wanted
to see a proof even without some scroll decorations or some-
thing—I forget what Ingalls called them. These Ethering-
ton was to put on later and that's why he had the plate."
"Did they seem to suspect who might have had reason
to want to steal the thing?" asked Peter.
"Harden said he hadn't any idea about it, and so did
Ingalls, but," Kerrigan went on, slowly, "I had a sneaking
suspish that Ingalls was a bit smarter than he was letting on,
and that he'd maybe made a few guesses on his own."
"Did you press the point?"
"I didn't then, at the time," said Kerrigan, with some heat.
"It's a murder I'm interested in, my lad, and a thief in an
engraving plant, if the thief needn't have had anything to
do with the sending of that last wire, doesn't concern me
so much at this worrysome minute. What's on my mind
is poor old Terry—that brought me word of the whole
bleeding business days ago—and that's trusting us to use
the evidence he furnished us—not knowing how bad it
was himself, heaven save him. Yet he had a hunch that
was better than my reason and experience. Darn it all,
Pete. When I think of the time I've wasted! Say, lad,
what did you find out yourself?"
"Well, not much," said Peter slowly. "I went through
the papers from Etherington's room and from the offices.
Not a clue in a carload," disgustedly. "Harden is having
a bad time with his girl. Shirley Van Zandt her name is.
I'm sure it's the girl he was with at Cherie's when we saw
them. Some high flyer! You'd hardly think a young of-
ficer in an engraving plant would hope to keep pace with her
set. He's been writing letters and tearing them up and
writing still more. Pretty ardent. I saved some for Wig-
gar to use as a model in case he ever decides to go in for
that sort of thing. I have to do something to cheer him up.
He's not for this new profession I've adopted."


130
C o unt er f eit
"You're going on with it, Pete?" Kerrigan's face was
eager.
"I sure am. Didn't I sign on to-day? And don't I get
fifteen bucks a week, carefully counted? That's something
in these hard times. Take it from me."
"Gee," breathed Kerrigan, "it sure does give you the in-
side edge. With Terry's o. k. you'll never be questioned.
You'll have a perfectly free hand."
"Except when I get back to my own house." Peter
looked over his shoulder at Wiggar with a mocking frown.
"Will you tell me, Jake, why I have to get so clean at night
when I'll have to take all kinds of trouble to get myself
convincingly dirty in the morning? Wiggar's thinking
about the purity of my sacred bed linen, but I told him I'd
just roll up in a mat on the floor."
The valet turned a pained glance upon his master's old
friend. "He's not serious, is he, Captain Kerrigan?"
"About sleeping on the floor?" Kerrigan grinned.
"No. No. Naturally not," Wiggar answered in a
shocked tone. "I meant, sir, is it going to be necessary for
Mr. Peter to carry on in this most unpleasant and inappro-
priate guise?"
"Disguise, you mean," said Kerrigan, appreciatively.
"Well, yes, Wiggar, if he will. There's no way he could
be of so much service. Terry'11 make the work as light as
he can without drawing too much attention."
"Do you mean that Mr. Peter will actually have to sweep
and dust and collect litter?" Wiggar's pain obviously
deepened, though his face was quite expressionless.
"Of course," said Peter, laughing. "It isn't an untoward
circumstance, my dear Wiggar. It's an opportunity, like
most of the disagreeable things that happen to us in this
life."
"Very good, sir," Wiggar acquiesced woodenly. "Then
I fancy you'll not object, Mr. Peter, if I embrace an op-
portunity of my own."


C o unt er f eit 131
"What's on your mind now?" Peter glanced up side-
wise.
"I'll order my costume the first thing in the morning,
sir."
"What!!"
"Fortunately those cover-all affairs needn't be custom
made."
"No?" said Peter, faintly.
"I can get what I require and join you as soon as the
place closes. You need do very little actual work during the
day, I should think, Mr. Peter. It's quite easy to look busy
without making any great effort. I've had footmen under
me, sir; yes and even assistant valets, who could do it to per-
fection. You need only make a few motions. The actual
clearing up would much better be done after hours."
"By you?" There was a quizzical gleam in Peter's eyes.
"Quite so, sir."
"You couldn't look the part," exclaimed Kerrigan, laugh-
ing. "Wiggar if you were to show up at the Olmstead
Company in overalls with a crease down the front, and
your hair parted"
"Pardon me, sir," Wiggar interrupted with dignity. "I
hope I have sufficient intelligence and powers of observa-
tion to give satisfaction in any sort of service required. I
will report for duty with the neces'ry amount of" (he re-
pressed a shudder) "of grime upon the person. You shall
have no cause to complain of me, I assure you."
"But Wiggar," remonstrated Peter, "I'm husky. A bit
of real work would be good for me."
"It's not a suitable employment for you, Mr. Peter."
There was finality in the valet's tone, but his master was
not so easily silenced.
"It's not a bit more unsuitable for me than it is for you.
I leave it to Captain Kerrigan. Doesn't Wiggar always
look far more priceless than I do, Jake?"
"The question is not a matter of personal appearance, if


Counterfeit 133
two-six with Wiggar's. And here's something else," his
eyes danced as he leaned forward. “I'll lay you two to one,
Jake, that he pulls the thing off all right. He'll dress the
part and do the work, no matter if it kills him. He'll man-
age some sort of a makeup that will get by. We'll have to
explain him to Terry, and if anyone else happens along,
Wiggar will just be a friend of me an' Terry's that's after
bein' outa work and helpin' for the sake of gettin' in outa the
cold.”
Kerrigan laughed at Peter's change of accent but he
looked worried. “There mustn't be any slip-up," he
warned, “just because you've got to stage your comedy.
It's a wonder your lightheadedness hasn't gotten you into
more trouble, Pete."
"Lighthearted is what I am, Jake, but never lightheaded !”
"I don't knowi about that,” growled Kerrigan. "Your
old mop looks like a torchlight procession to me right now."
. “And the last compliment I had," sighed Peter, "was
from a distinguished member of the good old Secret
Service.”
“Humph,” said Kerrigan. “What did he say?"
"That I looked like a Rhode Island Red. It's a kind of
poultry, you know.”
"Sure,” Kerrigan nodded. “I had a cook once that called
'em Red-eyed Rolands."
"Good,” grinned Peter. “Sounds much more distin-
guished. Wouldn't mind if the whole S. S. called me that.
Something feudal about it ... Red-eyed Roland to the
dark tower came ... A Red-eyed Roland for your Oliver,
Jake.”
"I never did know what that meant,” grunted Kerrigan.
“But your mentioning the Secret Service is something to the
point. Stop being foolish, Pete, and let's get on with our
plan of attack. I've given you all the dope I was able to
grab off this afternoon. '
“No. Wait a minute, Jake. There was one thing you


C ount erf eit
135
Company any more than is necessary," Kerrigan replied,
attacking with gusto the delightful food that Wiggar had
placed upon his plate, "at least not till you've had plenty of
time to do your stuff. I've started the old ball rolling from
the outside. We're having somebody in St. Louis check
up on whether Olmstead showed up there at all. He might
have, you know, Pete, even if he didn't send those tele-
grams!" Peter nodded and the police detective went on:
"They'll see if he went to the Windsor, Wagner and
Wooster Company and also if he registered in any hotel
there."
"That's good," said Peter, helping himself to thin but-
tered toast. "Until we can find out when and where he
dropped off the map"
"With the evidence we've got," Kerrigan suggested
grimly, "that it was right here in little old New York, and
probably in his own place of business . . ."
"We have clues," Peter interrupted in his turn, "that
point to his effects having been put in Terry's furnace."
"And we have a piece of the bone of a man's leg," said
Kerrigan. "Don't lose sight of that."
"I almost wish I could," retorted Peter. "I'd expect to
sleep better to-night. However, Jake, we have no proof,
other than that they were human remains. There's no
direct evidence that the bone belonged to any specific per-
son.
"Nothing—except finding it with other effects of a cer-
tain person,—and him missing," said Kerrigan, heavily.
"All stations have been warned to look out for—remains—
parts, maybe—. Nothing reported so far."
"And no wonder," said Peter. "The time's short—and
I'm often surprised, Jake, that we find so many of them as
we do. Seems to me, if I were a murderer, I could think
of a hundred better ways of disposing of a body than most
of them appear to be able to dope out. However, let's keep
in mind, old scout, that it actually (or I might say factually)


136
C o tint e r f e i t
isn't a body we're concerned with necessarily. This is a
disappearance. It may be a murder; but while there isn't
any corpus delicti (unless you can consider a small, uniden-
tified fragment to fill the bill) we're bound to consider that
Olmstead may still be alive."
"Yes," grunted Kerrigan. "Oh, you may be sure I've
salved my conscience with that idea, Pete. I've already put
out the old drag-net. Got Olmstead's picture. Terry
wanted me to use a photo the boss had given him, taken
years ago and not a bit of use. I'd already got several from
the office, out of a booklet that had been published, playing
up the high-muka-mucks in the engraving business. I'll
show you one. Will you look in the pocket of my overcoat,
Wiggar, and hand me a book you'll find there? That's
right. Thanks. Here you are. That's the guy we're look-
ing for, Pete." Kerrigan opened the elegant thin paper
covered volume and handed it to Peter across the table.
"Must be about the best of his kind," the police detective
added. "You see he's the first one in the book and there's
a long article about him."
"Unless the whole thing is an ad. Doesn't appear like
one, though," Peter remarked absently as he looked down
at the counterfeit presentment of John Oliver Olmstead,
that looked steadily up at him. A strong, determined face,
he thought. Something ruthless, perhaps, about the mouth.
Great pride in the high brow and in the carriage of the
head on the broad, thin shoulders. An effect of virility and
wilfulness, and yet a look in the eyes that was, somehow,
oddly contradictory. The eyes of a visionary in the face of
a rather gay, sophisticated man about town. Dr. Jekyll
and Mr. Hyde? Perhaps. But Peter could understand, to
some extent, the devotion that a man of this sort might
awaken in the breast of Terence Sheehan. Olmstead must
have looked a prince to his faithful old retainer.
"Have you read this account of him?" asked Peter, turn-
ing the stiff deckle-edged pages.


C o unt er f eit
137
"Mostly," said Kerrigan, finishing the last drop of mush-
room sauce with a bit of bread, in spite of Wiggar's aloof
glance. "He's the real thing when it comes to photo-
gravure work, apparently. At least his concern stands at
the top notch and he's built it up. Highest standards and
makes plenty of money I should judge. I haven't been able
to find out anything else about the man, really. He be-
longs to some expensive clubs. Has no family. No scan-
dals about ladies that I've been able to dig up. Makes a
pet of his business, and sticks to it."
"Yes, and he makes pets of all his employees as far as
I've found out in my day of snooping," said Peter. "Not
a hard word against the chief from one of them. I couldn't
get in very deep in the short time, of course, but maybe
we'll have better luck to-morrow."
"In the meantime," said Kerrigan, pushing back his chair,
"what'syour hunch?"
"Well," said Peter slowly, "I believe we—or rather you
—ought to get in touch with Ray Trant. You can get his
present whereabouts from the Secret Service Bureau."
"Sure," Kerrigan nodded.
"We've turned up a few items today that he doesn't know
and I think we shouldn't waste any more time in putting
him wise. So far as he is aware, the only thing there is
to connect the Olmstead Company with any fake currency
is the fact that this fellow Olmstead,—" Peter looked again
at the face that looked up at him from the open pages of
the book Kerrigan had appropriated. "This fellow Olm-
stead," he repeated, "passed a spurious one hundred dollar
bill. That's all they know. I wonder—" he glanced up at
Kerrigan's attentive face— "I wonder what they'd think
if they knew about the portraits Etherington is engraving.
If it were put up to the Bureau I'm sure they'd raise Cain
over anybody making a fascimile of that portrait of Wash-
ington on the dollar bill, no matter how much scrollwork
and decoration they were to put on the rest of the page.


138 Counterfeit
However, it's easy to see that in a privately printed book
there's every reason to think that the question wouldn't be
at all likely to come up. If it was a fad of J. P. Junior's
he could easily afford to indulge it, whatever the cost might
be, and it probably wouldn't occur to anyone who hadn't had
experience, that exception would be taken to an—illustra-
tion would you call it?—that couldn't by any chance be used
to deceive anybody. There it would be, of course, printed on
a large piece of handsome paper, with borders and what not
and type perhaps, and bound into a book. You certainly
couldn't cut it out and use it for money. That's the way
any ordinary person would argue, if they thought about
it,—which they might easily not have done at all . . . Here,
they might say, is a beautiful engraving, all worked out as
such. Just what we want, size and everything. Why not
copy it and use it just as it is? . . . Sounds good. And
perfectly reasonable . . . But what I'd like to know right
now, Jake, is, who suggested it? Who was it that had
that little bright idea?"
"You're getting at something, Pete," said Kerrigan
keenly. "What's in your mind?"
"I've been thinking," said Peter slowly, "what a lot of
pains they've taken to keep this job of Rockland's quiet."
"Yes?" Kerrigan's face was expectant.
"And I've been thinking a lot about that pretty piece of
work I discovered in Etherington's private workshop. What
a pity if a wonderful little engraving like that—should dis-
appear. Disappear, Jake; nobody knows how or why . . .
Rockland wants the work complete by the first of December,
or so the fake telegram said . . . 'History of American
Statesmen' . . . Hum-m-m. That would include Wash-
ington, of course Thomas Jefferson, probably. Abraham
Lincoln—and Franklin, too, Jake?"
"Franklin?" Kerrigan started forward. "Why, Pete!"
"Yes?" The younger man had arisen. His eyes probed
the face before him, sharp, insistent.


Counterfeit
139
"Pete," said Kerrigan softly, "it was a picture of Frank-
lin on the plate that—that disappeared."
"I—wondered," said Peter. "I almost expected—" He
caught Wiggar's eye and flashed him a wordless order. The
valet went swiftly to the chiffonier and returning on noise-
less feet presented an open bill-fold to his master. "Didn't
you ever see a hundred dollar bill, Jake?" asked Peter.
With a brusque gesture Kerrigan snatched the note that
Peter had taken from his leather case. "I haven't noticed
one—for years," he muttered. "My lord, Pete, did you
guess? The plate that was stolen . . . disappeared . . .
Franklin!" He brushed his hand across his heated fore-
head and gazed at the clever, wise face in the middle of the
bit of currency. "Franklin," he repeated slowly, then, with
a complete change of tone he cried, "Wiggar! Where the
devil did you put my hat?"
"Here, sir." Wiggar, calm, unperturbed.
"Where are you going, Jake, in such a hurry?"
Kerrigan turned on the threshold to glare at his friend.
"I'm getting in touch with Ray Trant to-night," he almost
shouted and went out, banging the door behind him.


CHAPTER XV
#JUT KERRIGAN did not find it so easy to make
m ^ good his threat—or promise—to get into communi-
JL—J cation with Raymond Trant. When Peter came
out from the Olmstead building about noon the next day,
he saw the police detective idling along and looking in the
windows on the north side of the street. Though neither
man made a sign to the other it was as good as an appoint-
ment. Peter went quickly along to Sixth Avenue, turned
down a block or so and entered one of those long narrow
eating places, where the one row of little tables crowds the
row of slippery, twirling stools that face the counter, and
where the signs upon the wall "Watch your hat and coat"
seem unnecessarily insistent when few of the guests sported
overcoats and nearly all kept their hats safely perched upon
their heads. It was a scene to fill Wiggar with horror, but
since it was quite clean, Peter had no qualms. The place
was a little higher priced than others of its peers and so
was not at all crowded.
Peter, side-stepping where necessary, made his way to the
far end and sat down at a little table. Almost immediately,
Kerrigan strolled in, glanced about and with well-simulated
surprise nodded to Peter. Not many minutes thereafter,
their simple meal before them, Kerrigan unfolded his tale.
"God only knows where Ray is and what he's up to," he
growled. "At least, if the boys down at the Bureau are
wise to what he's doing they aren't broadcasting it. The
best I could get out of them was that they'd forward any
message that" (with mocking inflection) "Captain of De-
tectives Kerrigan wished to have transmitted."
"How sweet of them." Peter's girlish tone was in pleas-
ing contrast with his makeup, but Kerrigan did not even
smile.
140


Counterfeit
141
"Ray'd give a good deal to know what we do right this
blessed minute, or I miss my guess," he said, irritably. "I've
spent a lot of time writing it all out. Wish you'd cast your
eye over this, Pete, and see if you want to add anything."
Peter complied, going carefully over each sentence. At
the end he took a pencil from his pocket, added a brief post-
script, and underscoring certain words, passed the letter
back to Kerrigan, who nodded when he read what had been
written. Then with a moist tongue and a heavy hand he
sealed down the envelope that was addressed simply to Mr.
Raymond Trant. "No telling if some guy down at the
Bureau doesn't open and read this before he passes it on,"
growled the police detective, slipping his letter into another
envelope that was directed to the United States Secret
Service, Custom House, New York.
"You didn't tell them the long sad tale then?" Peter asked
quickly.
"I did not," said Kerrigan with emphasis.
"And why did you not?" asked Peter, grinning.
"Because of the way they high-hatted me, and because if
anybody down there is going to get some credit out of this
it's going to be Ray for my money." Kerrigan buttoned
the envelope inside his coat. "He's a fine lad and a friend
of ours, and besides he's hoping to be married this winter.
Did he tell you, Pete?"
"Did he tell me anything else but," laughed Peter. "I'm
with you, Jake; but if the Bureau wants to open that they
can. Do they know it's anything official?"
"No," snapped Kerrigan. "I told Jones I wanted to get
in touch with Ray so I could ask him to pour tea for me at
my next at home."
"You didn't," gurgled Peter.
Kerrigan's face relaxed. "No," he admitted, "but it
was words to more or less the same effect. I think I said
golf. Something social, anyway. Jones makes me tired.
Really, Captain Kerrigan, the rules of the Department"


142
C o unt er f eit
"Just the same," said Peter in a low voice as he pushed
away his plate and glanced up at the clock, "Jones is a good
deal of a gentleman and if he thinks that is a private letter,
chances are all against his opening it."
"I think that myself," said Kerrigan. "Well, we've got
to take the chance. Anything new in your line this morn-
ing, Pete?"
"Not a thing," said Peter, "except you ought to see, Jake,
the way I fixed up the offices this morning. Of course
Terry insisted on doing most of the strong arm stuff. But
he let me do the fine work and my dusting technique is a
huckleberry above the ordinary persimmon, if it's myself
that says it. I don't believe Wiggar himself could have
done it better . . . And it gave me a fine chance to take a
good look around. Not that I found anything to our pur-
pose. This is a deep game. Nothing on the surface. We'll
have to be patient."
"Was the old man there this morning?"
"You mean Etherington? Yes. He was working in his
little room on the second floor with his door shut."
"Hum?" grunted Kerrigan with a rising inflection.
"Well, I don't know," Peter answered the implied ques-
tion. "There was a bad draft through the place this morn-
ing. Everybody that had a door shut it. I don't believe it
was anything unusual, and you know he works on that spe-
cial job in his own shop."
"Yes," Kerrigan nodded. "Have you figured out,
Pete"
"Good lord," exclaimed Peter jumping to his feet, "I'm
only allowed a half hour for lunch. Don't let me forget
I'm a working man, Jake."
"You won't if you look in the glass," said Kerrigan,
rising also. "Better let me pay for your lunch. You don't
look as if you had a dime."
"D'you think they could change that bill we were looking
at last night?" Peter whispered over his shoulder.


C ounterfeit
143
"Shut up," growled Kerrigan. "These two checks, Miss,
please. I want to pay for this poor lad. You wouldn't
think he'd seen better days. Well he has. And worse.
Not but that its his own fault. But we must be charitable
to all. If he'd keep away from bad liquor"
The police detective picked up his change from the
springy rubber points of the mat on which the sympathetic
pretty young cashier had laid it and followed Peter out
into the street.
"Thanks for the elegant repast," said Peter, "and come up
to Sixty-fifth Street to-night if you can. By the time Wig-
gar gets me washed up to suit him it'll be too late for me
to go out anywhere. I'll have to beat it now. Can't afford
to take a chance on being fired for showing up late. Good
luck, old scout."
With a cheerful wave of the hand, Peter turned quickly
northward. At the corner of Twenty-ninth Street he
changed his course to the east. He thought he would like
to glance in again at the queer old stone-paved yard of the
antique shop over which Etherington lived. It was less
than a block out of the way, and besides he wished to ap-
proach the place where he was employed from the opposite
direction. Peter rarely underestimated the calibre of an
opponent and it occurred to him that if he had aroused sus-
picion anywhere, someone might have been stationed to
watch for his return, since he was sure he had not been
followed by anyone but Kerrigan . . . was not being fol-
lowed now.
He stopped beside the big iron gates to tie his shoe and
glanced behind him to make sure. No one was loitering on
either side the whole length of the block. Peter straight-
ened up and was aware that the door of the antique shop
had opened and that a young lady was coming out. Miss
Marie Lamont. He had made sure of her name. Ether-
ington's niece. She had started work that morning in the
offices of the John Oliver Olmstead Company. Behind her


144
C ounterfeit
appeared the older woman he had seen in the antique shop
the day before. Would they remember the gas-man who,
as far as they could testify, had never come up out of the
cellar? Mustn't take the risk, Peter thought and turned
hastily away, but not before he had seen old Etherington
emerge from the dark door and follow the two ladies.
There was a sort of holiday look about the three that made
Peter surmise that they were going somewhere to a festive
lunch. Probably Ingalls would not pin his new stenographer
down too closely in the matter of hours, and as for Ether-
ington? Peter wondered about the old engraver, wondered
more and more.
But at any rate, he told himself, it was of interest to note
that sometimes the old curiosity shop and the rooms above
were left practically untenanted. There was a negro jan-
itor, a negligible person in Terry's opinion. It was a, temp-
tation to investigate more fully the upper regions, now, at
this propitious moment; but Peter resisted it. A misstep
at this time would be fatal to his assumed role. And Peter
was more and more sternly and deeply curious. Something
was going on. Something mysterious, and he found him-
self burdened with a sense of dread that he could not ex-
plain. What was it all about? Were there dark plots in-
cubating in those two oddly assorted establishments belong-
ing to the old Wellmouth estate? And were some of the evil
brood already hatched? Who was implicated? It was an
ideal layout for dirty-work,—almost like a cross road, with
entrances on two streets and from apparently unrelated build-
ings. Who knew about the connection between them?
Etherington, his niece, Terry, Ingalls, probably most of the
officers and employees of the Olmstead building, which Peter
was rapidly nearing. Well, time would tell—perhaps—
whether it was a nest of racketeers—counterfeiters—a large
gang—or small ... or only a mare's nest. It just pos-
sibly, in spite of what they had discovered, might be merely
the last, he warned himself as he made sure that no one was


C ounterfeit 145
in the least interested in the new janitor who now made his
way down into the cellar of the Olmstead building.
Terry had carefully instructed Pat Callahan in his duties,
which were light during office hours. A little trash to col-
lect, a few of the heavier packages to open, an occasional
errand if both office boys were out. There was plenty of
time, and a reasonable excuse for the new janitor's presence
here and there about the shop. He made the most of his
opportunities and became almost immediately a welcome and
accepted figure around the place. Nearly all the employees
were highly skilled workers and had little time for conver-
sation, but Pat's brogue and his cheerful curiosity won him
at least toleration wherever he went.
Even the dyspeptic elevator boy carried him up to the top
floor without undue remonstrance. "Much better for you to
walk up the stairs," he suggested, graciously accepting a
piece of gum with which Peter had supplied himself.
"Grand exercise. I envy you guys that don't have to ride."
It was a new thought to Peter and he promised to con-
sider it. There were many new things to interest him and
he found nearly all the photographers, engravers, printers
and what not were willing to answer the questions that he
was careful not to make too intelligent.
He was really fascinated in watching a man at one of the
presses on the top floor, pulling proofs, as the man informed
him. "Union don't allow a shop like this to go in for real
printing." The man reached up and pulled down one of the
long rods that looked like elongated spokes in a ship's steer-
ing wheel but that Peter understood were to provide the
necessary leverage to squeeze the dampened paper down
on the plate. He watched with flattering interest as the
printer deftly, between the corners of a stiff folded slip of
paper, picked up the print and showed him its clear per-
fection.
"Are you after having to do that every time?" Peter
asked, watching the ink being spread on the plate and care-


146
C o unt er f eit
fully wiped off again. "I thought all that inking and stuff
was done by a great big piece of machinery like what I used
to watch when I was a kid and the old New York Herald
was printed in that little three-cornered building opposite
Macy's store."
The printer laughed. "That's something different again,
Mauruss," he said. "These here plates what we make is
intaglio."
"In-tag- Gee, those is college words," said Peter.
"What's it mean in English?"
"Why look here. You can see for yourself." The man
obligingly exhibited the plate on which the image, in reverse,
was now quite clear, the lines being filled with ink and the
rest of the plate showing smooth, bright, burnished copper.
"Intaglio means the lines are cut into the surface instead
of standing up like type does. You've seen type, Pat?"
"Yeah," Peter responded. "I guess I have."
"Well, you can do zinc plates or type or anything like
that on big machines, but you can't do an engraved plate
any way but by hand. Of course there's machines that does
the inking. They use 'em where they make long runs. Five
hundred copies is our limit. Union rules, you understand.
We can call 'em 'proofs' up to that number, and with the
fine work we do here, five hundred is often enough. And
believe me, Boy, the fine work's all got to be done by hand,
same as I'm showing you . . ."
Peter tore himself away soon after that. Engraved plates
were done by hand, he told himself. Required compara-
tively little machinery. A press that could be operated by
one man—who could turn off prints with great celerity if
the occasion warranted. Bank notes were made from en-
graved plates. Steel plates he'd always supposed. Or were
they sometimes made from copper? So far he'd seen noth-
ing but copper here. He must keep his eyes open. There
evidently was much to learn.
Having finished what he had to do on that floor, Peter


148
C o unt er f eit
Rivals? And possibly jealous. It would not make the old
German a less willing witness, perhaps. Certainly one to be
cultivated Peter decided, and was about to put the sudden
thought into action when his eye was arrested by the small
corner of a plate that showed from beneath the waterproof
cover that the careful old engraver always kept over his
work.
Ostensibly brushing bits of extraneous matter from an
outlying part of the broad shelf, the conscientious janitor
displaced the rubber sheet sufficiently to observe the object
that had caught his attention. It was not the beautiful fine
lines and curves of the graceful woman's figure that ap-
peared thereon, worthy of admiration though it was, that
gave Peter pause. It was merely the fact that the plate was
gray, of a surface exquisitely fine and smooth and appar-
ently very hard. Steel. No matter how hard the paper on
which the print was to appear, the image would be perfect
in every detail.
"Oh, it's you. I thought I beard Etherington come in."
Peter started at the sound of the voice behind him, for
he had been about to lean down to look more closely at the
plate. Without turning he knew, by the slight accent, that
it was the other old engraver who spoke and he welcomed
the opportunity at least to pave the way for future pump-
ing operations.
"No, sir, he's after being out just now," said Peter with
his best smile. "I'm making things a bit tidy against he
comes back."
"Well, you can take your time," said Rosen rather grump-
ily. "He won't be back until the spirit moves him."
"I got this place pretty good, now," said Peter. "Could
I come and do the same by you, sir?"
"Guess you're new at the job or you wouldn't be looking
for work you might get out of." Rosen's round red face,
except for the humorously waxed moustache, might have
been that of a fat baby. "My room's right enough as it is."


G ount erf eit 149
But since he did not actually forbid it, Peter followed
the clever old craftsman into his own sanctum.
"My, my, but I wish you'd let me do me cleaning up
whilst you're here, Mr. Rosen, sir." Peter's brogue was
like thick cream. "There's so many outlandish contraptions
about I was afraid last night I might make a bull o' some
sort and I didn't do what I calls a good job, at all at all."
"I don't want you bothering around my chemicals," said
Rosen quickly. "Keep away from that bath"
"Bath, is it?" laughed Peter. "And it's what I'd not be
calling it myself, sure. Who uses it, sir?"
Rosen smiled with a lift of his three-cornered eyebrows.
"Don't be dumb," he said, with a quick little characteristic
sniff that wrinkled his heavy Roman nose. "Nobody—no
person uses it. It's acid. For etching plates. My own
formula. And the John Oliver Olmstead Company can
thank me for a great deal of its prestige, though there are
others that are more in favor with the firm." He shook
his head so violently that the. fringe of white hair around its
shining dome fairly bristled.
"My! Its wonderful to be able to do what you gents
can," sighed Peter with obvious admiration. "Isn't Mr.
Etherington pretty good, too?"
"Yes, if you ask him," said Rosen, pursing his lips.
"He's not bad. It says itself. But why should he have
all the finest work that comes into the shop? I ask you."
"I don't know." Peter's blue eyes were as innocent as
a level lake. "Why does he?"
"Because he's a pet and a self-seeker," the old man replied,
bitterly. "Maybe because he's American born, and what
they think is a gentleman. As if I didn't have more real
culture in my little finger! But my hands are not white like
he keeps his. See? He won't work in ink and other chem-
icals, but he's not above using mine when he feels like it.
Yes, my plates, and anything else he condescends to want.
And they let him do as he pleases; this Mr. Olmstead and


150 Counterfeit
his father before him. Now he's playing up to the young
men that are running things more or less to suit themselves
already."
"You mean Mr. Harden and Mr. Ingalls?" Peter asked,
with assumed carelessness. There was something in the
stress laid on the last word that caused him to prick up his
ears.
"Sure I do." Rosen was packing tobacco in a queer old
porcelain pipe. He seemed, much to Peter's satisfaction,
not overwhelmingly anxious to get to work.
"I guess they gotta run things with Mr. Olmstead away,"
ventured Peter. "Terry says he may be gone some time."
"Oh," said Rosen, "will he? Well, it's news to me. Mr.
J. O. don't often stay away for long. This shop is his
beer and his bread, his wife and his children, as you'll find
out, young man, when he comes back. He'll keep you on
your toes and you'll have no chance to stand around and
talk. Young J. O. is prouder of the work we turn out for
him and what's said about us in the trade than his father
was, if such a matter could be."
"Will he be as good a boss as the young gents down-
stairs?" asked Peter anxiously. "I like them fine. Es-
pecially the Ingalls one."
"Barry Harden's the chief's favorite, though. That's
why the old hypocrite next door plays up to him," said the
old man confidentially. "They're thick as thieves. A hand
in a glove is what they are. Mr. J. O. may live a long time,
but Etherington's making hay while the sun shines."
It was difficult, but Peter managed to keep the excitement
out of his voice. A motive? A motive. The question had
been humming in his brain. Was it to be answered now?
"Standing in with Mr. Harden?" he asked, innocently.
"How would that be after helping the old gent on his way?
I mean o'course, it's the best thing to stand in with all the
bosses, big and little. It's me own idea, and no harm to


152
C o unt erf eit
It ought to make old Etherington solid for life. He's been
here since before the flood."
"But I've only been here a day," said Peter mildly.
"And you won't last five years if you don't get on with
your work," Rosen remarked, not without reason. "But
just you stay around, young man, and if you can give sat-
isfaction, by the time you're half as old as I am maybe
there'll be something doing."
"Gee, that'd be great," said Peter with pardonable en-
thusiasm. "Thank you kindly for telling me, Mr. Rosen,
sir. You've made me stronger than ever not to lose me
job!"


CHAPTER XVI
m HE DAY wore on toward closing time and Peter
m began to watch the clock. He was growing more
JL. and more dissatisfied over the fact that they had
failed to get in touch with Ray Trant. It happened that
the crime of counterfeiting had never before come directly
in his way and he felt terribly hampered by his lack of
expert knowledge. In his place, Trant would have known
exactly what to look for; would not have been oppressed
by the feeling that the answer to the riddle might be lying
somewhere right in front of his eyes. Many of Peter's
most interesting cases had been solved by a brilliant flash
of insight and in a comparatively short time. This looked
as if it might take an unprecedented amount. He had
nothing but a layman's intelligence to go by, but it seemed
to him that the John Oliver Olmstead Company, with its
fine reputation for integrity and the high standard of its
output, together with the character of its personnel and
equipment, was ideally situated for the perpetration of ex-
actly this sort of a fraud, provided the heads of the con-
cern were sufficiently blind . . . involved . . . or—elim-
inated.
Eliminated? Ah. That was the possibility that gripped
most grimly and held Peter, willy nilly, to face a protracted
period of menial labor and days of uninteresting grind, if
that should prove necessary to clear the queer and baffling
situation. If John Oliver Olmstead were suddenly to re-
appear, in unscathed flesh, he told himself, he would turn
the case over to Ray Trant without another thought. In
spite of the queer concatenation of circumstances that had
seemed to him a personal appeal, if it turned out that the
missing man had just gone off on a bat, or for necessary
153


154
C ounterfeit
relaxation, he would feel himself absolved from pursuing
the merely monetary matter further. Trant would carry
on much better than he. Terry's findings in the furnace,
coupled with the picture of John Oliver Olmstead that had
been emerging to him from various sources during the day,
built up an intriguing enigma that would not let him rest,
and it was a far different matter than Rosen's lure of a
future bonus that had caused Peter to say in all sincerity,
that the old man had furnished him a stronger reason than
ever for wanting "to keep his job."
For among other things, this fact appeared with arrest-
ing clarity. A number of people in the picture would be
benefited materially by Olmstead's death . . . All the old
employees, to a greater or less extent, and of them Ether-
ington, probably, the most. Ingalls would come in for a
fine large slices—and Harden. Harden would benefit most
of all. . . .
And yet—here was a bothersome thought. If a man dis-
appeared, and the body wasn't forthcoming, the machinery
of inheritance was complicated and of great deliberation.
Usually a person who committed a murder for gain was in
immediate need. Murder is a desperate business. If a
young man is guilty of such a deed the reward must be at
least presumably) close at hand. An older man, paradoxical
as it might seem, would be more willing to wait. He would
not be so stirred by needs or passions and could better force
himself to bide his time. So spoke Peter's experience.
But supposing the motive was, after all, not greed—but
fear? Dread of discovery that might have seemed—might
have actually been imminent. Then the guilty party might
turn out to be anybody. If the partition of the business of
the John Oliver Olmstead Company had nothing to do with
the case, then the riddle of the crushed pencil case, the lump
of silver and the bit of human bone remained a puzzle that
cried aloud for solution. . . .
Peter had the maddening, helpless feeling that someone,


C ounterfeit 155
somewhere, was laughing at his ineffectuality. Even so.
Figuratively he pulled his belt up another notch and grimly
set himself the task of watchful waiting. The unpalatable
role he had assumed at least brought him in contact with
many things of general interest, and at all hazards he must
hold it intact. There was a matter directly at hand that he
was still uncertain about and that worried him not a little.
Marie Lamont had not noticed him, probably had not seen
him in the street at lunch time. But in the natural course
of events, both of them being employees of the same com-
pany, they could hardly fail to come face to face. The ques-
tion then was, would she recognize him? What the two
ladies in the antique shop had thought about the gas man
who never came back, he had no means of knowing. He
regretted that more important matters had taken out of his
hands the opportunity of as it were an obvious sponging of
the gas man from the slate, until it was too late. If the
older lady were of the nervous, burglar-scenting type, there
might have been a search, which would have made the
pseudo gas man register more clearly than was at all desir-
able. On the other hand, there was a perfectly good reason
for his not reporting back and troubling them again, since
he could have let himself out, presumably, by the front hall
door. It had been pretty dark in the shop and Peter had
been careful to stand with his back to what light there was.
Unfortunately there had been no opportunity for him to
change his makeup to any extent yesterday morning before
he became an employee of the Olmstead Company. All he
could do was to make his bearing and voice as different as
possible and trust to luck. He would avoid an encounter
with the girl as long as it could be managed, with the quite
reasonable hope that time would very soon erase his image
(supposing that it still persisted) from her mind.
There was another thing that, in spite of his confident
statement to Jake Kerrigan, caused him an uneasiness,
which became more acute as the hands of the clock crept


156 C ounterfeit
nearer and nearer to closing time. What was Wiggar
doing? In the cold light of day, the amusement to be de-
rived from witnessing the appearance of that perfect being
in a character and surroundings so unsuitable, lost a little
of its charm, and he had spent many minutes of his early
morning toilet arguing about it, but to no avail. Wiggar's
confidence in his own powers was unassailable and his
sense that Mr. Peter should be freed from all bonds of
servitude and allowed to exert his finer talents unhampered
would admit of no denial. "If I cause you any incon-
venience, even in the slightest detail, sir," he said, "I will
submit to any penalty that you may devise." He had made
all necessary plans, he said; he would not explain what they
were except that he would present himself at five-thirty
precisely.
At five o'clock the employees began to leave the building.
No one appeared to be working over-time. The press men
on the top floor were washing up when Peter began his tour
of inspection, camouflaged as it was with a broom and
dustpan. The younger engravers were leaving when he
came down to that floor. Etherington's room was empty
and in the same condition in which Peter had left it. Rosen
opened his door and came out with his hat on just as Peter
finished his observation. Even as the knob turned the new
janitor began plying his brush. The old man responded
pleasantly to Peter's "Good night, sir," and he, too, left
the building.
That floor was empty. Peter shouldered the broom and
went quietly down the stairs. It was twenty minutes past
now, and he had a good excuse for entering the offices, even
supposing anyone were still there. The stairway went
squarely around the grilled elevator shaft and came into the
hall almost directly opposite the door of John Olmstead's
office in which Barry Harden worked. As Peter ran lightly
down the last steps, this door opened suddenly and Marie
Lamont came out. There was no dodging the issue. They


158 C ounterfeit
wasn't as fast a worker as Ingalls, or else he was not, in
this case, interested. He had not asked permission to use
her Christian name and been refused, judging by the youth-
ful eagerness of the girl's acceptance of his offer of a lift,
and the color in her bright face when Peter, half turning
with his broom, was able to observe it.
Just then the door of Ingall's office opened and the gen-
eral manager came quickly out, almost barging into Peter,
who drew back with a hasty apology. Ingalls hardly noticed
the necessary piece of human mechanism that removed
itself from his path.
"One minute, Marie," he called in a voice tinged with
apology and regret. "I've just discovered some letters that
have to be answered to-night. They were under my desk
basket instead of in it. I don't know how it happened"
Peter, from the tail of his eye, observed an odd expression
flash swiftly across young Harden's face, and was not much
surprised to hear him say: "Oh, come, George, let it wait till
morning. It can't be anything of such importance as to
make it necessary for Miss Lamont to stay late on her first
day with us."
"Unfortunately it is of the utmost importance," said In-
galls regretfully, favoring Harden with a smiling glance
that the girl failed to see for she was looking at the younger
man.
"It's quite all right, Mr. Harden," she said hastily. "I'm
in no hurry and I know my way uptown perfectly now.
The Riverside Bus goes almost past the door."
"You were going to give her a lift, Barry?" Ingalls
cocked an eyebrow at his friend. "Well, that's too bad,
but don't worry. I'll take Marie home."
"Oh, please," said the girl, smiling, "don't think I'm the
sort of person who has to be escorted. I'm just a working
girl now—a business woman. I'm proud and glad to be
one, and I don't want special favors. I know you'd look
out for me—on Uncle Nat's account," (she glanced again


C o unt er f eit 159
at Harden) "but I really don't need it. I'm quite able to
take care of myself."
"She's quite able to take care of herself, Barry." Ingalls
smiled showing all his strong, fine, white teeth. "I won't
work her too hard," he said over his shoulder. As they
turned away he took the girl lightly by the arm. Peter
heard him say, "It's awfully nice of you to help me out.
Your work is splendid. A little more speed on dictation and
you'll be better than the best."
They went into Ingalls' office together and he closed the
door. Harden had already rung for the elevator which had
gone up and was but now coming down, for the colloquy
had occupied only a few seconds—"Down!" said the pessi-
mistic elevator boy in a long-suffering, overtime tone. The
secretary hesitated only an instant, frowned, cast a glance
at Peter who was pushing the day's film of dust into a pile,
with no apparent thought except to do it thoroughly.
"You can clean my office next," Harden called out to him.
"Take your time, Pat, and do a good job while you're at it.
Finish up to-night because I'm likely to be very early to-
morrow morning."
"Thank you, sir. I'll sure do me best," Pat called back.
"Down?" asked the elevator boy, plaintively.
"Yes. Down," said Harden with a shrug, as if he threw
off a responsibility which obviously was not his.
Peter gave him time to get out of the building and then
himself went hastily down by way of the stairs. The hands
of his watch, which he, perforce, since it was a very good
one, kept in his pocket instead of on his wrist pointed to
five-twenty-seven. Wiggar was due in three minutes now.
Peter felt nervous, though he assured himself that Ingalls
probably would be completely occupied until he left the
building. The question there was unlikely to be very se-
rious, as far as the girl was concerned, Peter told himself.
Probably only a flirtation, but the memory of the girl's
lovely innocent candid eyes made him feel that he would do


160 Counterfeit
his best, even as Harden had done, to make sure that it did
not develop into anything more—strenuous. He would at-
tend to Harden's office himself and would take reasonable
occasion to make his presence felt.
But now for Wiggar. Peter's eager curiosity was mixed
with laughter and a dash of apprehension, constituting a
fairly highly seasoned sauce. The elevator had run up
again to the top floor, and though the boy was understood
to stay on until six, Peter felt quite certain, from observing
his methods, that he could be absolutely trusted not to make
a trip down unless very definitely summoned.
Peter went quickly and quietly to the front door and
looked out. Hello, there was Kerrigan, much interested in
a lavish, wholesale display of knitted goods on the opposite
side of the way. His back was turned but that did not
seriously affect his reconnaisance as the entire rear of the
show window was a plate glass mirror.
Peter, push-broom in hand, stepped out upon the side-
walk. There were a good many people passing, mostly
going west to the nearest subways, surface cars and elevated
roads. He scanned the faces as they passed, marveling for
the thousandth time at the complete and utter isolation and
the importance to itself of each individual in the world's
teeming millions.
"Mister, gimme a nickel!" A small boy had slipped out
from behind a passing fat man and appeared as if by magic
at Peter's elbow.
"You young rascal," cried Peter, with a startled glance at
the small ragged figure and the dirty little oval face that
looked impudently up at him from enormous red-brown eyes.
"If Wiggar catches you, reverted like this!"
"Cheeseit," whispered the boy. "He's just around the
corner of Fiftavenue waiting till I see is the coast clear for
him."
"I might have known," Peter muttered. "Embalm, ere-


162
Counterfeit
played in the window. Peter grasped from Kerrigan's at-
titude that the man for whom they both waited was ap-
proaching on the south side of the street. Therefore he
was not visible to Peter until he actually appeared in the
doorway.
Wiggar! and such a Wiggar! Peter had to look twice
before even his quick eyes had taken in every aspect of
this transformed being. He told himself he should have
suspected the fact that at some point of Wiggar's checkered
and unadvertised career the matter of face makeup might
have claimed this versatile being's attention. For with the
same finish displayed daily in his master's behalf, Wiggar
had developed this new line that fate had thrust before him.
Restraint! Ah, that was the marvel of it. The same sense
of fitness, that would never allow Peter to wear a tie or a
sock even one infinitesimal shade too bright, had guided the
hand that had slightly roughened and darkened the eye-
brows on that calm and wooden mask; had tinted the pale
cheeks, and eke the end of the nondescript nose with the
faint red-brown of a person who lives more by the work of
his hands than by that of his brain. Those hands were
thrust loosely into the pockets of a ragged pair of overalls
that (Peter discovered later) had been procured with
Dick's thrilled connivance, as also the rough, worn shoes,
shirt and coat. The cap was one that Peter himself had
long ago discarded. Every detail of the assumed character
betokened an almost uncanny sharpness of observation on
Wiggar's part. The disguise was perfect but so subtle as to
become the acme of inconspicuousness. As Wiggar, in
proper person, presented no salient point, whether in feature
or figure, to arrest the gaze of a beholder; so in his counter-
feit of a workman, from whom work had been often es-
tranged, he came as near to a representation of vacant space
as a material being might hope to achieve.
And yet, withal, he managed to look smart. Peter could
have laughed aloud. What it was that accomplished this


C o unt er f eit 163
weird phenomenon it would be impossible to say. It did
not affect his chameleon-like blending with his background
any more than it did in what one might call real life, but
there it was. A something intangible that spelled perfection.
Peter wanted to hug him but clapped him on the shoulder
instead.
"You're an answer to prayer, Wiggar," he whispered.
"Your makeup has in it something of the divine. A special
act of creation! And he saw that it was good."
"Quite so, sir." Wiggar's bearing gave no hint of ela-
tion. If the strange creature felt any it was in no wise
visible to the naked eye. "I'm reporting for duty, sir,"
he added in a very low tone. "Where is it your pleasure
that I begin."
"Me, too, Mr. Peter," pleaded an eager young voice, and
Dick Jarvis slipped in under Wiggar's elbow.
"Good lord," Peter protested hurriedly, "I can't have an
army here. They employ an extra man only because they
want to give old Terry an easy berth. It's a one-man job,
really. I only let you in, Wiggar, because you're so dam'
persistent. Hello! Here comes—" He stopped, but went
on at once in a tone of relief, "Oh, it's only you, Jake, to
add to the cloud of witnesses. My heavens, do I have to
go into a huddle with half New York here in this open
hall?"
"Keep your shirt on, Pete, and get down into Terry's
cellar, the whole shooting-match," growled Kerrigan, eye-
ing Wiggar with deep enjoyment and appreciation. "If the
leopard can't change his spots after what I see before me,
then I'm a son of what you called me." He dug his fat thumb
into Peter's ribs as they all made for the basement stairs.
"I can't believe him, that's all," chuckled Kerrigan softly.
"He's too good to be true. There ain't no such animal!"
"Captain Kerrigan, can't I stay and help?" Dick Jarvis
snaked around past Peter as they reached the stone-paved
hall below. He took hold of the police detective's arm.


164 Counterfeit
"I'll hide if anybody comes around, and somebody might
want to send a message somewhere, see? Nobody notices
a kid like me. I could slip in and out easy."
"There's truth in what the boy says, Pete." Kerrigan
had children of his own and was a notoriously indulgent
parent. Also he owed this youngster a good turn, for Ker-
rigan had a long and grateful memory.
Terence came out of his furnace room just then and more
explanations were in order. The little furnace man's eyes
nearly popped out of his head when he was made to realize
that Mr. Clancy's new helper was none other than the
austere being who had prevented him, only two nights be-
fore, from sitting comfortably in his shirt-sleeves as a man
might expect to be allowed to do at the end of a hard day.
On his own heath, or more properly within the stone walls
of his own stronghold, the quaint old Irishman became
somewhat aloof and haughty in his turn, tolerating Wiggar
only because Mr. Clancy and Jake Kerrigan did. The
boy was another matter. There was some sense to a small
little fella like that, who'd be running in and out with no
one to be noticing.
They discussed the matter rapidly and Peter was won
over to think there was little risk in Dick's being there when
the building was practically empty, and that the advantage
of having Wiggar and his protege to take care of the
drudgery was considerable.
"It's going to be a bit like sitting down to one of those
sieges we learned about in our history books, looks to me,"
said Kerrigan, "and you might make it as easy for yourself
as possible. Terry can slip up to the top floor with Wiggar
and the kid and get them started while you and I sit here
comfortably alongside the furnace and have a bit of a talk."
"Can't do it now, Jake," said Peter hurriedly. "I prom-
ised young Harden I'd clean up his office to-night and I've
a special reason for wanting to do it. Tell you about it
later. Go on up, Terry, and if you should meet anybody,


C o unt er f eit 165
make out Wiggar and the kid are friends of yours. Only
don't let them be seen if it can possibly be avoided. Keep
out of the way of the elevator, and watch your step on the
office floor. Mr. Ingalls is there still. You come up to my
apartment to-night, Kerrigan. We ought to be cleaned up
for company by eight-thirty or maybe nine."
Thus having disposed his forces, Peter returned to Barry
Harden's office. Ingalls and the new stenographer were
still in the next room. Peter could hear voices and the
rather determined clicking of the typewriter keys. Pur-
posely he let the ends of the bristle broom bang against the
partition, and was very thorough when it came to the
corners.
Presently the clicking of the typewriter stopped. Not
so the voices. Peter could not hear the words, but the in-
flection gave some clue as to the possible nature of the con-
versation. Peter whistled a gay Irish tune and went on with
his work. A few minutes passed and then suddenly the
door opened and Miss Lamont appeared on the threshold
with a note-book and pencil in her hand. Her face looked a
little flushed but not exactly alarmed.
"The light's so much better in Mr. Harden's office," she
said over her shoulder to Ingalls, who had followed her as
far as the door. "I can get the letters done twice as quick
in here. And please don't think you have to wait, Mr. In-
galls. I'll post them for you."
"Without a signature?" laughed the general manager.
"You are new to business methods, Marie. And you can't
work in here with all this cleaning going on. You'd better
get busy upstairs, Pat, and come back here later."
"Oh, no," said the girl, hastily, glancing across at Peter.
"You're all through sweeping, aren't you? And I don't
mind the windows being open, or the dusting, really I don't.
Go right on with your work—uh—is your name Pat?
Well, go right on. I'll be through now in a very few min-
utes."


i66
C o unt er / eit
"Don't hurry, Miss, and thank you," said Peter, with a
quick gesture toward his cap. "Mr. Harden asked me,
special, to get his room all fixed up to-night and I just gotta
please him. My friend's helping me on the top floor, but I
kinda wanted to see to this meself. You know how 'tis."
He took a large dustcloth from the rear pocket of his
overalls, and turning his back to them both went pains-
takingly and quietly to work. He would have liked to
know whether he was observed by either; wondered, if by
some untoward circumstance Ingalls discovered that Wiggar
and Dick as well as Terry were helping upstairs, the fact
that he had used the word friends, which might be plural
as well as possessive, would seem sufficiently ingenuous. It
was only a minute or two before he decided that he need
have no present uneasiness. Ingalls was obviously one of
those persons to whom a waiter, a footman, an elevator boy,
a char woman, or any sort of menial, is ignored to the
point of obliviousness. He crossed over to the small type-
writer desk that stood in the far corner under a strong
electric light.
"On second thought, I believe that last letter can wait
till morning." His tone was friendly and indulgent.
"Don't bother to finish it now, Marie. Wait until to-
morrow. If you stop now we can take a little spin up the
river and I'll get you under Miss Fanny Kinsella's wing be-
fore dinner time. Wouldn't you like that?"
"It would be lovely," said the girl a little uncertainly,
"but I thought I'd just run around and see Uncle Nat a
few minutes before I go home."
"I wouldn't do that," Ingalls objected. "He's working
on a special rush job and I don't believe you'd be welcome.
Certainly he doesn't crave your companionship as I do."
He overplayed that, Peter thought with relish, for the
girl responded quickly:
"I think he cares a lot about me, even if he is such a
funny old darling, and I want to make him feel that I be-


Counterfeit 167
long to him, don't you see? So I'm going to run in and out
whenever I have the time. Miss Fanny gave me a set of
keys and I mean to use them. Perhaps, after a while he'll
let me come to live with him." Wistfully. "I'd love that.
Miss Fanny thinks he's very lonely and she's backing me
up. She's a duck, but Uncle Nat—he's my own."
"So you're turning me down for another man," said In-
galls with an indulgent smile and a tender look from hand-
some, laughing, narrowed eyes. "Well, so be it. You
can leave that letter on my desk or wait till morning to finish
it. I'll see you then. Au revoir, you lovely little person."
He touched her lightly on the shoulder, left the room and
a few seconds later, the building. The action, Peter thought
was equally that of a man who meant no harm, and of a
clever, experienced one who did. The girl, herself, went
out a very little later. Peter thought she knew that there
was, at the back, a means of communication between the
two buildings, but she evidently preferred the street. There
was a window, on the top floor of the Olmstead building
that overlooked the extension of the other and commanded
a limited view of the iron gates in Twenty-ninth Street.
Peter happened to be standing in front of it a few minutes
later, and in the growing dusk was just able to distinguish
the girl's small, determined figure as she unlocked the gate
and made her way through.
What would be her reception in that quaint, old place,
he wondered; and wished for the minute that he had her
ready means of access to it and her opportunity for close
and unsuspected observation of its occupant. If only he
could, temporarily, transform himself into a small, appeal-
ing young woman, in a powder blue suit, with eyes that
matched! But that was a feat, he thought, with an appre-
ciative backward glance at his business-like conscientious
helper, that even Wiggar could not accomplish.


CHAPTER XVII
g fOW'S Wiggar making out?" Peter looked up
m M from the waste basket, the contents of which he
JL JL was carefully going over as Terence Sheehan
came down the basement stairs.
"Well," Terence shrugged, "if you think we do be need-
ing any outsiders to help maybe he'll be as good as another."
"It's that you and I mustn't be pinned down too close,"
said Peter, diplomatically. "And at the same time, Terry,
we must give as good service as if we did the work our-
selves. See?"
"I see that." The little furnace man unbent somewhat.
"It's true we mustn't take a chanst on your getting fired.
And the kid's not so bad."
"He's not Irish like us, though," said Peter with an inner
chuckle. "Wiggar says Dick's parents were English."
"He would," Terence's nose wrinkled, "but the lad has
red hair and freckles and I guess he's all to the good. Hello,
there! Speaking of the divil"
"Mr. Clancy!" The boy slipped in with the air of a con-
spirator. "Mr. Wiggar wants you should come up now and
put your o. k. on the way we got things fixed. We don't
want to leave until we're quite sure you are satisfied, sir."
The last sentence was obviously a quotation. Though
Peter knew there would be no room for adverse criticism
he thought it advisable to go up and to take Sheehan with
him. The elevator boy had gone home long since but Ter-
rence was quite able and willing to take his place. The cage
was down, so it was only a matter of seconds when they
joined Wiggar on the top floor. He was standing at atten-
tion as Peter stepped off the elevator. His air of being
ready to announce Her Grace the Duchess of York, con-
168


C o unt er/eit
169
sorted oddly with his ragged habiliments and Peter with
difficulty restrained the laughter that was bottled up inside.
"It looks fine! Fine, Wiggar," he said enthusiastically.
"O. K. by you, Terry?"
"If it suits you, sir," said Terence, pursing his lips.
They went down to the next floor. "Splendid," said
Peter and glanced aside at the patron who had wangled for
them the job. Sheehan looked around with raised eyebrows,
shrugged, gave his pipe a slight flourish and nodded gravely.
But when they came down to the general offices the old man
capitulated. His furry eyebrows had climbed by jerks half
way up his forehead.
"No Swede that ever was foaled could hope to live up to
this," he said graciously. "The next janitor'U have at laste
to come from wan of the British Isles."
Wiggar made no sign. His expressionless gaze was
fixed solemnly on Peter.
"The firm will go into mourning when we leave. I can
see that, can't you, Terry?" Peter clapped the old man on
the back and beamed at the metamorphosed valet. "You
and Dick can go home now, Wiggar," he continued. "I'm
nearly through. I'll get a bite to eat on my way up as I
did last night. I'll blow you and Dick to hot dogs in a lunch
wagon that will blend artistically with our makeup, if you'll
accept. No? Well, then, I'll see you later, and thanks a
lot. That goes for you, too, Dick. Have a bath ready."
"Quite so, Mr. Peter. It is indicated for all of us."
Wiggar bowed and withdrew. Peter wondered then how
the perfect valet would get back into the apartment without
attracting undue attention, and found out later that not
only had Dick managed to secure the costume that Wiggar
required but that the boy had also borrowed a room from
an unsuspecting friend who had found it expedient to leave
town for a short time, and there they both made and con-
tinued to make their change.
Sheehan waited until Peter had finished a fruitless search


170
C ounterfeit
among the remaining mass of waste paper. The building
was dark and somehow ominously still when they went up
to the street floor. At the back of the hall, to show that in
case of fire one could get out at the rear by way of the
basement, a red light glared unwinkingly. A danger signal?
Peter looked down at the old man by his side; thought of
the memento mori he had discovered down there and set his
teeth. He did not express his thoughts but his voice was
very kind. "Do I rate a latchkey, Terry?" he asked.
"You sure do, Mr. Clancy," Sheehan replied handing
him a flat pass key. "I always have two in case I lose one.
But don't fret yourself to get down early in the morning.
I'll open up and no one will notice particular if you're a
little late."
"Unless they want to hang a wreath on my brow when
they see the way Wiggar's left things."
"If they do I'll put it in cold storage till you come, sir."
Sheehan's little eyes wrinkled up when he laughed. "Good
night, Mr. Clancy, and I pray God we hear from Mr. Jack
to-morrow."
Peter echoed the hope and then, after a brief meal at a
place where his appearance suited the background, he made
his way home.
"I could never have waited for food until you thought
me sufficiently scarified to come in contact with it, Wiggar,"
he said, as he submitted himself to the valet's deft ministra-
tions. "I believe you slough your skin like a snake when
you take off your clothes or you could never look like that
in the time elapsed. Have you had something to eat?"
"Quite so. Thank you, sir."
"Well, if you can fix up a little something for me by the
time Captain Kerrigan comes I think I can toy with it."
"And he, too, sir?"
"Oh, quite so." Peter's imitation was not accented
enough to be more than tinged with gentle, appreciative rid-


C o tint er f eit 171
icule. "He'll do full justice to your efforts. We'll wait for
him. He ought to be here by nine."
But at nine—at ten—at eleven, the police detective re-
mained among those absent, and so far as Peter was con-
cerned, unaccounted for.
* * * *
Captain of Detectives Kerrigan, was a rather unusuai
person for any age or clime. He had grim humor, un-
shakable honesty and intelligence of no mean order, but his
salient quality was a sense of responsibility. What he felt
to be his duty he went through with to the bitter end and
his interpretation of what constituted that often avoided
affair was broad and unrelenting. He was long, too, on
the side of loyalty and friendship and his sense of having
come so near failing old Terry in his need grew keener
as the hours passed.
He had put the matter before his Inspector, who, realiz-
ing that it was distinctly on the cards that the affair might
turn out to be very serious, gave Kerrigan a free hand. In
addition to other considerations, the Inspector would not
find himself inconsolable if his chief of detectives made a
scoop of a case that could then be turned over with justifiable
pride and in an elucidated condition to the Secret Service
Bureau.
With this backing, Kerrigan ordered his conduct of pro-
ceedings. The night before he had warned the patrolman
on the beat that embraced the two buildings, in which his
interest now centered, to keep his eye on them. Nothing
had happened that the man thought sufficiently out of the
way to make a special report necessary, according to his
understanding of the chief's instructions. Kerrigan, how-
ever, was restless and uneasy, and after a busy day, instead
of taking a well-earned rest, as soon as he had finished din-
ner, went back again to the scene that was beginning to fill


172
C o unt er / eit
his imagination to the exclusion of all else. He was not
due at Clancy's until nine. There would be plenty of time
to see Sully and find out if there might not be some little
thing that was worth making a note of.
"Sure, Captain Kerrigan, it was as quiet around them
premises as the church beside us," said Patrolman Sully when
Kerrigan encountered him at the corner of Twenty-ninth
Street and Fifth Avenue. "One of the bosses went into
the Olmstead building about nine-thirty."
"What?" cried Kerrigan. "Someone went in and you
never peeped?"
"I thought you wanted to know if any suspicious per-
sons "Sully started to explain but Kerrigan cut him
short.
"I ought to carry a little typewriter and write long letters
when I want a thing done," he snarled. "Which one of the
bosses was it, eh?"
"I don't know the names of all the people on my beat,
Captain, nor does nobody else." Sully made it as nervy
as he dared, but Kerrigan was too much occupied to notice.
"Was it this one," he demanded, taking Olmstead's pic-
ture from his pocket. "Put your flashlight on it and make
sure."
The policeman did so with maddening deliberation. "No,"
he responded, at length. "It wasn't him."
"Oh," Kerrigan let his breath go with a grunt and put the
portrait back in his pocket. "Then who was it? If you
don't know his name tell me how he looked." The matter,
ceasing to be one of gripping excitement, became ordinary
routine, and yet was of considerable interest.
"He's a good looking guy. Always pleasant, too."
"Always? You mean you see him often?" Kerrigan
asked, sharply.
"Well, no. Not so terrible often. He was letting him-
self in with a latch key the first time I seen him, and as the


C ounterfeit
173
place was closed and dark I passed across to give him the
once-over. That's me, Captain. Always on the job."
"Oh, sure," snapped Kerrigan. "Well, if you've seen this
man' several times you must be able to describe him. Make
it snappy. What did he look like?"
"He—well, he was about your height, Captain, or maybe
mine."
"There's only about three or four inches between us,"
said Kerrigan sarcastically. "That'll be a great help. Go
on. Was he light or dark?"
"Well you see it was at night and he had1 his hat on. A
high hat it was, Captain," brightly. "I remember that.
And glad rags. You know. Dress suit."
"Got you the first time." Kerrigan's was a voice of
gloom. "I suppose you observed nothing more."
"Yes, sir, I did. I saw him when he came out. There
was an old gent with him."
"You didn't see the old man go in?" Kerrigan asked
quickly.
"No sir."
"Humph." The back entrance to the building was in the
police detective's mind. "Was he an old chap with white
hair?"
"Yes, Captain."
"They came out of that dark building together—and you
didn't think it worth mentioning? After what I'd told
you?" Kerrigan's disgust knew no bounds.
"No. You got me wrong, Captain," urged Sully. "The
old gent wasn't there last night. Only the young one. It
was the first night I seen him that the old guy was along,
too."
"Oh, well," said Kerrigan relenting, "then you're only
half as dumb as I thought you. We'll let it go at that.
Now listen, Sully. What happened when this chap went
inside last night? Anything? Lights, or anything like
that?"


174 Counterfeit
"No, sir. Not that I seen. Of course I don't stay so
long in one spot, but last night I was back and forth in
them two blocks like you told me and I didn't notice no
lights in the Olmstead building at all."
"Did you see the man come out?"
"No, sir. Must have been when I was 'round the cor-
ner."
"It would be," said Kerrigan. "Well, I don't know that
it matters." He was thinking aloud. "If it was one of
the young partners, there sure is no harm in his going back
to his place of business after hours, and if he went just to
his own office, we wouldn't see the light from the street.
So that's o. k." The remainder of his thoughts he kept
to himself.
After a minute Sully ventured. "Is there anything more,
Captain?"
"Well—hum—if there is I'll tell you," said Kerrigan,
slowly. "Keep your eyes peeled now, Sully. I don't want
to have to detail a special for this. Facts don't seem to
warrant it. But just the same "His voice trailed off
to silence. A minute later he lifted his head and saw the
patrolman still standing there, uncertain whether he had been
dismissed.
"All right, Sully. Get on your way," he said with a wave
of the hand. "You go through Thirtieth and I'll take a
look down along here. I don't know how much of the Olm-
stead building you can see from the back. Keep on your
toes, and if that young fellow shows up again, take a good
look at him, and remember what you see. If you see the
old man again, tell me. Good night."
The spire of the Church looked gray and cold when
Kerrigan glanced up at it as he crossed to the south side
of the street. What guidance was there in that stone
finger pointing ever to the sky when a man's work was down
here, in the dim man-lighted streets that hummed all day


Counterfeit
175
with the noise of traffic but were quiet now, and nearly
empty. Only an occasional
Kerrigan stopped, and nimble in spite of his bulk, stepped
quickly aside and obliterated himself in the angle of a con-
venient doorway.
Someone, hidden by the foliation of the grille, was un-
locking the great iron gates that were directly opposite.
Presently a dark figure emerged, turned, stooped, and fast-
ened them again. Etherington. His white hair made him
almost as conspicuous as the typical hero of a western
motion picture, who, for some occult reason, generally
chooses for his mount a shining white horse, which, to a lay
mind, seems to present a particularly ideal target for an
enemy. The thought flashed through Kerrigan's mind even
as he turned to follow the dark figure which was rapidly
making its way toward Fifth Avenue.
Nine o'clock. Just. Kerrigan looked at his watch as
he, too, turned the corner and, at a discreet distance, fol-
lowed northward. The old man had legs. Kerrigan was
put to it to maintain his relative position to and, in the com-
parative emptiness of the streets, to remain unobserved by
the man who preceded him.
Where could the old gentleman be going and at a pace
like that? Kerrigan wondered. If he was in such a hurry,
why not take a taxi? It wasn't reasonable. When they
crossed Forty-second Street, he thought Etherington looked
back. The block in front of the Library had been prac-
tically deserted, but as always, the traffic at the corner was
like the cross-rip in a tideway and Kerrigan, afraid of losing
touch, closed up nearer than he could have wished.
Whether the old man had an inkling that he was under
surveillance or no, he went steadily ahead at a brisk pace,
along the avenue. Fiftieth. Fifty-fifth. Kerrigan had
dropped well behind, but now closed up briskly if cautiously.
The gray and black masses of the Park trees loomed ahead,
an effective background for the golden horse and rider, and


176
C o tint er f eit
equally effective as cover for a person who, possibly, desires
to escape notice. If Etherington's going into the Park, Ker-
rigan thought, the way he's winding me, I'm bound to lose
him sure.
However, to his great relief, the old gentleman circled
the square in front of the Plaza without having entered one
of its many hospitable doors, and returning to the avenue,
without hesitation, crossed to the east side and proceeded
southward at undiminished speed.
Kerrigan had been on his feet a good deal of the day)
and at best he was never a keen pedestrian. To think that
at his age this old man could tire him out was irritating
in the extreme, but it was as nothing to the tantalizing
suspicion that he was being made game of. Of course it
might easily be that Etherington, having been at his bench
for long hours, had simply come out for some fresh air
before turning in for the night. If so he must have had
plenty of it. Counting twenty blocks as a unit, it was about
three miles to the Park and back if he went straight home
. . . which he probably would . . . and where was the
use of following a man, if his errand was perfectly innocent?
When they neared Forty-second Street again, on the down
trip, the old man on one side and the police detective on the
other, Kerrigan had about made up his mind to let the mat-
ter rest on that supposition, to pick up a taxi on the corner
and nip up to Peter's apartment for a short consultation,
then home and to bed. The lights up and down the avenue
had winked from green to red. Kerrigan stopped, wiggled
his tired toes in his shoes and lifted his hand to a taxi that,
flag up, was coming to a slow stop in obedience to the sig-
nals. He leaned forward to give a direction to the driver,
and was suddenly aware that his quarry was taking advan-
tage of the hold-up of the traffic to make his way over to his
own side of the avenue. It was not this natural action, how-
ever, that checked the words on Kerrigan's lips. It was
something unnatural and covert in the man's bearing. A


178 C o unt er f eit
pull up along the curb. Get out and light a cigarette or
something. Anyhow, act as if you hadn't a fare. I want
to make sure, now I've come this far."
He did not say of what nor did the taxi-man inquire.
Being a sharp New York lad he had spotted the reason for
his fare's deliberate progress. Just beyond the cross street
designated they drew up to the curb. The boy accepted the
cigarette that was thrust into his hand, lighted it with de-
liberation and passing to the rear of the cab began fumbling
with the license tag and the stop light. After a few minutes
he came back and whispered through the window, "Here he
comes, Captain."
"Shush! I see him," growled Kerrigan. "He'll turn
the corner now ... no, by Jimminy! Watch your step,
kid! If he wants a cab, you're out of commission, see?
I'll make it right."
There was no time to say more. Kerrigan dived down
into the bottom of the cab. If the old man had glanced
in as he passed he would have seen only an indistinguishable
dark mass. He did nothing of the sort, however. In-
stead, without hesitation, he went on southward, at the
same even swift but unhurried pace.
"Well, I'll be doggone," said Kerrigan, looking after him
from the depths of the cab. "What the deuce is he going
to do now?"
"Couldn't tell you Cap'n. Shall we follow him?" asked
the driver eagerly.
"No. Wait a minute. Let me think. Gee, I'm tired."
Kerrigan was terribly tempted to give up, but somehow it
wasn't in his nature. He was keen and steady rather than
brilliant, but once started, he would hang on like a dog to ai
root. The thin, dark figure went on down the street, pass-
ing in and out of the evenly spaced lights, until the white
hair under the old fashioned black hat was nearly lost to
view. Then Kerrigan spoke again.
"Hop in now and start your crate," he said to the driver.


C o unt er f eit
179
"Roll along slow until you nearly catch up with him.
Then cut around into a side street and stop. I'll have to
do the rest on my own poor old dogs. Understand?"
"Sure do," said the young fellow, sliding across to the
wheel.
By virtue of crawling along at a snail's pace and being
once more stopped by the lights, Kerrigan was able to rest
his tired limbs until the lower side of Madison Square
was reached. Here, the pedestrian in which the interest of
the chase centered, deviated from his course and, at the Flat-
iron Building, went along the Broadway side.
They were almost upon him, and with a sigh Kerrigan
gave his-direction to the driver. "Keep on down the ave-
nue," he said, "and cut over on Twenty-second. Stop just
before you get to Broadway. And you won't need your
lights. Never mind regulations for a minute. If a patrol-
man comes along I'll fix it for you."
"You betcha, Cap'n!" The tone was eager and excited,
but if the driver hoped for trouble he was doomed to dis-
appointment. All was quiet along the butt-end of the tall
old building, and thrusting some money into his hand, the
fare left as quietly, without a backward glance.
On down Broadway. At that hour and in that section
the pale lights shone upon what might almost be a lost land.
At inconveniently long intervals a car went clanging by.
It was no easy matter to keep a rapid walker in view with-
out wakening an echo of footsteps in cadence with his own.
At Union Square the old man took the outer edge and
Kerrigan cut across. It made him less conspicuous and
gave him a minute to catch his breath. He could see the
figure (that was beginning to assume the occult fascination
of the Flying Dutchman) pass quickly along the Broadway
side, cross to Fourteenth Street and turn east. Kerrigan
waited, warily keeping in the dark spot directly under a tall
arc light.
He hasn't gone in anywhere. He hasn't stopped to speak


CHAPTER XVIII
/yLTHOUGH Peter knew that his ostensible duties
/-m at the John Oliver Olmstead Company did not re-
JL quire it, he was early at his post in the morning.
Kerrigan had stopped in on his way home the nignt be-
fore. Seeing Peter's apartment still alight he had come in
and told his bed-time story to which his friend listened at-
tentively and, to his relief, did not "pull any wise cracks"
over his having made a man hunt out of an elderly gentle-
man's evening walk. Wiggar had given him a cup of hot
bouillon and toast and a bit of cheese with something strong
and comforting to drink and the police detective went home
refreshed, having made an appointment to meet Peter at
lunch time next day in the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant
where they had been at noon.
Peter was troubled about many things as he went ahead
with his work that cold crisp morning, and among the rest
the thought of Etherington's niece occupied a prominent
position. She was so young, so inexperienced, so defense-
less. Her uncle, immersed in his own affairs—whatever—
ah, whatever they might be. And she, not wishing to be a
burden, trying to make her own place in the world. Peter
told himself that he had no real reason to suspect that some-
one might be trying to make a place for her—perhaps a
more remunerative place—while it lasted. Ingalls might
easily be carrying on a light, innocent flirtation, or he might
be really and honestly in love with the girl. Anyhow it was
none of Peter's business. It was not his place to warn her
and there was little chance for a man in his apparent posi-
tion to make it effective, even supposing he had the temerity
to try it.
He was thinking this when at about eight-thirty he started
181


184
Counterfeit
to earn my own living, and I'm awfully—awfully anxious
to make good."
"So am I," said Peter cordially, "and if I can do anything
for you, Miss, I hope you'll be after calling on me. I'll be
here late and early," he allowed himself to put a cautious
amount of meaning—(of reassurance if she cared to inter-
pret it thus) into the last sentence. "The windows are
heavy to push up and down. If you don't like the way they
are, any time, just send for Pat. Thank you, and good luck
to you, Miss."
The door had opened behind him. He saw the light flash
up in the girl's sweet eyes and turning, beheld Barry Har-
den, who came quickly in. If he saw anything amiss in her
expression he gave no sign, and Peter thought he might
have noticed nothing for she bent swiftly to pick up a pencil
from behind the desk and when she sat up again her face
was quite composed.
"Good morning." The young secretary's smile embraced
them both, but his glance lingered on the girl, and it seemed
to Peter that it was far less indifferent than when he had
observed them that night in the restaurant. Then the glor-
ious Miss Van Zandt had occupied his entire attention. Now
he appeared to have an awakening consciousness of Marie
Lamont's fresh young beauty.
Peter had more than enough to occupy his mind as he
closed the door upon them. She has the same chance to
come out whole as another,, he said to himself, trying to be
unconcerned. Men don't have to be considered crooked just
because they're young and handsome. And the female of
the species—even the very young ones, have weapons of
their own. Intermittently, throughout the day, in spite of
his efforts at dismissal, the remembrance of Marie Lamont
kept cropping up . . . Why had she been crying? Had
it something to do with Ingalls? Or Harden ... or her
uncle? Etherington hadn't expected her to call on him
last night. Ingalls wanted her to go along with him on th/»


C o unt er f eit 185
plea that her uncle would be busy—on a rush order . . .
Plates for the Rockland edition de luxe, though the general
manager had not mentioned that . . . Had the old engraver
been so busy that he was rude to his charming niece? She
didn't appear touchy, or as if she would take offence with-
out due cause . . . Something serious must have happened
Peter concluded to bring that look to her face when she
said, so bitterly, that she could ask nothing more of him
. . . Serious . . . Almost unforgivable? What could it
have been? Ah, if he had known—then. If, with his
greater wisdom and clearer insight, he could have read what
was in the heart of Marie Lamont, could he have averted
that which afterwards befell? And if he had had the
power, would he have had the will? Viewed, in the final
event, throughout its length and breadth, analyzed from
every side, he found he could only thank whatever gods
there be for the belief that Peter Clancy was responsible
only in those cases where he could affect the issue, and that
otherwise he was but a tool whose duty lay in keeping
itself keen and straight for the hand of the master.
Not that he formulated it in words, then, or at any time.
Simply, and quite without self-consciousness he wrestled
with cans of waste, wielded a brisk but rather episodic
broom, keeping his eyes open and his nimble tongue wagging
with waggery, or slipping in a pertinent question where it
would be least observed. By noon he had gleaned little
beyond the bare observation that Etherington had not ap-
peared in his workshop though Peter thought he saw him
coming out of Harden's office one time when he, himself,
was being borne swiftly aloft by the saturnine young ele-
vator boy.
There had been no word of Olmstead, and this was Fri-
day—; two weeks since he had been at his office, and a
day over a week since he was expected back. Terence kept
track of the days on the calendar with anxiety bordering
on despair. The two young officers, on whom the conduct


Counterfeit 187
is that sometimes when you go for a walk there's one part
of you that doesn't get sufficient exercise."
“Meaning ?”
"Think it over," said his colleague, with an irritating
grin.
“Drat you, Pete! What are you driving at? Is it an-
other of your hunches?”
“Maybe. And speaking of which," the grin seemed sud-
denly to be wiped from Peter's homely face, “I had one
hunch in the beginning—that panned out-and then looked
like a flop.”
“I'll be the goat. What's the answer to that riddle?”
growled Kerrigan, but his eyes were sharp with interest.
Peter leaned across the narrow table and spoke in a low,
serious voice: "I had a hunch that first night, when you
brought Terry to my apartment, that I ought to find the
little flat pencil that was not in that mashed up gold holder
of Olmstead's.”
"For the love of Mike what did you want of the pencil?”
“Why wasn't it in the holder, Jake?”
"I-I suppose because it dropped out."
"Yeah?” Peter drawled the mocking colloquialism. “But
suppose it didn't drop out?”
“What d'you mean-didn't drop "
"My hunch was right," Peter interrupted with a queer
gravity. "I found the little pencil. It was among the
coals."
"How the devil did it get there?” Kerrigan's glance
sharpened still more.
"You tell me," retorted Peter. “The gold part, with
Olmstead's initials plainly marked on it, was found by
Terry. He being the one who would naturally discover it,
of course."
He paused. Kerrigan echoed, “Of course,” in a puzzled
tone. Peter went on: “The gold case was crushed by a heel,


i88
C o unt e r / ei t
but it was so close in to the firebox that you couldn't have
put your heel on it without burning yourself."
Kerrigan's eyes were little bright slits. "And that adds
up to what?" he asked slowly.
"What would you think? What would anybody guess
from that?" Peter argued, frowning impatiently.
"Why," said Kerrigan, taking a sharp breath, "that the
thing was just camouflage. You suspected that, Pete?"
"Yes. From Terry's description of where he found it,
when I'd seen the heel mark. I couldn't picture how that
would work out. I got him to go through the motions and
it couldn't have been mashed in the position in which he
found it. Of course, as I said to him, it could have been
dropped or kicked there and still be where it was by acci-
dent. Conceivably. But when I found the pencil tossed
back among the coals, the whole thing reeked of fake.
Fake. And then you came along, Jake."
"Yes," Kerrigan muttered. "And it was—actually—a
bit of human remains.—in the furnace. Then why"
"Do you think," said Peter slowly, "supposing Olmstead
—shall we say never turns up, it would help in the presump-
tion of death?"
"Speak plain, Pete."
"Finding part of his body," Peter complied, looking hard
at the intent face before him. "Wouldn't it be easy to
suppose that it would speed up action in the courts?"
"It might, at that." Kerrigan spoke crisply.
"It seems as if somebody took pains to call attention to
a fact that you'd think, above everything, would require
to be hidden. Probably nothing about Olmstead could be
more positively identified by more people than that little
gold pencil case . . . crushed ... as if there'd been a
struggle . . . Evidence of a row of some sort in his of-
fice . . . And nothing missing—so far as anyone knows.
If he was murdered there"
"Terry saw nothing to indicate it. I asked him." The


C o unt er f eit
189
police detective's tone was as quick and decisive as before.
"Both Ingalls and Harden said the same thing."
"Yes," said Peter thoughtfully. "They would."
"What do you mean by that, Pete?"
"In any case." Peter waived his brown hand. "We
can't blink the fact, Jake, that they both stand to gain by
Olmstead's death. And yet, at the same time, that may
be the wrong tack altogether. If we're up against a big
gang of counterfeiters. . . ."
"Ray seemed sure he was dealing with a well-organized
gang—about those hundred dollar bills, didn't he?"
"Yes," Peter nodded. "He told me, and I think you, too,
Jake, though I really wasn't listening so carefully that night
in the restaurant. I understood that the bogus note they
were all so worried about couldn't possibly have been made
by one man, or so he thought. Something technical about
the engraving. Showed different characteristics."
"If I was good enough to imitate the swell kind of work
that's done on the portrait on a, bill," said Kerrigan, taking
one from his pocket and looking at it closely, "seems to me
I'd be smart enough to imitate another engraver's technique
... if I was familiar with it."
"Maybe," said Peter doubtfully, "but look here, Jake. I
was reading up last night. Wiggar got me a whole taxiful
of books from the New York Library of Science to be sure
he hadn't left anything out. And then he sat down and
weeded until it was time for him to make up for his new
part. By then he had boiled it down so all I had to do was
to skim off. I found out quite a lot about my new business
—and also about the making of banknotes. For one thing,
you see those awfully involved fine line waves and curly-
ques that fill up the ends and corners and what not on your
bill there? Well, that's called lathe work. The machine
it's done with is a mechanical lathe; it's about the size of
a house and costs untold sums. You couldn't buy it at
Woolworth's nor could you hide it in your back pants


Counterfeit
191
gave it the once over . . . And exactly what happened
when they showed Olmstead the bill. All Ray said, I re-
member, was that Olmstead made good on it and wanted to
keep it as a souvenir. Sounds almost too innocent and in-
genuous if you know anything about the methods of the
Secret Service. We'll have to ask the old scout about a
lot of things when he gets back. Of course you haven't
heard from your letter yet."
"Hardly time, even if it was forwarded promptly," said
Kerrigan. "Pondicherry Race Course is about ten or
eleven hours by train, I think. If we get an answer to-
morrow I'll be surprised. If Monday, we'll be doing well."
"Pessimist," said Peter. "Well, we can always hope for
the worst. You were grouching about something else when
you came in. What was it?"
"Oh, I've wasted a lot of time checking up every call
that went into the Olmstead Company on Friday the thir-
teenth and on Monday the sixteenth."
"And evermore came out at the same door wherein you
went, I think you implied."
Kerrigan glanced at Peter's rough garb, his artistically
smudged ears and dusty hair, and grinned. "Something
like that," he said.
"Enough calls put in at pay stations to confuse the issue,
I suppose."
"Oh, yes, a-plenty." Kerrigan took a folded sheet of
paper from his pocket. "Here's the list." He spread it
out on the table between them, turning it so that they could
both read, and indicating with his stubby forefinger.
"Here's a pay station call about the right time Monday,
any maybe this could be the one on Friday. One's from
an uptown booth and the other's down in the financial dis-
trict, but of course that makes nothing."
"Um-m-m," Peter muttered under his breath. "Thorough
old Jake! You got the words as well as the music, didn't
you? The subscriber as well as the number." Kerrigan


192
C o unt er f eit
made no sign that he was pleased with the approval of the
younger, more adroit detective. "Did it strike you as at all
odd," Peter went on in a self-communing tone, "that sev-
eral persons on the Olmstead staff happened to call the
office during these two days?"
"I call my office a dozen times a day," Kerrigan glanced
up at Peter's non-committal face. "What's queer about
that?"
"Well, nothing," said Peter mildly, "unlessyou happened
to have mentioned that you were there in the office at the
time the call came in."
"What!" cried Kerrigan. "What are you saying, Pete?
Here! let me look. Wait. Why, here's a call from young
Harden's apartment both mornings. Is that what you
meant?"
Peter's eyes were crinkled with a kind of grim amuse-
ment, but he said nothing.
"Terry said Harden was there, in the office, when that
telegram was supposed to come in from the train," mut-
tered Kerrigan. "I remember that perfectly, don't you,
Pete?" The other nodded and Kerrigan continued, "And
yet here's a message from his apartment. Yes, and another
one on Monday. How do you account for that?"
"Perfectly naturally." Peter shrugged his shoulders.
"A servant relayed a message that had come in after Harden
had left his apartment. That's the story I'd tell and stick
to it if I were he. And it may be perfectly true."
"Has he a servant?" Kerrigan asked sharply.
"Search me. I know only that he lives with Olmstead.
That is, I believe Harden has a small apartment in the same
building in which his chief has a large suite, and that Olm-
stead pays for both."
"I believe I'll go over and ask Harden about it," said
Kerrigan impulsively.
"As open hearted as all that?" teased Peter.
"We might as well hear how he accounts for it." Ker-


C o unt er f eit
193
rigan's tone was pretty tart. "Harden has the most to
gain by Olmstead's death, and any suspicious circumstance
ought to be followed up p.d.q. He's at his office when
somebody is phoning a fake telegram, and about the same
time there's somebody phoning from his apartment. How
do we know it wasn't the same message? Eh? And that
it wasn't put in by one of Harden's accomplices."
"Kind of careless not to step out to a pay booth, wasn't
it, Jake? I mean if there was anything crooked going on."
"Lots of*people have no idea that we can trace messages
as completely as we can," Kerrigan objected.
"A gang of crooks would be wise to that."
"That's true enough, Peter. But Harden may have noth-
ing to do with any gang and yet be implicated in Olmstead's
disappearance."
Peter sat up suddenly. "I don't believe it, Jake," he
said. "This whole business, somehow, is in one piece. I
can't tell you how I know it. I can't explain it to my-
self. . . . I've got to get back now. We have plenty of
things to think over, you and I."
"Shall I go to see Harden or not?" Kerrigan asked un-
certainly as they left the restaurant.
"I don't think you'll get much out of him, but maybe
it won't do any harm to try." Peter gripped his friend's
arm, gave it a little shake, and with a nod abruptly left him.
It was not until some time later when, wishing to refer
again to that significant list of telephone calls, Kerrigan
discovered to his surprise that the paper was missing. He
remembered distinctly picking it up from the table and
thrusting it into his pocket. It had no intrinsio value. No
person had jostled or in fact come in close contact with
him except—
Kerrigan shut his teeth but his lips spread into a smile.
"As he says himself, a helluf a fine crook was lost in Peter
Clancy," he growled under his breath, and with a mind
suddenly determined, he proceeded on his way.


CHAPTER XIX
PETER was almost certain what Jake Kerrigan's
reaction, as soon as he discovered his loss, would
be, and shaped his own course accordingly. After
consulting with and being carefully coached by Terence, he
essayed what might be called a practice game at the front
windows under the incurious eyes of the force in the outer
office. In this position of vantage he was aware of Ker-
rigan's approach from the west on the other side of the
street, but having no doubt of his friend's destination, he
incontinently finished his work where he was and swiftly
made his way into the hall, nearly colliding with Marie
Lamont. She had her coat and hat on and had just reached
out toward the elevator bell. It was past lunch time and he
wondered why she was going out at that hour, but he did not
have the leisure, if he had had the inclination, to inquire.
"Beg pardon, Miss," he apologized with his quick,
friendly smile, and passed her with no appearance of haste.
He tapped lightly on the closed door of Barry Harden's
office, and without waiting for permission pushed it gently
open.
"Excuse me, Mr. Harden, sir," he said. This time his smile
was ingratiating and he flapped a damp chamois against the
door-jamb. "Could I be doing the windows without dis-
comboblating yourself? It's grown mild, what with the
sun and all, but it does be getting late in the sayson and
if I don't remove some of the upper crust, soon it will be
'freezing and no manner of use to try."
"How about it, George?" said Harden, glancing up at the
general manager, who pushed back his chair and rose as
he replied, indifferently. "It's all right. I'm going, any-
way, but stick to it, in case—you know. It's probably true.
194


C o unt er f eit
195
That fellow must have been putting up some kind of a bluff.
Whatever's going on I'm certain—sure—that J. O. will be
crazy if there's any publicity."
"What do you really think, George?"
The janitor, who had opened the window sufficiently to
allow the upper part of his body to pass through, now
twisted himself around and sat on the sill, pulling the sash
down tight on his knees. With a long swing of his free
hand he began wiping the dust off the pane, obeying Terry's
instructions to the letter. The interior of the office was
as plainly in his view as if he were inside, but the almost
closed window did supposedly and in actual fact render it
impossible for him to hear anything that was said.
Harden was sitting at his desk, partly turned from it so
that his back was toward the busy janitor. He had not
looked up as he put his question to Ingalls, who was stand-
ing at his right on the other side of the desk and conse-
quently facing the window. Peter saw the manager glance
sharply down at the dark, bent head of the secretary with a
look so full of distrust as to be positively startling. His lips
moved and Peter read from them, with even greater ease
than he had that fateful night in the restaurant mirror.
"Can't you imagine that J. O. might have a reason of .
his own for not even letting you know, this time, where he's
Harden nearly turned his chair, over as he shoved it back
and got to his feet. His profile was toward Peter now. He
could only guess what his words were but their import was
plain from his expression, even if Ingalls' reply had left
any doubt.
"I mean just that. You've been gambling all over the
place, Barry, and you're head over ears in debt. You can't
deny it. God knows I've warned you he'd find out. And
about Shirley."
"Curse you, George. Keep her name out of it." Clen<
gone?'


196 C ounterfeit
hands and chin thrust forward told Peter what that was.
"No offense," said Ingalls with a sarcastic smile. "She's
pure as a lily, no doubt. I'd be the last to hint otherwise,
old man. She's beautiful as the dawn, and rich besides.
She can afford to amuse herself any way she sees fit, but
you know J. O. warned you not to try to keep up the pace of
her lot. If he knew you were still going about with her—"
Harden's face was turgid with black anger. "I'm not,"
he said, with a harsh shake of the head.
"Since when?"
"Look here, George, this is no business of yours."
"No? Unless it explains why J. O. cut away again and
didn't tell you as he always has before."
"Why should he do a thing like that?"
"Didn't it ever occur to you that he might some day lose
his confidence in you, Barry? Did you think you could
always be the favored one of the whole outfit and yet play
fast and loose with J. O.'s expressed wishes? Has it never
entered your careless head that this time he might have
left his address—with someone else?"
"Did he? With you, George?" The young secretary's
face was a battle-ground of emotions.
"I'm not saying." Ingalls' fine white teeth flashed in a
smile. "All I'm suggesting to you is that such a thing
might be on the cards, so watch your step."
What Harden said to that Peter could not tell, for at that
instant the heads of both men jerked suddenly, as if pulled
by a string, toward the hall door. With a quick motion the
amateur window cleaner smeared his sponge full of damp
white powder up and down and criss-cross on the pane in
front of his face, leaving only a tiny clear spot for the bene-
fit of one unwinking bright steel-blue eye.
Yes, it was Jake. Bent on getting an answer to the ques-
tion raised at lunch time. Prompt, and efficient, according
to his lights—which really did rate a high candle-power.
It was a mean shame to put up a game on him, but some-


C ounierfeit 197
thing irrepressible in Peter's cosmos chuckled gleefully as
he proceeded to cover the outlying portions of the sash with
a thin but opaque coat of the cleansing white paste.
Would the old scout recognize his legs? They felt quite
defenceless, left there in the room all by themselves.
Through his peephole Peter saw the police detective advance
purposefully, toward the desk, having eyes, at the minute,
only for the two men who stood beside it.
"There's a couple of questions I'd like to put to you
gentlemen," he said, and almost instantly noticed the
smeared window and the two long, blue and white striped
legs over the sill. Peter saw him glance covertly several
times at the dusty brogues that comported themselves in a
queer sort of twisted dance step in unison with the con-
vulsive motions of other less conspicuous members.
Kerrigan went hastily on with his preamble. Peter
waited a few seconds longer, then, without apparently pay-
ing the slightest attention to the group within the room, and
because Terry had told him to let the powder dry thoroughly
before it was polished off, he shoved the obscured lower
sash up and pulled down the one above to bring it within
convenient reach. Out of the tail of his eye he saw Jake
suddenly bite his lip as his own upper works came into view
through the untouched panes.
"Still harping on that queer idea of yours that those two
telegrams were not bona fide, Captain?" Ingalls said.
By means of reading lips when he could see them and
through his knowledge of the subject under discussion,
Peter was able to make out practically all of the conversa-
tion that followed. It was a little like an old fashioned
silent movie, he thought, and being both actor and specta-
tor in the short drama, he wickedly allowed himself to
supply some of the comedy element, though an impartial
audience undoubtedly would have awarded the palm to the
variable expression of Kerrigan's face.


198
C o unt er f eit
"Maybe you have some knowledge of your own that
you're withholding, Mr. Ingalls, that makes you say my
idea's a queer one." The police detective spoke severely,
but he was keenly conscious that Peter Clancy was ob-
serving every movement as he busily drew his sponge up
and down across the sections into which the upper sash
was divided, obscuring a pane and then dodging his face
over to another with the ridiculous unsettling effect of play-
ing at bo-peep.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Ingalls, shortly.
Neither of the two officers of the Olmstead Company had
asked Kerrigan to sit down, but he did so now, pulling the
chair about so his back was toward that disconcerting window.
"Just what I say." Unconsciously he repeated the phrase
Ingalls had used earlier. "If you gentlemen know anything
that the police do not, you'd be very wise to come across
with it, because I have a strong personal reason for wanting,
and meaning, to get to the bottom of the matter."
"What personal reason could you possibly have, Cap-
tain?" Ingalls pushed back some papers and sat down on
the corner of the desk.'
"Terence Sheehan's a very good friend of mine and has
been since I was a lad," said Kerrigan, with feeling. "It
was why he brought his findings to me. See? Because
I was a friend, and only as you might say incidentally be-
cause I was a police officer. I thought he was nutty then,
but now—I'm pretty sure—he isn't. I wasted some time
but I don't mean to waste any more. Do you get me?"
"We surely do," said Ingalls easily. "If I may say so,
we get, but we don't quite follow you. Exactly what is it
you want to know?"
Would Pete strike out from the shoulder now? Ker-
rigan wondered, and almost without knowing it twisted
his chair so that he could glance at the window. Those two
absurd long, shapeless legs and the turned in brogues were
all that could be seen except for a pair of eyes, dancing


C o unt erf eit
199
crookedly through the irregular dash of clear glass in the
last, otherwise obscured pane.
"Perhaps you gentlemen don't know," said Kerrigan, ner-
vously ignoring those penetrating eyes, "that the police can
trace every call that goes through the telephone exchange."
"Indeed," said Ingalls, who seemed to have elected him-
self spokesman. "How interesting. Do you mean you'd
know who put in a call from a public pay station?"
"Naturally not," said Kerrigan, tartly. "Though we're
able to trace those, too, in many instances. There are
things observed and records kept that the public don't know
much about."
"Very clever," said Ingalls glancing sidewise at Harden
with a sharp, speculative look that the police detective was
quick to observe. "But what, may I ask, Captain, has all
this to do with the proverbial price of cheese?"
"Well," Kerrigan squared around to face the young sec-
retary who had dropped again into his chair, "there's a
peculiarity to be observed in the calls that came into this
office on Friday the thirteenth and Monday the sixteenth,
and it occurred to me that Mr. Harden would be glad to
explain about two of them."
Ingalls slid off the desk and stood up squarely on his
feet. His glance swerved from Kerrigan's face to that of
Barry Harden. He did not even see the conscientious jan-
itor outside the window, who was so painstakingly polish-
ing the glass. Stepping around the end of the desk the
general manager put his hand on the shoulder of his asso-
ciate. "There's nothing Mr. Harden can't explain," he said
defensively. "What is it that strikes you as unusual?"
Kerrigan wished that he had the list that Peter had
niched from him. The gesture of spreading a paper open
and referring to it gives one a certain advantage. He cut
his eye over to the window, saw Peter's eyelid descend in
a covert wink, and turned his own head away with a jerk.
The pause had been imperceptible. s


200
C o unt er f eit
"It's merely this, Mr. Harden." Kerrigan pointedly ad-
dressed the younger man. "You came to the office here
early on Friday and also on Monday and remained here
the entire morning. That's what you told me, wasn't it?"
"I don't remember telling you, but it's true," Harden
replied shortly.
"Neither of you can say, I remember, exactly at what
hour the two telegrams that were supposed to be from Mr.
Olmstead came in."
"The hour? Oh, well, yes," corrected Ingalls. "I took
the one on Friday that was sent from the train, you know.
It was between nine and ten. I came in about nine and I
went out about ten, so that's that. On Monday it was later,
but I can give you the hour because Miss Ashton took it. She
came strolling in an hour late, which would have been ten
o'clock. I fired her at eleven and she left at once."
"Yes, yes," said Kerrigan, curbing his impatience. "You
were good enough to give me that information the other
day. I should have put it in minutes, not hours."
"Ah," murmured Ingalls, with a shake of the head.
"You disappoint me, Captain Kerrigan. I thought the
police were so accurate."
The nicely polished lower sash went up with a zip and the
upper one came down. Only Kerrigan noticed the fact and
only he knew that Pete had probably lip-read the insulting
remark and was almost certainly chuckling over the same.
"We all have our failings," he admitted, with a sardonic
droop to the corners of his mouth. "Put it that you can't
supply the exact minute that those fake wires were phoned
in, but you both know that it was while Mr. Harden was
here in his office."
"Yes," said Harden sharply. "What of it?"
Kerrigan leaned forward with his elbow on the desk. "If
you were here," he said, regarding the secretary narrowly,
"who was it that phoned from your apartment, at nine-thirty-


C ounterfeit
201
five on the thirteenth and at a little before eleven on the six-
teenth?"
"Must have been old John," said Ingalls quickly.
"Let Mr. Harden answer, please." Kerrigan glanced up
imperatively and then quickly back again. "Do you remem-
ber that someone in your apartment did call the office here?"
"I remember," Ingalls broke in hastily. "It was Shir"
"I'll speak for myself, George," cried Harden, rising
quickly to his feet. "I do recall the circumstance, Captain
Kerrigan. It was my valet, John Ball, who called me,
both on Friday and on Monday."
Just what Pete told me he'd say, thought Kerrigan, but
he did not shift his glance from Harden's face. "What
was the message about?" he asked with quiet determination.
"Someone had phoned my apartment and John relayed
the message as he always does anything of importance."
"They were of importance, then?"
"Only to me. It has no bearing on the question in hand."
The man spoke with firmness and a youthful dignity that
was rather disarming.
"How do we know that?" Kerrigan's voice was cool,
but his face looked as if it had been carved out of some
extremely hard wood.
"Because I tell you so." Harden had planted himself
firmly in front of Kerrigan. His hands were in his trousers
pockets. Peter always liked to see hands. They often told
what lips denied.
"You say the messages were important and you imply
that you don't mean to tell me what they were about?"
Kerrigan looked up from under his bristling eyebrows.
"You interpret my attitude with startling accuracy."
Harden bowed slightly from the hips.
"Why don't you tell him, Barry?" urged Ingalls.
"Because it's none of his business," flashed Harden.
"Good God! What does he think? That I had those wires
phoned in? Why he's crazy! What object"


202
C o unt er f eit
"Keep your head, old son," warned Ingalls in so low a
voice that Kerrigan scarcely heard it though the words
were as plain to Peter, who could see the general manager's
lips, as if they had been shouted. "Harden's a bit jumpy,"
he said aloud to Kerrigan. "Don't mind what he says. I
believe I know the gist of the messages that old John phoned
in. They were purely personal and were from a lady whose
name Harden is too chivalrous to mention, and quite rightly
so, I think you'll agree. It's the sort of a personal matter
that a gentleman like Captain Kerrigan will undoubtedly
accept as read. The point being one that faithful old John
can be trusted to verify in case the police thought it at all
worth while to investigate. The idea of connecting Barry
Harden with a plot of any sort is quite too absurd, I give
you my word. The fact that he refuses to be more explicit
in a delicate matter is more to his credit than otherwise.
You see that, Captain, don't you?"
Kerrigan saw many things. In spite of Ingalls' voluble
defence the police detective caught an expression, a kind of
over-enthusiasm that made him wonder if he might not
have started a suspicion in the mind of the general manager.
They talked a few minutes longer, but the upshot was that
Harden had taken exactly the stand that Peter had declared
would be his own under like circumstances. Kerrigan had
a nasty feeling that Peter had put up a game on him—
had, perhaps, taken that paper just to make him think there
was something important about those suggestive phone calls,
and was now laughing in his sleeve. This idea was not dis-
pelled when, in making his exit, he turned at the door to
say good-bye to the two officers of the Olmstead Company,
who were both looking in his direction. For Patrick Cal-
lahan had just wiped the last speck from the glistening
window and was sitting there with a triumphant grin on
his face. As Kerrigan looked the janitor raised his sponge
as if he were about to sniff at it, and with his thumb in
proximity to his nose, twiddled his fingers derisively.


CHAPTER XX
AERRIGAN was so outraged with Peter's flippant
conduct that he left him severely alone all the next
day and until the following morning, which was
Sunday. He would not have gone to see him then, but for
the fact that he had received a wire from Raymond Trant
late Saturday night, which became an excuse if not a neces-
sity for the resumption of diplomatic relations.
He found Clancy clean and cheerful, taking a late break-
fast in the charming studio apartment that Wiggar had
found for him some time before and over which that de-
voted soul presided with the concern of a mother and the
almost unbelievable perfection of an Admirable Crichton.
"Come in, Jake, old scout," cried Peter, as his friend ap-
peared in the door. "Where've you been keeping yourself?
(Another place, Wiggar.) You're a sight for sore eyes,
old dear. Sit down and rest your hands and face. Have
you seen the paper?" He started to push some of the sheets
across to Kerrigan, but the latter shoved them back im-
patiently.
"You're mighty peart this morning, aren't you, Pete?"
he said. "It's a wonder to me that you have the nerve to
look me in the face. Where's that list of phone calls you
pinched off me?"
"Oh, that?" Pete grinned brazenly. "It's in the inside
pocket of my working coat, Wiggar. Get it for Captain
Kerrigan."
"Beg pardon, sir," Wiggar crossed to a large mahogany
secretary that was in the far end of the room and return-
ing with unhurried swiftness laid a paper at Kerrigan's
right. He stepped back a pace, came to attention and said,
"I had to hang the coat out in the wind, sir, and I removed
the contents of the pockets."
203


206
C o unt e r f eit
out in an open field, where there were daisies and butter-
cups and sweet clover."
"Sounds like a cow to me," Kerrigan remarked judicially.
"Are you falling for a skirt at this late date and with your
professional experience, Pete?"
"No," said Peter quietly though his muscles contracted
as if a physical hand had touched an old wound he carried;
one that he believed would never quite heal. "But the girl
is precious, Jake. A rare, gallant, untouched little soul.
And I'm afraid there's trouble coming to her—that nobody
can avert."
"Well, if we can't do anything about it, Pete, don't let's
waste time crepe-hanging. Even though you do say it with
flowers, old scout, you're getting nowhere very fast. And
at the same time, son, don't think I miss the fact that you're
doing a good deal of stalling. I'm letting you get away with
it right now because I'm kind hearted enough to be keeping
you up to date. Look here." He took a sheet of flimsy
paper from his pocket and pushed it across the table. "Day
letter. Got it last night."
"From Ray!" Peter grabbed it and devoured its con-
tents. "Won't be back till Tuesday, he says. Hum-m."
"Read it aloud," ordered Kerrigan.
Peter complied. "Your accent valuable letter received.
Hold everything for accent me. Tied up here tight. Ask
Peter Clancy to go the limit. Accent entire sentence. Hot
on trail of several new prospects. Back Tuesday. Meet
you both at Clancy's after dinner unless you leave counter
instructions on bureau. Am writing."
"What the heck is he getting at with that 'accent' stuff?"
grumbled Kerrigan. "Trying to use up the fifty words, like
eating something to save it? Just makes confusion, if you
ask me."
"Leave the word out and do it, then, Jake," Peter laughed.
"It's an old darned-fool trick of Ray's. He says people
change all the sense of a telegram by the way they read it,


C o unt er f eit
207
so he makes sure by indicating in words what he would
underline if he were writing. See? 'Your valuable letter'
—'Hold everything for me.' That means don't split it
with the department. Just what we thought he wouldn't
want done. I guess we're on the right track, Jake."
"Oh, yes. I see. And he is keen for your staying in the
game, Pete. That's clear enough. Also he says leave mes-
sage on the bureau instead of at the Bureau so he won't be
scented as a Secret Service man by any outsider reading
the message. I got that right away. . . . Well, then, I
guess it's all up to us until Tuesday night."
"Looks like it," said Peter thoughtfully, glancing again
at the rescript of the telegram. "Wonder what Ray's done
at Pondicherry. . . . 'New prospects.' Does that mean he's
spotted some of the counterfeiting gang, or only that he's
coralled more of the bogus bills?"
'Wish we knew," Kerrigan glanced into his empty coffee
cup as if he thought some truth might lie at the bottom.
Wiggar, taking the hint, without comment poured another
cupful from the steaming percolator on the sideboard. The
police detective made no break in his line of conversation.
"Seems to me Ray might have trusted to our intelligence
about those accents and been a little more explicit about his
bright prospects. Do you suppose he might have discov-
ered some sort of a plant down there?"
"I think that's highly improbable," replied Peter, drag-
ging a Socony road map out from under the heaped sheets
of the Sunday morning papers. "I've been looking up the
locality. Aiken's the next large place and that has no sort
of business really except stables and hay and grain em-
poriums and sich. There is no big printing, binding and so
forth establishment in the close vicinity, although there is
one in Tennessee not so terribly far away."
"It's your idea that the bills are made under cover in
some legitimate place, Pete?"
"Wouldn't it seem probable, since they're so good that


208
Counterfeit
only an expert can detect the fraud? The paper, Ray said,
was almost the only thing that gave it away. Apparently
the right sort of paper is harder to get than one would sup-
pose."
Kerrigan straightened the curves of his front elevation
and drawing a bill-fold from an inner pocket produced a
small pad of currency. He spread it open on the table and
rubbed the notes thoughtfully through his fingers.
"How the devil do you suppose tellers in banks get to
know the feel of this sort of paper from other kinds?" he
wondered. "If it's new it feels one way and if it's old and
greasy it isn't the same thing at all."
"How do you pick the right crook in a line-up?" Peter re-
sponded. "Matter of training and natural aptitude." He
made a bow and a flattering gesture that was not all friendly
mockery. "You know your onions. And so, according to
Ray, did the bunch that made his precious counterfeit. He
particularly spoke of the portrait work, Jake. It seems
that's where the counterfeiters usually fall down hardest.
I remember he said that an engraver who could do that sort
of thing could command a salary of from a hundred to two
hundred a week doing it legitimately."
"Etherington gets two hundred you said," Kerrigan con-
sidered. "And he engraved a portrait of Franklin—that
was stolen. What do you really think about that, Pete?"
"Wiggar would say it smelled a little piscatorial, in the
circumstances." There was a gleam in Peter's eye as he
glanced up at the calm being who was removing the plates.
"Everything about that Rockland job has been kept abnor-
mally quiet. J. P. Jr. is in Europe. We can't ask him any-
thing without coming out from under cover. I've had my
shell-like ear—What did you say, Jake? Oyster shell?
Do you think that's nice—Well, anyhow I've had my ear
to the ground and I can't get a whisper that any of the
hands know a thing—about the job or about that missing
plate."


C o unt er { eit
209
"Did Etherington just pretend it was stolen?" Kerrigan
leaned forward to ask eagerly.
Peter pushed both hands up through his thick red hair.
Wiggar shuddered inwardly but was able to control his out-
ward expression. It was the master who spoke. "I wish
to the lord I knew. Apparently the plate disappeared at the
exact psychological moment—if—it was to be used as we
suspect."
"That's right," said Kerrigan. "I made young Harden
describe it to me. The portrait and oval were complete, but
none of the do-hinkies around the edge had been put in.
The Rockland plates measure something like eight by ten,
and the complete ones have a kind of a border all around,
but that hadn't been started."
"A bill is only six inches by a little over two and a half,"
added Peter. "It would have been quite possible to put in
an entirely different kind of border, with certain numbers
and letters all complete, and have trimmed the plate down to
those dimensions. Etherington is so entirely trusted, ap-
parently, that whatever he said about the disappearance of
the plate would be accepted as fact—or"
"Or what?" prompted Kerrigan impatient of Peter's sud-
den pause.
"Or he could be trusted not to squeal if—if somebody
he liked—put it to him in the right way."
"I've thought of that," said Kerrigan soberly. "But
who?"
"Ah," Pe^er shook his head. "If we only knew who sent
in those fake telegrams, Jake. Especially that last one.
Whoever did that certainly knew about the missing plate.
. . . Yes. That says itself. And why was it mentioned?
For the obvious reason of having it duplicated in time to
meet Rockland's wishes? Or because it gave authoritative
reason for supposing that John Oliver Olmstead actually
did send it? Or, Jake, to throw a scare into the crooks that
had made such dangerous use of the vanished plate?"


210 C ount er f eit
"Blackmail? I hadn't thought of that, Pete."
"Sounds far-fetched," Peter admitted, "but the whole
thing is fantastic in spots. Why, for instance, did the old
gentleman lead you such a dance Thursday night. Of
course he spotted you."
"Like hell he did."
"As sure as shooting, Jake." Peter shook his head.
"You had too many conditions agin you, old scout. I've
made some subterranean inquiries and I can't find out that
Etherington is anything of an athlete. Even so, a walk up
to the Park and back might fit in all right, but when at a
fairly late hour he deliberately passes Twenty-ninth Street
where his own little bed beckons, and walks all the way
down and around Union Square, it seems to my subtile in-
tellect that it could have been for just one purpose, to make
sure whether or not you were following him. And that
isn't the only thing that bothers me. How could he have
had the heart to stage a row with his little niece at just this
point in the game? He'd been very decent to her before,
from what I could gather. Was there some sudden neces-
sity, Jake? Did she discover something—or was she on
the point of finding out something that made it necessary,
at any cost, to discourage her from using the keys Miss
Kinsella let her have?"
"What kind of thing, Pete?" Kerrigan sat forward on
his chair. His cigarette had gone out.
"Of course there are a lot of things he'd want to hide,
maybe," said Peter slowly, "if he belongs to this gang we're
presupposing. For one thing—look again at that lathe-
work on your bills, Jake. I don't believe there's a possibility
that could be imitated by hand so it would get by. Well, if
they have, somehow, got hold of one of those big mechanical
lathes, where is it? Not in the basement or sub-cellar of
the Olmstead building. That I'll swear to because I spent
all of Pat Callahan's Saturday afternoon off yesterday ex-
amining them. There's nothing visible to the naked eye in


212
Counterfeit
."Hum-m— Only daughter of the late Cornelius Van
Zandt. Is this the girl young Harden's trotting around
with?"
"Don't you remember seeing them together that night
at Cherie's? Yes. She's the one. And look at the long
picture at the bottom of the page. That's her again, see?
On the seat of that very swell coach. Oh, Wiggar!"
"Thank you, sir." With no other question than a glance,
Wiggar lifted a large magnifying glass from the far side
of the low table and handed it to the police detective.
"She's very beautiful. You'd better take a good look,"
said Peter and waited, watching his friend's face.
After a minute Kerrigan said, "Holy suffering shoe-
strings," solemnly, just above his breath. "When do you
suppose this was taken, Pete?"
"Must have been last week or the week before. Prob-
ably last week, since we have reason to believe she turned
Harden down the week-end that Olmstead disappeared."
"She's looking at him here as if she thought he was all
to the good," muttered Kerrigan. "The kind that would
keep a fellow guessing just to see what he'd do. Some
baby to keep step with. And the camera caught him when
he was just about to take a long jump. Will you gaze
upon the bunch of currency he's got in his mit?"
"I did," said Peter quietly. "Seems to be counting it.
Too bad that even with the glass one can't see the denomina-
tion of the bills. If Ray catches up with some more of
those counterfeits he's looking for down there, it would
be a kind of funny thing, Jake, wouldn't it, if that bunch of
notes he's going to bet with should just happen to have the
hundred dollar mark in the corners?"


CHAPTER XXI
m BETER did not know whether it was his imagina-
m tion, the weather, or some deeper cause that seemed
JL to cast a gloom over all departments of the John
Oliver Olmstead Company that Monday morning. Young
Harden looked worried and was so nervous that he nearly
jumped out of his chair when the sash slipped and banged
as Peter closed the window. One of the girls in the outer
office had been to see her family in the country over the
week-end and had brought back a lot of dried straw flowers
and immortelles. Without giving any reason she had
slipped in early and put a bunch of them on the chief's
empty desk. Perhaps she thought they were expecting him
back by now and the gesture was one of humble welcome,
but the lifeless flowers lying there seemed strangely grue-
some and Peter sympathized with Harden when he asked
Marie Lamont for God's sake to throw them away.
"Not yet," she begged in her sweet clear voice. "It will
hurt the poor girl's feelings. They're really not ugly at
all if they're properly arranged."
She picked the stiff things up and put them in a blue jar
that stood on the old fashioned mantel. A few deft touches
and she stepped back and glanced at Harden who was watch-
ing her rather curiously.
"They're not bad on the mantel," he said. "Leave them
there if you like to have them around."
Both of them had obviously forgotten Peter who was
over by the window polishing an ash tray with commend-
able care. After a minute Harden said, rather diffidently:
"Do you think your uncle would mind if you went to the
theatre with me again some night this week? It seems a
long time since we saw 'Whether or No.' At least it does
to me."
213


214
C ounterfeit
"It's nice of you to say so and to invite me again." A
bright color flashed softly up in the girl's face that had
been unusually pale. "I'll be glad to go. I don't have to
ask—anybody's—permission." There was a queer ring
in her voice, as if a little velvet purse full of silver had
dropped on a hard pavement.
If Harden noticed it he only smiled and said, "Free, white
and twenty-one? Just? You don't mind if I mention it
to Mr. Etherington though, do you? And shall we say
Thursday?"
Just then Ingalls came in to ask Marie to take some dic-
tation for him and a minute later Peter put the almost
blinding brass ash tray back on the desk and took his de-
parture.
Etherington was in his work room upstairs for a little
while that morning. He and Rosen were having some high
words when Peter reached the second floor. There had
been a little trouble about one of the steel fire-shutters that
had slipped out of place or stuck or something, and the two
old men seemed to be having a battle royal above the head
of the young chap who was trying to fix it.
It was not the first sporting event of the kind, as Peter
had understood from remarks let drop previously. In fact
the partition that cut in two what had once been one long
workroom had been put in to separate the two old men
and to give greater peace to the remainder of the loft.
There was a conflict of opinion as to which was the ag-
gressor, and in the present instance Peter thought it would
be difficult to determine, Etherington carrying on with
great spirit and Rosen countering with heavy, rumbling
guns. The noise of conflict receded when the general
manager stepped out of the elevator, but it did not wholly
die until he came back to speak to one of the photographers.
Rosen, his face red and angry, then beckoned the acting
chief into his room and closed the door. Etherington, per-
haps scorning to defend himself, went away almost im-


2l6
C o unt er f eit
torted. "He's answered your question pretty thoroughly,
but what you'll make out of that, I don't pretend to guess.
He hands us a few bouquets. The rest is all about himself,
and what he's doing. Hardly a word about our discoveries
here. Isn't that egotism for you?"
"Ham sandwich 'n' a cuppa coffee. Toasted chicken, 'n'
a cuppa coffee," called out the man at the counter. "Take
'em away."
Peter did so with becoming celerity. When he was seated
again he said, "Now let me read the letter, Jake."
"Put it so I can go over it at the same time." Kerrigan
turned the little handleless cream pitcher upside down over
his coffee cup and threw in a spoonful of granulated sugar.
"Ray does write a nice clear hand, doesn't he? Easy to read
as print. Wouldn't do you any harm to take some lessons,
Pete."
"Um-m-m." Peter was eating and reading at the same
time. The letter, on hotel paper, written in a somewhat
telegraphic style, was as follows:
Westmoreland Arms, Aiken, S. C,
Saturday. Oct. 28th.
Dear Jake:—
You and Clancy certainly are the cat's pyjamas and
I don't mean maybe. No time to tell you what I
think of your giving me the breaks. Don't know so
much about O. plant being one of the bases but by
George it does look something doing. We'll go into
it the minute I hit town Tuesday. Will get dinner on
train and be at Peter's by eight or half-past I hope.
Hasten to answer his P. S. marked "Urgent." Bu-
reau thought there was no reason to connect O. with
fraud though he did deposit that one bogus hundred
with two more good ones in his private account at
the Chase National, where he has large balance. It
seems he draws five hundred a week from his company.


C ounterfeit
217
(They bank at the Waycroft Trust because it is near
and the pay-roll large.) Not unusual for O. to deposit
most of the cash. Often in hundreds. No bad ones
ever caught before, and Youmans, the teller, is a wiz.
O. said he couldn't swear whether counterfeit was in that
week's pay-roll from Waycroft or had been left over
from previous week. But tell Peter to note this. Both
tellers at Waycroft were able to pick bogus bill out of
a bunch of good ones, same denomination, and are
sure they would not either have taken in or paid out
without spotting it. I'm not so sure. They knew
there was a catch somewhere when Vokes handed in the
cash because they knew him. Take it or leave it as
you wish.
Just a line about what's keeping me. Have located
quite a bunch of these notes in this locality and am
having deuce of a time checking back on them. So
far all but one was taken in first at the race course.
When I say first, of course I mean the trail ends there.
It's been a chase because some of the bookies bank in
home towns, some use safe deposit boxes in nearby
places so as to have ready cash. You know. I made
the rounds of all the bookies the first day. Wised
them up to watch for one hundred dollar bills. Pretty
soon Barks, a pretty smart chap, gave me the high sign.
And sure enough he'd spotted one. And that's the only
one we caught being passed, and the only one we got
any further with, if you can call it that, because the
case was almost exactly like O's. Very rich man
passed it out with a lot of good ones. Name's Howard
Northwick, young sporting chap. Nice, too. Banks
in Aiken. Had drawn a cool grand to play with that
day. Ten one hundreds. Teller is certain the bad one
didn't go through his hands. Northwick has no ex-
planation to offer other than getting it from bank.
Seems absurd to suspect him or any of the bunch he


C ounterfeit 221
No reason why Pat Callahan shouldn't eat here. I'll brazen
it out. So long as he doesn't notice we're together, ought
to be all right. Don't follow me for some time and watch
your step. Call my apartment as soon as you get a chance.
Wiggar knows all my plans for to-night."
He rose leisurely, picked up the little punched slip that
lay beside his plate and without glancing at Kerrigan started
toward the door, his mind full of swift surmise. It was far
more natural for him, in his assumed character, to be lunch-
ing in such a place than it was for Etherington, and yet
the tiny restaurant was clean and not so very far from the
house where the old man had lived for many years. That
he came in here to-day might easily be just another coinci-
dence. That word was getting on Peter's nerves.
If Etherington looked up he could hardly fail to recog-
nize the willing and careful janitor, but that would make
no difference, Peter thought hurriedly, since the old gentle-
man could hardly have had time to notice that the well,
though plainly dressed man Peter had just left was other
than an accidental table companion.
All this went through his mind in a flash. A few steps
and he was abreast Etherington's table. The old engraver
lifted his eyes from the flimsy menu, saw Peter, adjusted
his glasses, looked again, and with apparent surprise spoke
his (assumed) name.
"Sure, Mr. Etherington! And do you come here, too?"
exclaimed Peter with a free and easy laugh. "It's not such
a bad joint, at all, at all." He leaned down and spoke with
a friendly confidence that was neither presuming nor servile,
and his brogue was quite lovely.
"If you recommend it, Pat, I'm sure it must be good."
Peter wondered afterward if there was a tinge of sarcasm
in the old man's deep, resonant voice. At the minute he
had no time for cool reflection for, as he pulled some change


222
C ounterfeit
out of his pocket and half turned to the counter, the pretty
little cashier sang out gaily, "Oh, are you paying for your-
self to-day, Mister? I thought your friend back there al-
ways blew you. What's the matter? Have you fell out?"
Peter could have choked her cheerfully. He glanced into
the long flashily framed mirror behind the counter. Ether-
ington had received the lunch he had ordered and seemed
entirely engrossed in its consumption.


CHAPTER XXII
m BETER had no recollection of how he got back to
a the Olmstead Building. His mind was so fixed on
JL inward considerations that he moved automatically,
and it was not until Sheehan spoke to him as he entered the
furnace room that he came back to the immediate present.
"Lend me this chair of yours, Terry, for a little while,
and don't let anyone know I'm here." He dragged the old
swivel chair over into a hidden, unlighted corner, and
dropped into it, covering his eyes with his hands.
"There's something new, sir?" Sheehan's voice held a
note of alarm. "Glory be! You're not going to be sick, Mr.
Clancy?"
"Careful, Terry. Better call me Pat, even in your mind."
Peter looked around and smiled into the gnome-like,
troubled face. "I've got to think. That's the only thing
that's the matter with me, and that's enough, too. I've
just been romping along, taking notice of all the little pieces
as they showed up, but I haven't tried putting them together,
except in spots. Now I must see what kind of a picture
it's likely to be, because my time may be short here. I
must make hay while the sun shines—or burn up stuff
while there's a furnace handy. . . ."
His voice faded away, and silence fell like a curtain be-
fore him. He sank down low in the old chair, rested his
elbows on the arms, covered his eyes with his interlaced
fingers, and with concentrated purpose allowed himself to
become submerged in the clear deeps of consciousness. . . .
Etherington had become suspicious of Pat Callahan.
Peter was suddenly as certain of that as if an authoritative
voice had told him. Not difficult to imagine how it had
happened. Even supposing that the old man were innocent
223


224
C ounterfeit
of any special underground methods—if one could still
suppose such a thing. He and Barry Harden were thick
as thieves. It would be most unnatural in any conceivable
case, for Harden to refrain from telling the old engraver
about Kerrigan's two visits, since one of them dealt in a
significant way with the disappearance of the chief to whom
Etherington professed such devotion, and the other to the
question of the plate that had vanished while in the en-
graver's care. . . . Etherington would have learned that
it was Terry who had brought certain facts to the notice of
the police. If it had not been for the ancient friendship
existing between the Sheehans and the Kerrigans—that
still persisted in the old furnace man and the present Cap-
tain of Detectives—many things would not have happened
that had happened—and Peter wondered, supposing that
someone had had a previous knowledge of that one little
fact, if it might not have affected the entire course of
events. . . . Idle to speculate on that now. With a jerk
he brought his mind back to the line it was developing.
It was Terry that brought the police into the game—and
at almost the same moment acquired the assistance of a
long overdue and much needed janitor. The two facts, to
an innocent mind, might readily have had no connection.
. . . To a guilty one, if the facts were known, they might
be considered worthy of some investigation. . . . Kerri-
gan's giving chase Thursday night, and being spotted, as
Peter felt sure he was, would have furnished another peg
on which to hang questions. . . . And to-day, finding the
new janitor sitting at table in a cheap restaurant with the
police detective, and having their connection heralded by
that pert little cashier, was just a plain sinker. Unless all
the bets were off, and Etherington was really as good and
fine an old gentleman as he appeared, the fat as far as
Peter was concerned was in the fire, and the term of his
usefulness at the Olmstead Company practically expired.
To make the most of these last days—or hours. . . .


C o unt er f eit
225
When would he be called up on the carpet and dismissed?
On a pretext, of course. They would not dare to come into
the open—if—if—if
Behind the two frail, inch-wide curtains that shut out the
universe Peter's mind worked as does a clean motor, freshly
oiled. This way and that, that way and this. Facts in-
controvertibly established, lined up in changing sequence;
viewed from different angles; weighed, measured, ap-
praised. . . . And slowly emerged a conclusion so bizarre,
and yet so simple, that at first Peter would not look it in
the face. For some time it had been leering over his shoul-
der and jogging his elbow. And now at last it came boldly
out and stood before him grinning.
He looked at it a long time, then suddenly he jumped to
his feet, and, peeringf' around the corner, saw old Terence,
faithfully standing guard.
"Do you know the negro janitor who serves Miss Fanny
Kinsella in the antique shop back there?" Peter asked with
such eagerness that Terry was taken aback.
"Sam?" The little man's eyes popped nearly out of his
head. "Sure I'm after knowing him, sir, like I told you.
He's too dumb and lazy to be mixed up with any kind
of"
Peter stopped him with a quick gesture. "I want to find
out something, Terry, and I think he can tell me. Could
you get him over here?"
"I could," answered Terry with a little snort. "It would
be the getting rid of him again that'd be the trouble."
"You mean he comes over here and stays sometimes?"
"If I was to go out into that little old yard for a breath,
before five minutes he'd be there too."
"Do you ever ask him in here?"
"Oh, yes. Poor black devil. He's like a child, sir."
Peter nodded quickly. "So much the better. Drag him
in here as quick as you can without its looking queer, and


226
Counterfeit
then stand by while I talk to him. Don't seem surprised
at anything I say. Now, shoot!"
The old Irishman had not exaggerated his powers of at-
traction. In less than four minutes by Peter's watch, Shee-
han was back with an elderly colored man in tow. After
a few casual preliminaries in the way of introductions and
comments on the weather and allied topics of interest, Peter
lapsed into an obviously troubled silence. At length he
sighed, glanced at Sheehan and said:
“Glory be, it's an awful thing when a fella don't know is
he a father or isn't he, and his wife took to the hospital
and all.”
The sharp little eyes twinkled upward for an instant and
then shifted to the black face and round eyes of his latest
guest.
"St-t-t! Ain't it a shame,” ventured Sheehan, not being
clear as to what Mr. Clancy would be at.
"If we'd only a telephone down here," Peter grumbled.
“Or even if there was one upstairs a fella could come by
and not be bawled out! If I could just call up the hospital,
it would ease my mind to that extent! Say." Struck
with a sudden thought, he turned to the darkie. “Look here,
Sam, our Mr. Etherington, over at your place, has a phone,
hasn't he?"
"Sho he has.” Old Sam lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.
"He isn't over there now, is he?”
"I don' think so. He went out jus' befo' lunch time, and
I ain' seed him come back.”
"Well, see here." Peter spoke with great excitement.
“Couldn't we slip over there and use his phone?"
head with tremendous emphasis. "Miss Fanny'd give me
the debbil if I was to let anyone into Mr. Etherington's
rooms, and she'd find it out, too. Laws a mussy me! That
lady's the out-knowinest lady they is in the hul world. I
ain't allowed upstairs at all after I gets his rooms cleaned


C ounterfeit
227
up in the morning, and he sho has some comfortable chairs
you could go to sleep in on that top floor." He sighed re-
gretfully.
"He lives on the top floor, does he?" Peter asked, casually.
"Yessir, that's where he lives. His working rooms on
the one below, and we-all's on the ground floor."
"Hasn't he a phone in his work room?" Peter asked in
the same careless tone.
"I speck he has, but I dunno, and that's a fact," Sam
answered, rubbing his chin. "He keeps 'em both locked all
time. Won't allow me to clean 'em up or nothin'."
"Well," urged Peter, "if you won't let me go up and
phone, Sam, won't you do it for me? I'll write down the
number and tell you just what to say, and I'll give you
half a dollar, too."
But the negro was not to be bribed or persuaded. His
eyes bulged out for a better look at the coin Peter had taken
from his pocket, but he shook his head.
"I couldn't do it nohow, Mister," he said. "Fust place,
I ain't never talked over a telephone more'n two, three times
in my life, and this here one Mister Etherington's got is the
kind you push your finger in little holes and zing it round
and round and I could never do that, and don't I know it.
Let alone maybe being caught and losing my job."
Peter's face was very thoughtful as he glanced aside at
the stupid but honest old darkie. "Has Miss Fanny a
phone?" he asked.
"Yessir."
"Would you know if it had been out of order lately?"
"Oh, sho. Sho. I'd had to go and get somebody to fix
it, wouldn't I? I's the onliest errand boy we'all's got."
"Well—" It sounded as if Peter were weighing his next
remark— "I don't believe I have the nerve to go in and ask
Miss Fanny to let me use it. I'll have to wait until I can
get to a pay station, and all the while who knows what's
happening to poor Maggie!"


228
C o unt e r f e it
The two janitors tried to reassure him. Sam had seven
chilluns—that he knew of—and seemed in a position to offer
hope as to Maggie's condition, though as to the use of Mr.
Etherington's telephone, or a chance to get up into the old
gentleman's rooms, there was none.
Presently Peter deftly eased the old negro out of the base-
ment and back to his own domain, thereby adding another
moiety to Sheehan's steadily growing (if puzzled) admir-
ation. The old Irishman longed to ask questions but some-
thing in Mr. Clancy's aloof look, keen and clever though it
was, restrained him. He could not tell at all what the de-
tective's purpose had been in getting Sam over, or whether
the object had been attained or not. For himself, he could
not see that the conversation had led anywhere, but Mr.
Clancy had praised him for his help, and had almost im-
mediately gone upstairs again, leaving him cheered but un-.
enlightened.
Etherington did not come back to the Olmstead Company
that entire afternoon, though his absence seemed to be re-
marked by no one except Rosen, whose acquaintance Peter
was carefully cultivating. The jealous old craftsman would
be a more than willing witness for the Government in case
his rival were indicted on a federal charge, and while his
opportunities of observation were somewhat curtailed by the
short partition that separated their respective workshops,
he would still be in a position to supply many technical de-
tails. So Peter, for his own reasons, made himself as solid
in that quarter as possible.
And all the while he listened nervously for a summons
from "higher up." When would he be told that his services
would be no longer required? And above all, who would
tell him? If he were allowed to remain, what would that
mean? That Etherington had not mentioned his suspicions
to anyone?
As the afternoon wore on and nothing happened, it be-
gan to look as if this were the case, but the tension in his


230
Counterfeit
wearing. Now he stood, arrayed for the evening, in carefully
tailored black and white, and he looked amazingly hand-
some, though the cut of his dinner clothes was, perhaps, a
little extreme. Also Wiggar would never have allowed
Peter the line of color in the silk hose, nor the bright, thin
edge to the handkerchief that Ingalls had just sprayed with
violet water and placed carefully in his pocket
He turned to find the janitor's admiring eyes fixed upon
him. "Well," he smiled at the unequivocal though silent
compliment. "Do you think this is a good outfit to scale
fortresses in, Pat?"
Peter tried to look stupid and succeeded very well. "Scal-
ing the which sir?" He cocked his head sidewise. "I'm
afraid you got me when you spill college words, Boss. But
you sure look good to me, if you'll excuse me for saying so."
Ingalls evidently would and did pardon the liberty, though
he was so engrossed with himself and his own affairs that
he paid little more attention to the janitor, who lingered
obsequiously in the background.
Peter scarcely knew why he stayed. His real concern
should be, at that minute, elsewhere. But he had noticed
a large box and a small one lying on a table over against
the wall, and for some reason his curiosity was aroused.
He picked up a few scraps of paper from the floor and went
over there to put them in the waste basket that stood be-
neath.
The large suit box was from Mme. d'Armentieres, Robes
et Manteaux, Fifth Avenue, New York. The small, square
purple box was from Thorley's. Peter had a sudden sensa-
tion of disgust, as if he had inadvertently touched a cater-
pillar, but he told himself again that it was none of his busi-
ness, and certainly he could do nothing about it. The at-
tention of a pretty new frock and flowers might even be
welcome. There was a woman's dressing room where one
could, presumably, change. The date might already have
been made. How did he know?


C o unt erf eit
231
There being no slightest excuse for remaining, Peter
went reluctantly away. Hardly had he reached the floor
above, however, when, seeing it entirely unoccupied, the
idea that had been teasing him all the afternoon broke in
a flood, swamping all obstacles, and took complete possession
of his mind. To put himself in another's place was one of
the detective's great natural talents. Given a reasonable
amount of data, he would set the facts clearly before him,
shut out his own personality, and think himself into the
other man's consciousness ... If I were So-and-so, with his
knowledge and his limitations, what would I do under these
conditions? Several times that afternoon, arriving at cer-
tain rather definite conclusions, he had asked himself these
questions ... If a limited number of men had taken ad-
vantage of the fact that a certain kind of a portrait was be-
ing engraved here—had secured one and in some way had
completed it, to the tune of one hundred dollars a "proof,"
which would be, presumably, in that case "pulled" or printed
right here, where the proper sort of presses were so ready
to hand,—where, supposing these surmises were correct,—
where, then, would the plates be kept? To whom would
they be intrusted? Who, if he were involved in the crime,
would so jealously guard them as the maker? Was it at all
probable that he would, at any time, let them go out of his
keeping? He could scarcely carry them about with him.
There would be the front plate with the portrait on it, and
the one for the reverse side, with Independence Hall and the
accompanying borders. Each would be about two and one
half by six inches. Copper, steel-faced, and therefore heavy.
Inconvenient and risky to secrete on one's person . . . What
then?
Peter had passed down the long deserted loft and without
hesitation stepped aside into the dark room. An instinct
of caution that would never take for granted the emptiness
of so obvious a hiding place proved unnecessary in this in-
stance for the small black room, with its single ruby eye


232
C o unt er f eit
was as silent and untenanted as the rest of the floor. Hav-
ing ascertained this, Peter went quickly into Etherington's
workshop.
He had inspected it casually before this. Now he was
resolved to examine it with exceeding particularity. For
where is the darkest spot except, as the proverb has it, di-
rectly under the candle? The most difficult thing to observe
is the unquestionably obvious. If Peter's line of reasoning
were to prove correct, the plates would be hidden in some
characteristic manner and with a considerable degree of
subtlety.
Etherington was no fool. If his suspicions had prompted
him to follow Pat Callahan to that little restaurant, he had
not indicated that he had any ulterior motive, by so much
as the flicker of an eyelash . . . What had happened after-
ward? No doubt Jake would manage to put him wise some
time that evening, he found time to consider, while swiftly
and silently he went over the little workshop, inch by inch.
A large drawer full of proofs yielded nothing but an even
higher estimate of the old gentleman's skill. His tools
were in order, arranged in shallow drawers,—that had no
false backs, as Peter took pains to demonstrate beyond the
shadow of a doubt. The place was not cluttered with chem-
icals, and there seemed nothing anywhere of an ambiguous
nature. The light weight of the few framed photographs on
the wall precluded the possibility of a plate being concealed
between the picture and its backing.
A knowledge of the clever hiding places that had been de-
veloped by the criminal mind, was part of the detective's
education. To these he could add many ideas of his own,
but he was careful to consider the matter from his suspected
opponent's point of view.
The plates would be so thin that they could be slipped
into a crack in the woodwork, such as he found along the
window-frame, but he was not surprised that his probe gave
negative results. A matter that would involve carpentry


234
C o unt er f eit
were so placed that ho shadows fell upon the obscuring
blinds. His workshop below was dark. So was the little
court that separated the two buildings. From this angle
Peter could see quite a large corner of the yard that gave on
Twenty-ninth Street, and he was surprised to note that there
was a very narrow passage, probably for light, between the
extension that was the rear of the old curiosity shop, and
the building that almost touched it at the northeast corner.
The rough wooden vestibule that sheltered the back door of
the antique shop obscured the very narrow entrance, when
observed from the level of the court, and it would have been
difficult to see it even from this height except that the re-
cently lighted street lamp in Twenty-ninth Street was so
placed that it threw the black shadow of the corner of the
passage into sharp relief against the ghostly whites and
grays of the statuary beyond.
How weird it all looked, how remote from ordinary life.
The flotsam and jetsam of some long forgotten tide. The
pale curve of the baptistery of the Schuyler Memorial
seemed to Peter's stirred imagination like the stranded prow
of an old ship, deserted, breaking up on a hard, material
shore. Far away sounded the surf of the city's ceaseless
waves. Rising and falling. Surge and resurgence. While
in this still and stagnant backwater there was
Peter turned his head quickly and listened. Surely there
had been something. Movement. A voice—far away—
and instantly silenced.
In the dark, deserted building any sound would take on
an ominous color, Peter told himself sharply, yet he slid
back from the window, crept noiselessly past the grotesquely
looming camera tripods, and in a second had gained the top
of the stair that angled down around the blackness of the
elevator shaft.
There was a light in Ingalls' office. It shone brightly
through the ground glass of the door. It should have been
reassuring, but somehow it was not. Though his step on


Counterfeit
235
the stair was noiseless, Peter could hear no sound of voices
in the lighted room, and yet there was something, difficult
to define ... as subtle as the gaze of unseen eyes . . . that
told him there was someone there.
Almost two hours after closing time. Upon what excuse
could he open that lighted door again? And how explain
his own presence since he had taken every precaution to con-
ceal it. Question and disclosure now would be fatal to his
plans. He knew of a certainty that if he could do what he
purposed to do to-night, there would be more than a series
of coincidences to lay before Raymond Trant to-morrow.
What right or reason had he to interfere in a situation
that the obscurity of the surroundings and the lateness of the
hour perhaps caused him to exaggerate? None, surely.
And yet instinct is sometimes stronger than reason and in
some persons chivalry outweighs self-interest.
Peter took one determined step forward, and as suddenly
drew back.
From the hall far below, the faint click of a closing door
came up to him with the effect as if an arresting hand had
jerked him back by the hair.


CHAPTER XXIII
C TOMEONE running up the stairs. Rapidly. With
, ^ no apparent effort at concealment. Peter, shrunken
close down in the shadow of the second flight, ma-
neuvered himself into a position where, through the meshes
of the grille, he would get the first glimpse of the intruder
when he reached the top step.
There was no light except the all-night ruby globe that
marked the stair as an exit, and the illumined oblong of
Ingalls' door, yet Peter was almost certain of the identity
of the newcomer even before the man went briskly into his
own office.
Barry Harden. What had brought him back? Peter
might guess, but was in no position to know. Yet with his
mind's eye he followed the action tensely.
No sooner had the light flashed up in Harden's room
than there came a sudden hasty movement in the other, and
someone called his name. Marie's voice, and there was no
mistaking its eagerness.
Instantly Harden must have opened the door between the
offices, for there was a quick chorus of voices, nervous
laughter in his pleasant baritone, hiding something deeper,
an easy remark from Ingalls, and hurried, uncertain words
and broken phrases from the girl.
In his haste, Harden had swung his hall door to but it
had not latched. Quick as thought, Peter slipped from his
hiding place and crept near. He could hear their voices
now.
Harden was saying: "It's hardly sporting of you, George,
to make one person do all this writing. These reports aren't
due for a week, and they could quite well be written by one
of the girls outside. You know the antique crack about a
236


238 C ounterfeit
over the word, but went on quickly—"To Miss Fanny Kin-
sella's."
"You told her she was old-fashioned and provincial not
to take that frock and the wrap, George?" Harden asked in
a level tone.
"Of course. And she is," said Ingalls, lightly. "But
perhaps those qualities make her even more adorable. By
the way," there was a change from silk to metal, "what
brings you down here at this hour, Barry? I didn't know
you ever thought of the office, once you were away from it."
"I came down on business," said Harden, coolly.
"Something you'd forgotten?"
"No. Something I had just learned—and something I
remembered."
"You're speaking in riddles." Ingalls' voice was sus-
picious, antagonistic. "I make a more amusing friend than
I do an enemy," he warned, with an effect of being only
half serious. "You know better than I do how much you
may stand in need of friends."
"We'll leave it at that," said Harden after a slight pause.
"May I take you uptown, Miss Lamont, or"
"I thought you had some business to attend to," laughed
Ingalls, not unpleasantly.
"It can wait," said the younger man, shortly. "I can
finish it—later."
There was finality in the last sentence. Peter dared listen
no longer. He made two long strides back to the stairs
and went up them like a shadow. Presently the light in
Harden's office went out. The door of Ingalls' opened,
and Marie came into the hall with her hat and coat on.
Harden was just behind her. Peter had a good look at him
as he stopped to put on his overcoat. He switched on the
hall lights, little knowing that two keen, steel-blue eyes
watched, through the interstices of the elevator grille, his
every motion. Ingalls came out last, put out his office lights
and followed the others down the stairs to the street door.


C o unt er f eit
239
Then the rest of the lights went out and there was darkness
again and silence.
Peter waited until they had ample time to get away.
Then he, too, made his way to the street, and as rapidly as
possible home. If Wiggar was at all upset by his master's
not having dined abroad as originally planned, there was
not even the lift of an eyebrow to indicate it. Before Peter
was out of his bath, a simple but satisfactory meal had been
sent in from some unmentioned source, and Wiggar, calm
and efficient, did necessary, valetish things while his master
ate it.
Peter had allowed Wiggar to lay out his dinner clothes.
If they had been planning to clean a sewer after seven
o'clock, the valet would have preferred that it be done in
evening dress, Peter thought, with an inward chuckle; and
then had to admit to himself that the conventional attire
really gave him a certain sort of confidence. There need
not be, necessarily, anything messy in that night's perform-
ance as he had pictured it, and light pumps and black clothes
lent themselves to dark-stage adventure.
"Anyhow, I think I'd better be having a new dinner coat,"
Peter suggested, glancing down at the valet, who was intent
on the exact set of the smooth black bow he was tying; just
enough freedom and lilt to the ends to give it an unstudied,
adventurous look.
"I think we do very well with this one, sir," responded
Wiggar, with a quick upward glint of his pale! eyes. "You
never had a more perfect back, and the slant of the lapel
is very chic. Restrained and in perfect taste, of course."
"Yes," said Peter, smiling interiorly. "But I saw one of
those double-breasted dinner coats to-night. Ingalls was
wearing it and he looked so handsome"
Wiggar's face seemed to have lost what little color it
ever had. "A double—breasted—dinner—jacket," he pro-
nounced with pain. "You're not serious, Mr. Peter!"
"Yes, I am," said Peter, gravely. "It looked very sort


240
C o unt er { eit
of nifty, I thought, compared with the ordinary kind that
Harden had on."
"Nifty," repeated Wiggar, with a shudder. "I think,
sir, that your word is well chosen. I pray that I may never
hear it said that a gentleman whom I have the honor to serve
could be described as looking—nifty."
Peter was still laughing when Kerrigan came in a few
minutes later, but he became serious at once and lost no
time in preliminaries. "What happened in the restaurant
this noon after I left, Jake?" he asked eagerly.
"Could you beat that little nit-wit cashier?" Kerrigan
fumed. "Well, nothing happened at all, as you might say.
I knew it was no use waiting then and came along out. So
far as I could see, Etherington paid no more attention to
my looks than nothing at all."
"Didn't look up?"
"Well, perhaps just a glance. Off hand. Nothing to
show he was in the least interested, and somehow I don't
really believe he was."
"You mean you don't believe you were spotted in your
wild goose chase last Thursday night?" asked Peter. "Well,
have it your own way. Time will tell. In fact I think be-
fore the night's over"
He broke off for the telephone had shrilled suddenly.
Wiggar had the instrument in his hand before it had time
to ring again. "Telegram, Mr. Peter," he said after an
instant in a low voice. "Shall I take it?"
Peter nodded. "Repeat it aloud. Must be Ray's answer
to mine." The last to Kerrigan who raised inquiring eye-
brows but did not speak for Wiggar had already started to
relay the message. Though Peter was intent on the matter
of the telegram, he could not help smiling at the valet's
psychological reflexes.
"H (as in handsome) N—(as in nifty.)—left for New
York yesterday. Try his house and clubs. Boots and
Saddles preferred. (Will you be good enough to repeat


C o unt erf eit
241
that last?)" Wiggar had his eyes fixed questioningly upon
his master. "Thank you." He lowered the instrument.
"Boots and Saddles is correct, sir. Boots and Saddles pre-
ferred."
"Yes. Yes. Quite right," Peter agreed, hastily. "That's
one of the new sporting clubs. Ray means we'll be most
likely to catch him there."
"Who? Who's H. N.?" queried Kerrigan, and added at
once, "Oh, I know. Howard Northwick. What do you
want of him, Pete?"
"I think he can tell us some things we need to know,"
replied Peter, "and I wish you'd get hold of him, Jake.
To-night if possible. Let's get as many of these 'queer
coincidences' together for Ray as we can. Wiggar and I
are going to be busy for awhile, but I don't think we'll be
late. We can get started right away now, and I think we
ought to be back in an hour or so. If you could bring
Northwick here it would be great."
"What kind of a party are you planning to throw, Pete?"
"I want to see if there is any room we don't know about
in the cellar under Miss Fanny Kinsella's antique shop,"
said Peter slowly. "A place big enough, maybe, in which
to operate a power machine—like a geometric lathe. . . .
And then, if my luck holds, there's another place I want to
investigate. I found out from Sam, the colored janitor,
that Etherington has the two rooms on that second floor, and
he always keeps both of them locked. Sam is never allowed
in either of them—and I'm just curious enough to want to
know the reason why—and what there is in that second
room."
"I get you," said Kerrigan, crisply. "Well, it looks like
things doing and we might as well be on our way. We
won't be crying out loud if we can get more out of young
Northwick than Ray did."
"I think you won't have much trouble in persuading him
to come along down here," said Peter.


242
Counterfeit
"I will not," grinned Kerrigan. "Well, I'll be seeing
you."
They walked as far as the corner together and there
parted. Peter had elected to dispense with his car, and to
take the Fifth Avenue bus that came over from Riverside
and crossed at the end of his block. One came bumping
over and under the Ninth Avenue tracks almost immedi-
ately and Peter boarded it, Wiggar following and taking
his unostentatious place in the rear seat. Though the
valet's appearance was that of unshakable calm, his feel-
ings were slightly ruffled, for Mr. Peter had definitely re-
fused to let Dick Jarvis accompany them, and for once
Wiggar had disagreed with his master. This was just the
sort of escapade, he thought, in which the boy might be
allowed to have a* small, exterior part, that would be very
enjoyable and excellent training as well. He had not said
much, but Dick's keen disappointment had bitten deep.
After all, he had been a real help in the daily clearing up
of the Olmstead Building. It seemed as if he was entitled
to some reward.
But Mr. Peter had been firm. "This is no picnic we're
going to," he had said, while disposing of a set of delicate
instruments about his person, and as he slipped his small
automatic into the holster under his shoulder, where it
hardly affected the set of his coat, he added: "We may
run into trouble. Better take your own." Which did
nothing to change the eagerness of Dick's expression. . . .
Oh, well. The boy was young. Mr. Peter was usually
right . . . The older loyalty resumed the upper hand.
Wiggar got off at Thirty-second Street, as previously
planned. As he walked quietly down the avenue he saw the
bus stop again at Thirtieth, and his master alight. A police-
man strolled out from the shadow. Mr. Peter stopped to
light a cigarette. An observer would not have seen that
there was any interchange between the two, but Wiggar,
was aware that Sully, the patrolman, knew the master


C o tint er f eit
243
by sight, realized that there was an object attained in the
second in which that keen, homely face had been illuminated.
There would be no interference with their surreptitious en-
trance into the Olmstead Building.
This section of the city was always quiet at night, but
now it seemed more so than usual. There was literally no
one in sight when Wiggar, having quickened his pace with
careful calculation, caught up with his master just as he
opened the door, and they slipped inside like two shadows.
Both of them knew their way about by this time and needed
no light beyond that of the red lamp that shone dully just
beyond the elevator shaft.
Having reached which, Peter stretched out his hand,
touched Wiggar's arm and they both paused, listening with
every nerve taut. The far away street sounds came to them
muffled as with heavy velvet. Within, the place was so filled
with silence that it seemed to press against the walls.
After a minute, Peter handed over his hat and coat.
"Take care of these, will you?" he whispered. "I guess
we're all right so far. I've been thinking. . . ." He stopped
and Wiggar was surprised at the inflection of the low, con-
trolled voice. "I have a hunch," he went on, almost imme-
diately, "and I'm going upstairs first. I didn't finish my
search this evening. Want to take another look. I've
thought of a way—" He stopped again.
"Shall I come with you, sir?"
"No. No, I think you'd better drop down to Terry's room
and keep watch. I believe the old gentleman sometimes
comes over here at night. If he does, don't interfere with
him, and don't on any account let him spot you. Follow him
if you're sure you can do it safely, but not otherwise. Leave
him to me. Do you understand?"
"Oh, quite so, sir." The conventional phrase sounded
queer in the voice that hardly stirred the thick, dark air.
"All right," said Peter. "On your mark," and without
another sound, went quickly up the stairs.


G ounterfeit
245
he now went noiselessly up the second flight of stairs. The
dead silence all about should have been reassuring. He
knew every obstacle in his path as he crept down the dark
loft. After he had passed the tall cameras there was a
lessening of the gloom, for a faint, diffused light came in
from the rear windows. The rectangles of dull orange in
the upper wall on the other side of the court showed that
Etherington had not yet retired.
In any case, I must take no chances, thought Peter, and
being careful to make no noise, he slowly drew shut the
steel fire-shutters that fitted tightly across the rear windows.
Then and not until then did he dare to let his flashlight play
into the drawer he had pulled open.
It was a minute before he found the thing he sought. Its
position in the drawer had been changed, though, as before,
it lay there quite openly, except that other plates of the same
general sort, whether by accident or design, had been put in
on top of it in such a way that the difference in thickness
would not be apparent to an ordinary observer.
Peter's hand was not quite steady as he took it out and
let his flashlight play across the surface. Yes. He was
right. It was a view of the Avenue. An old one, judging by
the absence of some of the newer of the tall buildings, and
also by the somewhat scratched appearance of the plate.
Caution still admonished that the extra weight might
have a perfectly normal explanation that only his ignorance
failed to grasp, but as Peter turned the thing in his hand,
a flash of excited triumph sent caution into the discard. For
there, in the centre of the thick copper edge, like a delicate
piece of marquetry inlay, inconspicuous and yet illuminat-
ing, was an exquisitely fine bright line of steel.
No getting back of those returns, thought Peter, exult-
antly. A perfect place. So obvious. So characteristic.
This is a treasure trove to put Ray's eye out or I miss my
guess. Two plates. Cemented together. The bottom one


246
C ounterfeit
steel-faced. If I can only get them apart and make sure
that. . . .
He took up a thin flat knife that was lying near and tried
to insert it at the corner, but if they were two plates, they
were held together too tightly to allow of its entry.
If I'm right in this, Peter reasoned eagerly, there's prob-
ably some chemical that would dissolve the cement out with-
out injury. If I only knew what it was. It will be right
here, no doubt. Among these bottles. . . . There's my old
friend "Bleach" with the skull and cross-bones, same as Avi-
lon had. Cyanide. No fooling with that. His light flashed
on a can with a screw top and he read the label. Rubber
cement. I wonder . . . That dissolves in naptha . . .
Let me see. Is that it?
He reached up to turn a bottle to the light. His hands
were encumbered with the heavy plate and the flashlight, so
he slipped the former under his arm. In his eagerness he
drew the bottle too near the edge of the shelf. It tilted and
would have smashed itself on the floor if he had not caught
it in mid-air. A lesser of two evils, perhaps, but his heart
came up in his throat as the plate slid from his control and
fell with a resounding crash.
Instantly he put out his light. He stooped and groped on
the floor, and at that minute his highly trained senses, always
on guard, gave sudden, almost clairvoyant warning.
What was it? Where was it? A movement on the
stairs? Or in the front part of the loft? Impossible at that
instant to determine. Someone was stirring out there but
taking every precaution to be quiet about it.
The darkness was intense. It might be possible, with
caution, to pass the intruder, Peter thought, though the
other, without doubt, knew someone was there. If the flash-
light had not been seen, the crash of the plate must have been
heard out on the stairs, even supposing that the person had
got no farther than that.
There was just a chance. In the hurry and confusion of


C o unt er f eit 247
his senses one consideration was uppermost. The plate.
The plate that might be made to answer many questions.
The discovery that might lead to
His groping hand touched it—lifted it—and with a quiver
along every nerve the long fingers swept the floor again.
Two plates! The shock of falling had separated them.
He knew that by the light weight of the one he held. Two
plates—and in the inky darkness there was no telling which
was which. To keep the wrong one! After all! That
would be too much. Too much . . . Both . . . Both . . .
In as near a panic as he had ever been in his life, Peter
Clancy felt around him on the floor, inch by inch. The faint
noise in the front of the loft had ceased as if it had never
been, and yet he was certain that someone was there, waiting,
watching, listening for him to make a move.
The plate, being rectangular, couldn't roll. It must be
here. Right here. Ah! Thank God!
Softly, with infinite pains, Peter straightened and stood
upright. Even his breath made no sound, as with great
care he placed the double treasure trove in the inner pocket
of his coat. Wiggar would make moan at the stretching and
would threaten again to have the pocket deleted. The
thought flashed by and was gone. Every sense now became
absorbed in the one of hearing.
Yes. There it was again. A cautious step somewhere
out toward the entrance, but within the loft. Once more,
and this time nearer. Peter thought he detected a certain
amount of confidence in the movements, betokening fa-
miliarity with the surroundings.
There was one perfectly good chance of passing unnoticed,
he considered swiftly, and only one. With smooth action
that lost nothing of celerity by being noiseless, he slid
through the small door in the partition, moved like a ghost
across an open space, gained the utter blackness of the dark-
room, and drew the door to. He did not dare to latch it


Counterfeit
249
"Damn your soul," a vindictive voice mumbled, close to
the panel. "Stay where you are till they let you out in the
morning, and then see if you can make an explanation that
will save your skin!"
Peter's eyes were staring. Against the dense blackness
there had come to him a great light. He thought he recog-
nized the voice, and he was certain that he, himself, had been
mistaken for someone else. He had little time then, how-
ever, to consider this, for in less than a minute, from some-
where near the front of the loft, there came a great crash,
followed by the sound of recklessly running feet.


CHAPTER XXIV
/N THE meantime Wiggar, implicitly obeying his
master's parting directions, had gone at once down
into the basement. Picking his way with the deft
daintiness of a cat, he reached the furnace room without
having sullied so much as a finger. Arrived here, after a
protracted period of listening, he allowed himself sufficient
light from his pocket-flash to point out the position of an
old table that stood against the wall. There were always
newspapers about. Wiggar took one, opened and spread it
carefully, and placed upon it his own and his master's outer
garments, neatly folded, his own being at a respectful though
short distance from Mr. Peter's. Then he took the old easy
chair that Terence Sheehan used in his leisure moments, and
having placed this in a position where he could observe,
through the furnace room door, the rear entrance that led
to the back court, he carefully dusted off the chair seat, seated
himself and allowed his mind to follow Mr. Peter to the
upper regions.
Of course it was better than nothing to be allowed to
mount guard, but the heart hidden under the valet's wooden
exterior secretly craved a part involving more action. Not
for the world would he have mentioned it, however. If
Etherington came in, to follow at a discreet distance, and to
leave the old gentleman for Mr. Peter to deal with . . .
Well, naturally, that was as it should be—and yet
Wiggar stiffened suddenly, and the short hairs at the
back of his neck seemed to lift of themselves. Someone was
unlocking the back door. Noiselessly Wiggar rose and
moved still farther back into the shadows. The furnace
gave out a very little, orange-tinted light, and since his eyes
were well accustomed to the obscurity, he was able to dis-
250


C o tint er f eit
251
tinguish a tall dark figure that moved silently and cautiously
along the hall. Even he caught a pale glint of snowy hair
and was able to identify the man who had passed and was
now quietly creeping up the basement stairs.
Religiously following instructions, Wiggar gave the new-
comer plenty of leeway, but he had no intention of being
balked of the entire adventure. As soon as he was sure that
Etherington had time to be starting up the main stairs, he
advanced cautiously along the passage, and step by step,
mounted from the basement
When his head was on a level with the floor above, he
realized that his predecessor had left the door there open, and
he was surprised to hear a very soft, cat-like foot fall coming
along the hallway from the front. At first he thought that
Etherington, for some purpose, had gone to the main en-
trance and was on his way back, and he was glad that he
had not followed precipitately. He listened to the very slight
grating sound made now and then as the unseen feet crept up
the stairs. It was like a fiddle bow across his nerves to think
of Mr. Peter up there, unwarned, with that ominous, stealthy
presence drawing near and ever nearer, and he was about to
take advantage of the latter part of his master's instructions
when, to his astonishment, he heard a slight but unmistakable
movement to the left of the head of the basement stairs, in
the very rear of the main hallway.
It could mean but one thing. There were two men be-
sides Mr. Peter and himself in the building. Regardless of
the dust on the stairs and the exquisite crease of his perfect
trousers, (since in a judicial mind an important matter must
yield precedence to one of greater importance) Wiggar
knelt softly down, bringing his smooth-shaven chin on a
level with the floor, and craned forward.
Through a window, high up in the elevator shaft, a little
light filtered down from the lately risen moon. Among the
shadows of the hall, a darker shadow flitted across Wiggar's
worm's-eye view, and went silently over to the foot of the


252
C ounterfeit
stairs. There was a long pause. Then this man, also, began
the twisting ascent.
Two to one! Wiggar would have given worlds to cry
out. To shout a warning. But Mr. Peter's orders had been
explicit. He was on no account to let Etherington know
of his presence. Well, then, there was but one thing to do.
Wiggar touched lovingly the cold steel that nestled in the
holster in the region of his heart. Then, with meticulous
caution, and doing great credit to his master's training, he,
too, began to climb, slowly, softly, pausing to listen at each
angle before he adventured the next section of the stairs.
Thus he reached the floor on which the offices were sit-
uated. The hall extended on both sides of the elevator shaft
and its accompanying stairway. He could hear no sound
from either of the men who preceded him, and so paused
just below the top step, fearing to over run the quarry. And
at that instant there came to him faintly the metallic clatter
made by the plate when Peter let it slip.
Followed a silence in which Wiggar held his breath.
What had happened? What would happen now? Nothing
apparently—and yet— Wasn't there a stealthy, sliding,
creeping sound just above his head? And farther away?
Just a faint . . .
Two to one! How to equalize—and yet obey instruc-
tions to the letter? Wiggar hesitated no longer, but still
with infinite precautions, slipped along the hall toward the
foot of the next flight. From the window which was op-
posite and higher up in the wall of the shaft, the moonlight
struck through with an oddly incongruous effect, as if so
natural a method of illumination had no business there
among the bricks and concrete and the meshes of woven
steel.
The queer, sensitive creature, crouched at the bottom of
the stair, received this impression subconsciously, but it was
instantly chased from his mind by an appearance—a thick
shadow of something moving between him and the ghostly


C ounterfeit
253
light. Low down on the third and last turn of that flight
it was. Creeping slowly, slowly upward. Scarcely to be
distinguished or identified through the metal lattice that
guarded the shaft.
Then, suddenly, the shadow stopped. Wiggar held his
breath. From somewhere above and to the rear of the
building the low, harsh tones of a furious voice broke the
stillness. Strain as he would, Wiggar could not make out
a word, but the action of the man farther up on the stairs
was unmistakable. He had risen and was dashing up the
few remaining steps.
What followed after that was so fast and furious that
it seemed to take place all at once. Above was the sound
of, shock and collision. A silent struggle, marked by shift-
ing feet and heavy breaths. Then leaping down the shad-
owy stairs came someone. Not his master. By a sure in-
stinct Wiggar sensed this even as he jumped forward and
closed with the descending figure.
The impact swept them both off their feet. Wiggar
caught the wrist of the hand that sought his throat and he
held it fast, shifting his grip as the other struggled. Along
the narrow hall they rolled and fought, each striving to best
the other. It was like a nightmare. There was no light and
no time even to make a guess each of the other's identity.
All Wiggar knew was that no old man could put up such
a fight, and that this was not Etherington. Therefore it
was the man who had come in from the street and had gone
first up the stairs.
Where was Mr. Peter? What had happened to him? No
time to think and yet the thought was there even as Wiggar's
opponent broke away with a rapid, eel-like twist, and gained
the lower stairway.
The valet was on his feet in an instant, and racing after,
caught up with the flying figure at the end of the hall, almost
within touch of the main entrance. Being British, he did
not remember until afterward that he was armed, and in that


254
Counterfeit
exciting minute no alternative presented itself but to close
again with his antagonist, and at all costs to prevent his
escape until he could ascertain why Mr. Peter had not come,
long since, to the rescue. That thought was like a tolling
bell in his ears as once again he came to grips with the
writhing figure that seemed to be all arms and legs and
clutching fingers. Then, suddenly, it resolved itself into a
fist that crashed through his guard and sent the faithful serv-
ant down, down into utter silence and the impenetrable dark-
ness of oblivion.
What had become of Peter? Locked in the desperate
blackness of that close room, of which even the one red eye
was darkened, he listened to the far-away sounds that came
doubly muffled by distance and the closely fitted rubber
stripped door. Near at hand the water in the long sink
dripped and gurgled stealthily, ominously, in the almost
palpable obscurity.
For an instant, the one old terror that he had never been
able quite to master,—the horror of being shut in—trapped
—gripped him with a strangle hold. Then, with a supreme
effort, his higher sense and courage resumed their normal
sway. Rapidly his groping fingers touched a slim instru-
ment that fitted into a specially designed slot in the lining
of his waistcoat, and brought it forth. The round disk of
light from his hand-lamp lay steadily now upon the key-hole.
He inserted a pair of thin steel fingers that caught the end
of the key in a firm grip. He twisted it carefully, slowly,
and with a quick gasp of relief, heard the bolt shoot back.
One swift jerk of the door, and he was free.
The faint, confused noises that he had been unable to
interpret seemed suddenly to have ceased. Then, far below,
he heard the unmistakable closing of a heavy door. The
front entrance to the street, he thought. It's probably all
over—and flashed on his light.
As he did so, there was a rapid, inexplicable movement—


C o unt e r f e it 255
outside—on the stairs. Not pausing to wonder why it was—
who it was—Peter instantly sprang forward. "Stop," he
called. "Wait! This has gone far enough."
The noise of swiftly moving feet was his only answer.
Peter dashed down the loft and gave chase. Down, down
the twisting stair. His flashlight flickered on the stone steps
and through the metal grille. Along the hall—and the
quarry still to seek. But Peter was closing up. As he raced
down the last short flight and turned to flash his torch along
the main hall, the finger of light pointed clearly to the figure
that now dashed through the door of the basement stairs
and disappeared from sight.
"Etherington," he called. "Stop! Wait!"
It was no use. The feet pounded on ahead. There was
a second of delay, for the back door was closed, and Peter
was so near when they both burst into the open that he could
almost have touched the horizontal fold of the dark, loose
top-coat that was blown backward by the speed of its wearer,
who dodged aside with unexpected agility and avoided the
clutching fingers.
At that, Peter darted ahead and stopped, arms outflung,
against the rear door that led to Etherington's quarters.
"It's a show down!" he called out, in a low, determined
voice. "Hands up—and"
He was speaking to empty air, and then, and not till then,
did he, cursing his own stupidity, remember the narrow pas-
sage between the buildings that he had noted earlier in the
evening. The tall figure had slipped aside like a shadow, and
again, as if by magic, had disappeared from view.
Quick as thought, Peter followed. What did the man
hope for? If the gate were locked— But it might not be.
And at the most it would be only a short, stern chase. Sully
would be somewhere about. Peter had a police whistle. Not
to be used except of dire necessity. There was every reason
for making a single-handed capture. A man of Ethering-


256 Counterfeit
ton's age should be no serious opponent to Peter's strength
and speed.
By this he had dashed through the narrow brick walled
passage, which was merely a gap between the buildings, and
had almost blundered into a big, mid-Victorian fountain that
completely masked it from the other side. With quick
caution he peered out around the cold shoulder of a blobby
nymph who, impervious to exposure, was disporting herself
among still more blobby flowers upon the fountain's brim.
Apparently, except for ghostly heroes, gods and god-
desses and the like, the old yard was deserted. Whoever had
collected the incongruous mass of sculpture must have had,
Peter thought, an eye to size rather than quality, to mass
rather than merit. A dozen of the gray, faintly gleaming
objects d'art would have furnished, individually, cover for
any human being, no matter what his stature.
The gates were closed, though whether locked or no it
would be impossible to say. As Peter looked, the lights of
a motor car went quickly by in the street, but inside nothing
stirred.
He paused, perforce, and took his bearings carefully.
Would it be a question of making for the street, or of
doubling back and trying to get into the house? To other
conclusions he had swiftly formed Peter now added this one.
The house was the logical objective.
It was a practical certainty that the front doors, at this
time of night, would be locked. It seemed also obvious that
the man, playing this absurd game of hide-and-seek out
there, would know he would not have time to unlock the door
before Peter would be upon him.
His one chance, Peter thought, is to lure me into a game
of dodging around these ridiculous nymphs and satyrs, and
then somehow to give me the slip and get around to the back
door first. Once inside
His thought was interrupted by a stealthy flutter of mov-
ing shadow well over toward the corner where the old board


Counterfeit
257
fence increased the dim obscurity. Something whizzed
through the air, near enough to be heard, but if his quickly
withdrawn head were the billet, very wide of its mark.
That's funny! Peter was deeply puzzled. There had been
no report, and the flight of the missile was much too slow
for a bullet. If it had not seemed too unbelievable for even
this fantastic setting, Peter would have thought that the
attack was being made by nothing more lethal than a slung-
shot, or even that earliest boyish weapon, a bean-shooter.
Though David killed Goliath with a sling and a stone,
Peter considered swiftly, as he warily took shelter behind the
plumper lady who occupied the other edge of the fountain.
He had to crawl to do it without exposing his position, but
it was worth while, for his present protectress, if such she
might be called, commanded a far better view of the grimly
silent enclosure.
Seen from this angle, the strategic piece of statuary would
seem to be an equestrian group that occupied practically the
center of the yard. This had a rectangular base, large, and
about the height of a man. The horse and rider were suf-
ficiently raised to see anything that went on in Twenty-ninth
Street, if such had been their desire. At the minute, Peter
did not envy their position on that account, but because he
did not dare to move forward and leave the passage to the
back court unguarded, he wished he was in the gray stone
rider's place for just an instant, so that he could discover
whether anything was moving on the other side of the base.
Nothing. Nothing stirred. He could not see that dim
corner of the fence so well from here, but had no idea that
his fellow player in the grim game of hide-and-seek would
have stayed long in that somewhat exposed situation. How
he had been able to reach there in the time, Peter could not
imagine. He felt that it was a false move and was prepared
to take advantage of it when the time came. He was glad
of the momentary cessation of hostilities. It gave him time
to think and also to catch his breath.


CHAPTER XXV
m lETER drew back and switched on the flashlight that
m he snatched again from his pocket.
JL "Miss Fanny Kinsella! By all that's holy!" he
exclaimed. "And what are you doing here?"
"I might more properly ask that of you, I should think,
sir," said the little lady, smoothing the neat curls that Peter's
hand had slightly ruffled. "It happens that I belong here—
while you—" She glanced around at the havoc that had been
wrought.
"The proverbial bull in a china shop couldn't teach you
much, young man," she observed, after an instant's silence.
"How you could dare to come bolting through my door like
that is a mystery to me!"
Peter glanced keenly down into the determined small face
that gave him eye for eye. "That's not the only mystery
that's afoot to-night, Miss Fanny Kinsella," he said, gravely.
"Where do you come in on this?"
"Where do I come in on what?" she asked with a quick
lift of her firm small chin.
"Never mind now," said Peter, hastily. "Let me go to
Mr. Etherington. I must see him at once."
"Mr. Etherington?" she asked with as much of an ap-
pearance of surprise as if she had never heard the name
before.
"The man who dashed in here," began Peter, impatiently,
but she cut him short.
"Was yourself," she announced with finality. "I saw no
one else."
"You saw—" Peter gasped, and flashed his light full in
her face.
She winked in the sudden glare, but did not wince.
259


Counterfeit
261
sharp suggestion of alarm . . . But there had been a mix-up
of some sort while he was locked up ... It hadn't occurred
to him until that instant
These thoughts went by in swift sequence while he still
stared down upon the wreckage at his feet. If he had heard the
little elderly lady's anxious questions he gave them no heed.
Instead he snatched his arm from her grasp, and dashing to
the door, he whistled shrilly. It was a call that he and
Wiggar had between them: two notes, low in the scale, two
higher, and then one last, long-drawn note with a falling
cadence. He listened. There was no answer, and he whis-
tled again. Still the far away, dull rumble of the city, sink-
ing slowly to what it knew of repose was all that struck his
ear.
Miss Fanny had quickly lighted the nearest gas-jet, and
then had followed him to the door. The cold breeze blowing
in was reason enough for her convulsive shiver. "Tell me
who you are and what you want?" she said, backing away
from the menace of the pistol that Peter still unconsciously
held, and yet, somehow not appearing afraid of him—at
least for herself. A tribute, if he had been in any position to
realize it, to the candor and high intelligence that shone in
his strong, homely face.
He gazed down at her now with an intensity that searched
her very soul. "Will you tell me why you were here so late
to-night, waiting in the dark?" he asked slowly.
"No." A more uncompromising negation could not have
been uttered.
Peter changed his tactics, but he did not release her eyes
from his compelling glance. "Then will you promise me
something?" he asked with a smile, and his voice was very
friendly.
"Probably not. Why should I?"
Peter went on as if she had not spoken. "If I leave you
for a minute, will you give me your word of honor that you
won't touch any of this broken junk?" He indicated the


262
C ounterfeit
shattered objects on the floor. "And that you won't warn
Mr. Etherington?"
"I won't touch any of this wreckage you've made," Miss
Fanny answered after an instant. "And why should I warn
Mr. Etherington? Of what?"
"Don't you know?" Peter was watching her face.
"I wish—" her iron control broke for a second, and she
wrung her hands. "I wish to heaven I did!"
"So— That's it," said Peter. "You were in hiding here,
trying to find out. You knew something was going on."
But she had recovered herself. Though Peter was certain
she was lying, he was forced to admire the way she did it.
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about or
why you're here," she asserted roundly. "As to Nathaniel
Etherington, he is one of the noblest, best—A gentleman, in
the truest sense of the word. Whatever he does is neces-
sary and right. There isn't a man in the world"
The little cascade of words ceased suddenly. The face
of the strange young man had not warned her and in her
intense nervous excitement she did not know that the door
behind her had opened quietly; did not realize that Ether-
ington was there until she felt his touch on her arm.
"Miss Fanny Kinsella, most generous of women, I salute
you."
It was a phrase that, with varying adjectives, she had
heard every day for more years than she would have cared
to count. The deep voice now was vibrant with emotion, but
the fine face, under its mass of snowy hair, was quiet and
firm. Miss Fanny noted this with a strange feeling in her
heart. Her wonder deepened and her anxiety was no less,
but she derived comfort from the fact that he kept one
hand on her shoulder while he looked past her at the strange
young man with the red hair, and, glancing with apparent
curiosity at the mass of overturned and shattered objects
that lay all about, said sternly: "May I ask what you're doing
here in this—er—disguise, Patrick?


264 C ounterfeit
but that can wait. You're sure no one could have passed
you a minute ago?
"Impossible. I switched on lights after I found Wiggar."
Kerrigan gazed past Peter into the antique shop. "Good
glory, who's been playing hob here?"
But Peter did not answer the question. Not for an in-
stant had his eyes wavered from the elderly man and woman
and the open door behind them, through which he had a
view of a dim hall and the newel-post of an old-fashioned
stair-rail. Yet something even stronger than his fixed pur-
pose clutched at him.
"Wiggar," he said, sharply.
"Yes, Mr. Peter."
"You're not hurt? Step in front where I can see you.
Good lord!"
"But I'm really not injured in the slightest, sir," Wiggar
remonstrated. He carried Peter's top-coat over his arm, and
held his hat ready in his hand. His entire correctness of
attitude compared with his own disheveled condition would
have been, at another time, most entertaining, but for once
Peter's sense of humor was in abeyance.
"You're sure you're not hurt?"
"Oh, quite so, sir. I'm extremely sorry that the blighter
got away, Mr. Peter."
"Did you recognize him?" asked Peter swiftly, in a very
low voice.
"I regret exceedingly" (this was obviously not an over-
statement) "that I did not, sir."
"Ah," said Peter. "Too bad, but it can't be helped. Per-
haps we can find someone who does know him."
"Mr. Etherington, sir?" suggested Wiggar. "They must
have encountered at the head of the stairs. Perhaps he
could tell us"
They were all now inside the curiosity shop, and at a
motion from Peter someone closed the door. He moved


C o unt er f eit 265
quickly forward, passed Miss Fanny, and, stepping hastily
into the hall, called Wiggar to him.
"Light these gas jets," he said, still in the same low tone.
"Both of them. Make the hall as light as possible, and
stand right here. Have you matches?"
"Oh, quite so, sir."
With a queer look of concentration, Etherington watched
the gas flare up. He seemed to be unconscious that little
Miss Fanny had slipped her hand in his, but every nerve
within him drew strength from the contact. Whatever hap-
pened now, he thought, he could view without regret. The
stanch pressure of those small, soft, strong fingers made it
all worth while. Whatever came she would be loyal. She
must have heard—have guessed . . .
Etherington missed a few bits of dialogue here. A young
man who had come in just behind Kerrigan was introduced.
Northwick, Howard Northwick. He looked excited and as
if he were enjoying himself immensely. Kerrigan hastily
explained that he and Northwick had become tired of wait-
ing somewhere and had come down to the Olmstead Build-
ing, to find the outer door ajar, the inner one unlocked, and
the battered Englishman, just recovering consciousness in
the vestibule.
"Wiggar insisted that he heard you whistle, Pete," Ker-
rigan was saying. "I said it was impossible, but he would
have it so, and just then this little imp dashed in and told us
to hurry, that the Boss wanted Mr. Wiggar, so we all beat it,
and here we are."
"All safe and sound," put in Dick, cheerfully, but he
avoided the Boss's eye which was fixed upon him now with
a queer sort of startled attention.
"How long were you out there in the yard?" Peter took
a quick step forward.
"Oh, a helluf—I mean a long time." Dick's hands were
behind him. He replied uneasily, but with an attempt at
bravado. "I had a hunch—" (Peter knew he was being


CHAPTER XXVI
/T WAS Miss Fanny who slipped away to the gate.
The others stood spellbound, listening to the noise
overhead, the feet on the stair. The sudden voice of
Clancy at the door.
"After you, sir," he said, while a kind of fierce excitement
added a touch of grimness to the polite phrase.
"My God!" said Kerrigan, falling back.
A man, induced perhaps by the added grimness of the
automatic that gave point to Peter's courteous gesture,
stepped into the doorway.
"My God," Kerrigan repeated hardly above his breath.
"It's Olmstead!"
"Himself," said Peter, thrusting something white and
shining into Kerrigan's hand. "Dick knocked it off and
picked it up. It explains much, Jake."
Kerrigan's glance shot from the wig of fine white hair
between his fingers to the two men who now stood quite
close together near the door. Etherington's face was a
study. He stood erect and determined, shoulder to shoulder
with his Chief. About the same height and figure, there
was perhaps twenty years between them in point of age.
There was more than that, and more than a matter of time
between them in their long association. Whatever trouble
Olmstead was in for, Etherington would share without
shrinking.
"This sure is one hell of a proposition." Kerrigan strode
forward, shaking the wig in his clenched fist. His own
personal annoyance foamed to the surface. "Was it you,
Olmstead, that led me on that wild goose chase last Thurs-
day night?" he spluttered.
The strong, self-determined and somewhat ruthless face
267 S


Counterfeit 269
see I didn't even know you existed until that night when you
looked out of the taxi at the gate.”
"It was you,” she said, confusedly, glancing from one
to the other. “Not Uncle Nat.” Her quick young eyes had
grasped the significance of the white, shining locks, held
conspicuously before him in Kerrigan's angry fist. “Not
Uncle Nat,” she repeated, moving almost unconsciously to-
ward Etherington's outstretched arms. “And last night,
when I came in and you were so angry- " There was no
need for her trembling lips to finish the sentence.
"I wasn't really angry, darling. Only pretending to be."
Etherington reached and drew her toward him, with touch-
ing contrition in his voice. “I wanted to keep you out of
it all. From what Barry said—with the police about, and
everything—we felt there was going to be trouble."
“And you felt what was right,” said Kerrigan with heavy
emphasis. He turned furiously to Olmstead. "Maybe you'd
like to explain to me now what's the meaning of this damned
masquerade of yours." He shook the wig as if he had for it
a personal animosity. “But I'm bound to tell you that what-
ever you admit may be used against you."
"You mean I'm under arrest ?" Olmstead's pale face flushed
darkly.
"What? Ridiculous !" Barry Harden burst forward. "I
never heard of such a thing !-If the Chief wants a little
vacation "
"Oh, to hell with that rot!” Kerrigan was so angry that
his manners seemed to have achieved a moratorium. “A
vacation, says you! Skulking and hiding, within a stone's *
throw of his own plant! Playacting, and God knows what
besides! It was you, Olmstead - You—that left your
pencil and those other things around the furnace so Terry'd
think you'd-you'd gone for good. And—and—” He fal-
tered, glanced aside at Peter, and added, quickly—"and
robbed a grave or something— "
"No, Jake,” cried Peter, exultantly. "I just found out!


Counterfeit
271
So many things, partly divined, of which he wanted to make
sure. Must make sure before he could act. And it was
borne in on him that there was need of haste. He would have
liked to clear the room of all but the actors in the drama.
Then, glancing at the intent circle of faces, he asked himself
swiftly if there really were any outsiders there. Even little
Dick Jarvis seemed to have earned a right to be in at the
finish. Northwick was a newcomer, but he could not be dis-
pensed with. Perhaps they needed him now more than any
of the others. He looked young, eager, reckless; keen on
sport or adventure, anything that promised excitement.
"All right, then," said Kerrigan. There had been no pause
after Peter's ready acceptance of his challenge. Somewhat
grudgingly the police detective retired in favor of his more
adroit colleague. "Get in the box, if you're so anxious, and
play ball!"
Peter turned swiftly to Miss Fanny Kinsella. "You've
been hearing queer noises for some time past, haven't you?"
She looked at him warily, but said nothing. Peter went
on as if she had answered in the affirmative.
"When you knew Mr. Etherington was out, you've been
sure you heard someone moving upstairs."
"I don't think she could have," Olmstead put in defens-
ively. "I've slept nearly all day, and been so quiet"
"But you were dealing with Miss Fanny Kinsella," said
Peter, with a little bow, "and as Sam says, she's the out-
knowinest lady they is. You knew there was some mystery
here, Miss Fanny," he went on, "and after the trouble be-
tween Miss Lamont and her uncle, you made up your mind
to find out what it was."
"Only to be able to help intelligently." The little lady
looked up quickly at Etherington, ignoring the detective. "I
know it was all right if you thought so. At least, if it
wasn't"
She stopped abruptly. A gleam came into Peter's eyes.
"Wiggar!" He glanced over his shoulder. "A chair for


276 C ounterfeit
been a lot to burn, and besides, it was a cold night and I
needed it But how did you know?"
"Wiggar chanced to see you the night Miss Lamont ar-
rived," said Peter. "He mentioned that the old gentleman
wore an English coat of distinguished cut. Later, when I
saw the regulation plain American overcoat that Mr. Ether-
ington always wore, I—remembered."
"You don't miss much, do you, Pete?" said Kerrigan with
grudging admiration. "You must have guessed a whole lot
some time ago. What put you on?'
"I think," said Peter, slowly, while his eyes dwelt upon
Olmstead's pale face, "I believe I've known all along that
Mr. John Oliver Olmstead was at the bottom of the mys-
terious things that had taken and were taking place. In
spite of the fact that I was morally certain the things found
in the furnace must be camouflage,—that piece of human
bone threw me off my balance, and I never did account for
that until to-night But, leaving that out, the rest all fitted
in pretty well.
"You see, this is how I reasoned," he explained rapidly.
"Why should Mr. Etherington have staged that disagree-
ment with Miss Lamont, unless he was hiding something
from her? Not something that he could lock up and control
—like a piece of machinery, Jake. But something that had
movement and necessities of its own. That had to have air
and exercise, even though it must be taken at night.
"I was sure," Peter went on, glancing from one intent face
to the other, "that Mr. Etherington was not physically up
to taking that long walk at the pace you described, Jake.
Therefore, someone was doubling for or with him.
"Two people, then, being in the picture, who must the
other one be? Wasn't it reasonable to suppose that it was
the person that sent in those bogus telegrams? And we had
pretty well narrowed that down, on account of the messages
themselves. Apparently the facts of the last message were


278 C ounterfeit
plant when the second wire came in on Monday. That's
right, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"So I believed; and I asked myself who was it, then, that
had phoned from your number? Not Sam. I had him over
and made sure of that. Not Miss Fanny. She wouldn't be
likely to take the liberty unless her own phone had been out
of order, which Sam assured me was not the case. The con-
clusion was obvious. The most likely place for those fake
wires to have come from was upstairs, and the most obvious
person to have sent them was the person whose signature
was actually appended."
"By Jove," exclaimed Harden, joyfully. "Well, that's
no crime anyway, Captain Kerrigan! Your friend Terence
Sheehan's troubles are all over now, and there won't be a
happier man in New York tomorrow than he'll be. I hope
I'll be there to see his face. A fine piece of work, Pat—I
mean Mr. Clancy! The Chief"
He hesitated and stopped. No one seemed to be sharing
his enthusiasm. After its brief flicker of humor, Olmstead's
face had become blank and somber. Kerrigan's heavy jaw
worked, and he looked sidewise at his confrere, who, as it
happened was looking at Miss Marie Lamont, and for the
minute, gave him no help.
But Jake Kerrigan felt that he no longer needed assist-
ance. He was keenly alive again to the suspicion that he was
sure had entered Peter's mind, long before, as it had his own.
Only Olmstead's death would have been overwhelming proof
to the contrary. He and Etherington had played a clever
game—cleverest of all to-night. And yet, with all their spe-
cious explanations, neither had given a hint as to why the
masquerade had been attempted in the first place. A thing
so seriously planned, so carefully carried out, was no mere
freak, as they might seem to wish it to appear, freakish
though Olmstead possibly might be.
Knowing what he did from Raymond Trant, giving full


C o unt er f eit
279
weight to Peter Clancy's discoveries as well as his own, the
secret association of the old engraver and his employer stank
in Kerrigan's nostrils. After Harden's enthusiastic out-
burst the excited police detective allowed the silence a minute
to sink in. Then he said: "Maybe it's no crime to fake a
telegram, Mr. Harden. And a man can do what he likes to
his office and burn what he likes in his own furnace, and fool
the police to his heart's content, and try to get them to laugh
with him, belike. But there's one thing no man can be allowed
to do, and then cravenly disappear when things look to be get-
ting too hot, and that is to use his position and the talents
of his employees to perpetrate and to hide a fraud on the
United States Government! It's for the crime of counter-
feiting I'm going to arrest you, Mr. John Oliver Olmstead,
and what have you to say to that?"


C o unt er f eit
281
currency?" sneered Kerrigan. "Mr. J. R. Rockland, Jun-
ior's I suppose."
"It was," Olmstead answered promptly.
"It never occurred to you that the Secret Service might
object?" Kerrigan asked in the same tone.
"Mr. Rockland was set on the idea because it was unique,
and as they were to be printed in a book, with wide page
borders and other accessories, and the book was not to be
sold, it seemed as if there was no occasion to worry. We
took pains to keep the whole matter quiet."
"Especially when that Franklin plate was stolen!" Ker-
rigan emphasized the sentence with a bang of his heavy fist.
"It was pretty unfortunate that it got away just when it did. *.
Pretty unfortunate," he repeated, with a sarcastic laugh.
"Wasn't it, Olmstead?"
"It was indeed." The paleness of the man's face was not
due entirely to confinement. He bit his lips, and beads of
sweat appeared upon his high forehead, but his eyes con-
tinued to regard his tormentor with level gaze.
"No one felt it more than the Chief," Harden \>urst in,
irrepressibly. "We did our best to find out where it went.
Quietly, of course"
"Oh, very quietly. I believe you for once," jeered Kerri-
gan. "And you had no idea what the plate might be used
for, had you?"
"Why, no!" cried Harden. "Had you "He stopped
as his eyes met those of his chief.
"You had, hadn't you, Mr. Olmstead?" Peter broke in,
urgently. "When that fine paper for the Merced Motors
catalogues was being used up too fast, you thought then
that"
"No." Olmstead's reply was abrupt, almost involuntary.
"It was not until "He checked himself and glanced
even more sharply into Clancy's plain virile face.
"Until the Secret Service called your attention to the
hundred dollar bill that you, yourself, had passed," Peter


282
Counterfeit
asserted, smoothly. "Being an expert not only on plates and
printing, but also on paper, you guessed that this might
account for the shortage of a certain stock: a kind of paper
that was similar to, but not exactly like that used in bank
notes: the paper, as Raymond Trant pointed out to you,
being the weakest point in the very remarkable counterfeit.
I put it to you, Mr. Olmstead, that you must have been mor-
ally certain at that time that your concern was responsible
for the paper and the portrait of Franklin. You must have
been positive of at least that much."
Peter paused. No one stirred. Olmstead's face was like
a wax mask. He made no reply to the implied question.
Peter went on with even greater urgency. "For your own
sake, I beg you to answer frankly, Mr. Olmstead. Believe
me, we have no desire but to get at the truth."
"Oh, yes," said Kerrigan, with a jerk of his heavy chin.
"The truth. That's all."
Peter scarcely noticed the interruption. His eyes were
still fixed on Olmstead's. "You know, or are fairly certain
who passed you that counterfeit bill, aren't you?" he urged.
Olmstead's lips were sealed and his face was blank.
"If he passed it to himself," Kerrigan began, but Peter
interrupted.
"One minute, Jake, perhaps we can change Mr. Olmstead's
obvious decision not to give us any help. Did you see last
Sunday's Meteor? The rotogravure section, I mean."
Olmstead's eyes narrowed and he shook his head.
"It might have interested you," said Peter, slowly. "There
was a very good picture of Miss Shirley Van Zandt—and a
little one of Mr. Harden—at Pondicherry Race Track—and
on Mr. Northwick's coach. It was yours, Northwick, wasn't
it?"
"Yes." The face of the young favorite of fortune had
lost some of its carefree enjoyment.
"The pictures would have been taken perhaps ten days


C o tint er f eit 283
ago?" Peter looked pointedly at Harden, who for some
reason had flushed darkly.
"I was down at Pondicherry from the twentieth to the
twenty-second," he said, after an instant. "I didn't know
when the picture was taken."
"That's one bit of truth in a world of sin," grunted Kerri-
gan. "But maybe what you'll say next won't be so good.
Did a little bird whisper you at any time, Harden, that a
lot of these bogus century plants were floated around Pondi-
cherry track on or about those dates?"
"You mean counterfeits? Certainly not," Harden re-
torted hotly. "What reason could I have "He caught
his lower lip between his teeth, and his cheek under the
bruise grew perceptibly paler.
Peter waited for him to finish the sentence, but as he re-
mained silent Peter said: "Mr. Northwick didn't tell you of
his adventure, then?"
"No. He only "Harden began impulsively, but
ended rather flatly, "What adventure do you mean?"
"Never mind," Peter brushed that matter impatiently
aside. Kerrigan failed to see why, for the next question
seemed wholly irrelevant. "Mr. Olmstead," Clancy's keen
blue glance was like the flash of a sword blade, "you objected
rather seriously to your secretary's intimacy with the set in
which Miss Van Zandt moved. Have you any special objec-
tion to the young lady herself?"
"Obviously I can't answer that question." Olmstead flung
up his head and looked scornfully at the two detectives.
"I can," said Northwick, sharply. "Mr. J. O. was always
down on her. Barry didn't feel the same way, of course.
None of us did."
"Did?" said Peter, swiftly. "Why the past tense? Are
you feeling differently about her now?"
"No." Northwick's denial somehow failed to carry con-
viction. "At least a girl has a right to—I mean if she likes
her old friends best, that's only to her credit, of course. I


284 Counterfeit
was an also-ran anyway. Couldn't even compete with Barry,
and none of us could, really, with"
Harden's face had turned brick red. He glanced covertly
aside at Marie Lamont, whose eyes were bent on the floor.
"For the love of heaven," he blazed, "cut it out, Howard!
What does it matter?" He looked up swiftly at Olmstead.
"I'm through, John! With the ponies and the wheel and all
the—all the rest. I told Howard so this afternoon. I give
you my word of honor. I'm washed up. Finished."
There was a sharp silence. Etherington looked as if he
had heard good news. Dick Jarvis nearly yawned. What
was all this foolishness about dames? Why didn't Captain
Kerrigan get busy and do his stuff? He'd started all right.
The police detective, too, was thinking that they were
wasting precious time. But maybe Pete had a special reason
—special knowledge. You never could guess what that lad
might have up his sleeve. Still harping on the same theme.
And even yet Jake couldn't imagine why. Interesting though
—maybe
Peter had said, abruptly—"Northwick, is it a matter of
common knowledge in your set that Miss Van Zandt's father
died practically brankrupt?"
"Great goodness, no! Old Cornelius? Why he was drip-
ping with coin, if you know what I mean."
"'Was' is correct," said Peter. "At the time of his death,
except for the house on Park Avenue and the Long Island
place, there was nothing. I have been at some pains to find
out. You can bank on the information being accurate. Be-
sides, if I'm not mistaken, Harden can verify my statement.
It's true. Isn't it? You knew that Miss Van Zandt had great
difficulty in keeping up appearances? That she was gamb-
ling heavily?"
Harden frowned and his young mouth set stubbornly.
"All right." Peter made a slight gesture of open hands.
"If it was told you—by Miss Van Zandt—in confidence—
don't answer."


Counterfeit
Harden tried to look grateful. If only the younger detec-
tive's pleasant, reasonable manner, almost as if he were on
their side, wasn't a trap . . . The secretary's heart was
pounding. Something had come to him. Something for-
gotten—overlooked. Clancy was evidently keen as a brier.
What was he driving at, if not
"The fact remains," said Peter, slowly, "that the Van
Zandt fortune was gone some time since, and the situation
of the supposed heiress quite desperate. From her looks,
and what I've been able to discover, I judge that she is proud,
high-strung, daring, adventurous, and without very conven-
tional ideas or standards. It therefore seems to me a curious
coincidence that she should have happened to have been visit-
ing in the neighborhood of as many as three of the race
tracks where these bogus bills have been passed. I have
verified my impression that it was on or about the time that
the counterfeits were caught. This becomes a striking cir-
cumstance when added to the fact that she was intimately
associated with a person who was in the position to get hold
of that missing plate and to have it cleverly completed, and
secretly printed, at night—on the presses of the John Oliver
Olmstead Company."
"Do you make that a direct charge?" thundered Olmstead,
white to the lips.
"I'm certain that the one hundred dollar counterfeit was *
made under your roof," Peter replied with tremendous con-
viction. "As certain as you are, Olmstead! And I couldn't
put it stronger. Because you knew perfectly well when
Raymond Trant questioned you weeks ago, that it was a
trusted member of your own concern that had passed that
counterfeit to you. What you probably did not guess was
that the beautiful girl you so distrusted was passing them
also. She was an ideal sort of a fence for currency of high
denomination. Who would question Cornelius Van Zandt's
heiress if she played the races or anything else with hundred
dollar notes? With worthless paper, she could never lose,


286
Counterfeit
and all the winnings were to the good, and undoubtedly
shared with her backer. It might be barely possible that she
has not realized until lately what she was doing, for the
supply seems to have been cut off at the source when North-
wick was caught with one of the spurious notes."
Peter wheeled suddenly, his eyes blazing with excitement,
his finger stabbing his point home.
"It was Shirley Van Zandt who gave you that bill to
place on some horse for her, Northwick! Wasn't it? And
when you went back after your interview with Trant, you
told her all about it. You did tell her, and she stopped bet-
ting. Am I right?"
There was no need for Northwick to answer. The admis-
sion in his unskilled young face was plain to read. Olmstead
said, "An accomplice!" just above his breath, and his face
looked desperately old and tired.
Kerrigan, with a tread peculiarly light and cat-like for
one of his age and build, stepped softly forward. He looked
curiously, searchingly, at Harden, Olmstead and at Ether-
ington, one after the other. "We'd better take 'em all, Pete,"
he said, sternly. "And then the Van Zandt girl"
"No! No!" cried Marie Lamont. "It isn't so! It can't
be true!" But whether her concern was for her uncle or an-
other was not so clear.
Unless, perhaps, the old engraver knew what was in the
girl's heart. He stood up, now, and leaning .forward, spoke
with deep concern. "Barry," he said, "tell John how you
happened to have that bill you asked him to change for you.
You must remember that he questioned you about it a few
days later. You thought he was intruding in your private
affairs. That was the reason you were annoyed, wasn't it?
You lied when you said you won the money at cards. Didn't
you? Didn't you, Barry?"
Kerrigan thought: Is the old fellow tipping him off what
line to take? Shouldn't we stop him? Pete evidently wants
to give them plenty of rope. Well, he deserves to run the


288
Counterfeit
It was the day Marie came. I remember. I was put out,
but it was because "He stopped abruptly.
"It was because you wanted to pay for the theatre tickets,
Uncle Nat," Marie Lamont broke in, hoping with all her
heart that what she said was true, and that they would be-
lieve her. "It embarrassed him, don't you see? To have you
pay for—When he wanted to do you a favor—That was all
Wasn't it, Barry?"
He smiled in answer. Kerrigan thought: Shell help
him with an alibi,—if she can. Then—and to-night. If she
can . . .
Harden said: "Was that supposed to be some kind of a
test, your passing that bill out to me, Uncle Nat? Did you
think of it?"
"Ye—Yes. I think I did," said Etherington.
"And I bet you didn't," countered Harden, hotly. "It
was your idea, John. This masquerade. To spy on me.
To spy on the plant. Well, what have you found out? What
can you prove?"
"Nothing," Olmstead cried, bitterly, and clenched his
fists. "Perhaps I was mad. I thought it looked bad for you,
Barry, but I hoped and believed I could clear you. Could
keep the name of the John Oliver Olmstead Company as
clean as it was in my father's time. I thought if I could
ferret out the whole thing and hand a complete case over to
the authorities, it would be the whitest thing to do. I never
did believe you guilty. Only involved in some way. I thought
it could be managed quietly. And if it hadn't been for
Terry's connection with Captain Kerrigan, I still think it
might have been done."
"Oh, you do?" said Kerrigan. "And why is that, maybe
you'll mention. Have you found out something new? Some-
thing it'll ease your conscience to lay before the police—vol-
untarily?"
"No," said Olmstead, hopelessly. "I've watched here;
I've made sure that nothing could happen to the remaining


C o unt er f eit
289
Rockland plates. We're under contract to make them, and
with Mr. Rockland abroad, there was nothing to do but to
keep our word to him. At night many times I've gone over
to the plant as I started to do to-night. Occasionally one or
other of the men has been staying overtime, but I always
found it was on legitimate work. It may be that my disap-
pearance was a bad move. That it made them wary. But I
don't believe that!" His voice rose. His face was gray and
haggard. If he was acting it was a magnificent performance.
"The theft of the plate and the paper were the work of an
outsider." He clenched his hands tighter. "None of my
people would have done it! The plate—unfinished—and the
paper. There is nothing else to connect the house with this
despicable crime!"
"I beg your pardon." There was no sign of excitement
in Peter's voice, but his eyes were flashing as he stepped for-
ward. "You're mistaken, Mr. Olmstead." He put his hand
inside his coat. "The plate was finished there—and has re-
mained—probably all the time—under the roof of the John
Oliver Olmstead Company."
With a sweep of the hand, he cleared a space on a table that
stood near Olmstead. He looked hastily at the two pieces
of metal he had taken from his pocket, and in the full light of
the flickering gas-jet, he laid before them the steel-faced
plate.


CHAPTER XXVIII
OH, MY GOD," groaned Olmstead. "It's impossi-
ble! It can't be true. Where did you find it?"
"Perhaps I'll tell you, later," said Peter quickly.
"But now I want you to examine it. Look at the portrait.
That's Etherington's work, isn't it?"
Olmstead did not answer. Instead he pushed it across to
the old engraver, who, without a tremor, apparently, bent
close to study it.
"This has been covered with rubber cement," he muttered,
hastily and delicately rubbing the steel surface, which yielded
tiny resilient rolls and balls of brownish material. When
it was clear he whipped a small magnifying glass from his
pocket.
"It's the missing Rockland plate," he said, after a second.
"That is so far as the portrait is concerned. The rest, of
course, was done by someone else."
"Oh, naturally," remarked Kerrigan. He knew Pete must
have had something up his sleeve, but had hardly hoped for
anything so conclusive. "Who do you think could have done
the rest of the work, Etherington? Speak up. Let's have
your ideas."
"Many good engravers could do the different parts," Eth-
erington answered, slowly. "Ordinarily the lettering would
be given to one or several men, owing to the different styles
required. The ornamental framework to still another—or
others—But ..." He hesitated. "Look at it, John."
In stunned silence, Olmstead took the glass. For a long
time he studied the plate. At last he straightened and the two
experts regarded each other narrowly.
"My technique has been carefully copied throughout."
Etherington's voice was husky. "It looks—almost—like the
290


C ounterfeit
291
work of one man. But you know, John—you can see that
there were two—At least two!"
"Yes," said Olmstead, dully. "Two at least. And the
lathe-work. . . . That was photographed—arid etched."
"What do you mean by that, sir?" Peter had come close.
His eyes were alight. Every detail was to him a matter of
intense interest. "Do you mean to say that the fine, intricate
weaving of lines could be done with anything but one of
those big, expensive machines? I think they call them geo-
metric lathes."
"I never heard of such a thing being done." Harden was
so excited that his voice was no longer steady.
"It must have been difficult—almost impossible," said Eth-
erington. "The rest is all engraved by hand"
"But this isn't. Necessarily." Olmstead was still intently
studying the silver colored surface of the plate. "See? The
rest was done more or less in the manner of legitimate cur-
rency. But human hands can not imitate this lathe-work.
. . . And something has been done here that requires al-
most inhuman skill. Because, you see, it was necessary to
protect all the handwork so it would not be affected by strong
acids, the portions where the lathe-work was to appear, of
course, being left bare. And this would have had to be car-
ried to a hair line, a feat in itself. Then, to the bare parts
it would have been necessary to apply a light-sensitive acid-
resist, on which the image of the lathe-work would be trans-
ferred photographically. This would then have been etched
with acid—probably with a specially designed solution.
Look." He glanced up into Etherington's concerned face.
"See how little granularity there is to the edges of the lines."
"Marvellous!" The old engraver wetted his lips with his
tongue. "Not one man in a thousand—perhaps in a million
—could do it."
"Such a compliment, from a man of your ability, would
probably be appreciated," said Kerrigan, sourly, "if your
accomplice—pardon me—I should have said your fellow


C o unt er f eit 295
"Did the—did Number One find it?" Olmstead was study-
ing Clancy's enigmatic face.
"I don't think so, but he might have. He knew where to
look."
"If he didn't—If it's still there "breathed Olmstead.
"It will prove—possibly a good deal," said Peter, sternly.
"Have you any idea who Number One was?" Olmstead's
whole body was tense.
"Haven't you?" put in Kerrigan. "You grappled with
him you say."
Olmstead appeared not to have heard this. "Have you,
Mr. Clancy?" he insisted.
But Peter passed the question on. "How about you, Wig-
gar?" he asked. "Haven't you any impression of the man
you fought with all the way out to the front entrance?
Surely something must have struck you."
"Oh, quite so, sir." Wiggar spoke feelingly. "And also
in the way I take it you had in mind,—Yes, Mr. Peter. There's
one thing I'm sure of. Number One was in evening dress."
"You say that very positively," said Peter, and stopped
because Kerrigan had caught his arm.
"Look you, Peter Clancy," he said, forcefully. "Do me
the favor to give a glance around at the present company
assembled, and tell me does anything strike you as being very
queer?"
There was something so deadly in the police detective's
harsh voice that for an instant a heavy silence fell upon the
little group. The flickering yellow gas light fell weirdly
down upon the overturned table, the dark carving of the
mummy's indifferent face, the wreck of forgotten treasures,
now worthless, broken. Dust, confusion, damage . . .
And scarcely one of the human beings, brought strangely
together in this strange place, seemed wholly to have escaped.
Confusion was apparent on more than one anxious face.
Peter and Wiggar were physically and sartorially somewhat
the worse for wear, though in the interval the valet had con-


C ounterfeit 297
"The automobile accident?" scoffed Kerrigan. "Be your-
self, Harden. You brought Miss Lamont down to say 'Yes'
to the policeman—to testify that it was only ten or eleven
minutes between the time you left her at her apartment up-
town, and when you came back, all tattered and torn. If
you told her that was all the time it was, she'd believe you,
probably. Anyhow, she wouldn't let you down. You don't
look as if you'd been in an auto accident at all. If you'd gone
out on your ear in the street as you said, your black coat
would have the marks of it all over."
"I had a top-coat on," retorted Harden. "It was so
damaged I was afraid it would frighten Miss Lamont, so I
took it off and chucked it into the back seat of my car. I
forgot to put it on again, but it's outside there now. You
can look for yourself."
"My, my," said Kerrigan, rolling up his eyes in mock
admiration. "Isn't he the forehanded lad and no mistake?
Thinks of everything, even to tearing his overcoat so that
if worse comes to worse he can produce the extra evidence.
No, no, Harden. We've too much on you. Your story's
a little too thin."
"It's the truth, just the same." Harden shrugged his
shoulders as if he realized that nothing he could say would
convince the police detective.
"It's the truth my eye," said Kerrigan. "It's you that I
know, from my own observation, is mixed up with the Van
Zandt girl. It's you that passed the bogus bill, trying to put
something over on the boss you owe everything to. It was
you that sneaked into the place to-night"
Marie Lamont winced and her face grew even paler. Barry
Harden had come in—come to her rescue, she believed, when
Ingalls was trying to break down her resistance to the accept-
ance of his favors—He was there before she knew it. He
had come in so quietly . . .
"And not only that," the harsh voice had not paused, "Not
only that, but it was you that knocked down your boss, over


300
Counterfeit
Then suddenly it broke into a grim, triumphant smile. He
caught the valet by the shoulders, whirled him around to face
four
right! I've got it, Jake! Got it! And there were
-buttons !”


CHAPTER XXIX
rOU MEAN," cried Olmstead, starting forward,
"you mean you can prove that it wasn't Barry?"
He caught the secretary's arm and lifted it up,
very much as the referee in a fight holds up the hand of the
victor. But he did it with an obviously different purpose.
And as obviously, Wiggar was right. Harden's dinner
jacket, like Peter's and Northwick's, had but three buttons
on the cuffs.
"But Wiggar could be mistaken, Pete!" Kerrigan had a
little difficulty in making himself heard, for everyone seemed
to be talking at once. "If I was putting up a fight, I wouldn't
have time to count the other guy's buttons."
"No," gurgled Peter, "but Wiggar would, bless his heart!
Come on, Jake. We've wasted too much time as it is."
"But, Pete! Even supposing Harden was telling the truth
about that auto accident, and if it wasn't him over there to-
night, that doesn't let him out of having pushed that bogus
note off on his boss."
"And would he have done that," Peter cried, impatiently,
"if he'd been guilty? If he'd realized what he was doing,
Jake? Would a man of his intelligence have made a break
like that? Mr. Olmstead is an expert. If, by any chance, the
note were brought to his attention he would certainly have
made exactly the observations and deductions that he did
to-night. He was the last person in the world into whose
hands the note should have fallen if the counterfeiters were
to play safe. And besides, Jake," Peter went on rapidly,
"there's one thing you may be certain of; the chap who was
over there to-night looking for the plate I had already found,
is a principal in this crime. It was a guilty man that locked
me in, and eluded Mr. Olmstead and Wiggar—and he has
301


302 Counterfeit
four buttons on his sleeve. Come on. Let's go and get
him!"
The last words rang out in a sudden silence. Kerrigan's
hands were hanging at his sides. His mouth was hal £ open,
his chin out thrust. He stared at Peter. After a second he
managed to say: "You don't propose to arrest a man be-
cause of the number of buttons on his coat, Pete. Counted
by a man, fighting in the dark. That's not evidence."
"It's corroborative evidence in this case," said Peter, "and
epoch making, in a way. Because, for once, though Wiggar
is right, he is also wrong."
"For the love of heaven, be serious, Pete! What are you
driving at?"
"I was never more serious in my life," said Peter, and
looked it. "I have never known Wiggar to make a mistake
about anything that had to do with clothes. I was so sure
that he couldn't that I thought for a second I had missed
my guess—and then I realized that Wiggar—well, he's just
of too pure eyes to behold iniquity—and perhaps he has never
had occasion to observe that—on the sleeve of a double
breasted dinner coat—there are four buttons."
"Four," breathed Wiggar, shocked to the marrow. "But
double breasted!" His pale nose lifted in the air; his hands
fell open as if he dropped something unpleasant into a sewer.
"Then you've seen a man dressed like that?" cried Kerri-
gan, his face red with conflicting emotions. "Do you know
his name, Pete?" he asked, urgently. "Can you lead us to
him?"
"I can," said Peter, soberly. "His name is George Ingalls.
He lives in his own house at Four-seventy-seven East End
Avenue."
Olmstead reached out and clutched Clancy's arm. For a
second he could not speak. "You can't be sure of this," he
said, moving his tongue along his lips. "You have no proof."
"I think we'll get it, but we must move at once," said Peter,
alertly. "Northwick, you have a car here? And you, Har-


Counterfeit 305
"You owe a lot to Terence Sheehan. I suppose you realize
that, Mr. Olmstead."
"You mean"
"If it hadn't been for his devoted loyalty and cooperation
we probably would never have gotten to the bottom of this
matter. It's a happy man he'll be when he sees you again,
sir."
"I intend it to be a happy day for him." Olmstead sounded
a bit husky. "With more and happier ones to follow." His
earnest voice took on a new note. "You feel that you are
at the bottom of this horrible trouble, Clancy?"
"I—I believe—practically so. Is it possible that you never
suspected Ingalls, sir?" Peter watched the intermittent
flashes of fixed and moving lights across the strong pale face
beside him.
"Have you really a case against him?" Olmstead countered.
"It isn't complete," Peter admitted, grimly. "But I think
we have enough to go on and I want to take him by surprise
—if we can. I believe he will be sitting tight to-night, ex-
pecting something to happen in the morning. I thought it at
the time, and I'm certain now, that it was he who locked me
in that dark-room. He knew someone had been ransacking
the place. The fire shutters were all closed. I hadn't time
to put things back in the drawer. The dark-room was the
natural place to hide. So ideal as to be obvious. I blame
myself for not realizing that, but I don't know what else I
could have done. As it was, of course he took me for some-
one else. Realized—or believed—that, since the plate was
gone, it was in the hands of the one person to whom its pos-
session would do the most harm. Why he hasn't notified the
police at once is, of course, obvious."
"Not to me," said Olmstead, somberly.
"Is Ingalls supposed to know anything about this counter-
feit?" Peter asked quickly.
"Why—why, no. I spoke of it to no one."
"Not even to Harden?"


306 C o unt erf eit
"Not specifically. I asked him about the bill he had asked
me to change for him, but I was careful not to let him know
why."
"Then, don't you see Ingalls can't possibly afford to let
anyone suspect that he knows the least thing about it?"
Olmstead thought this over for a minute. Then he said:
"I wish I'd gone to you, Clancy, in the first place, instead of
trying to work the thing out alone. If I had been sure of
getting hold of someone with your intelligence . . .
You never really believed Barry was guilty, did you?"
"No," said Peter, slowly (and a great weight seemed to be
lifted forever from Olmstead's mind). "I don't believe I
ever considered him seriously. You see—he isn't the type.
Ingalls is. He's rotten at the core. Haven't you guessed
that?"
"I knew he had affairs—with women . . . and went
with a fast set. It was he who introduced Barry to the Van
Zandt crowd."
"I thought so," said Peter, and suddenly leaned forward.
"Watch your step at this corner, Northwick," he said.
"They're going to turn here."
The controlled excitement in Clancy's voice sent Olm-
stead's heart into a faster rhythm. He looked out of the car
window. They had been coming across town. Now they
turned north again along the dim trees of Carl Shurz Park.
Beyond the wall, down across the slanting, dull colored turf,
could be seen, silver and black in the pale moonlight, the old,
sophisticated river, washing indifferently the parks of the
city's poor and the granite bases of the towering apartments
built up by the returning tide of wealth and fashion.
It was not to one of these, however, that the two swift
and silently moving cars now made their way. Kerrigan,
experienced, watchful, taking no chances, bade Harden pull
over to the curb where a policeman was pacing slowly, swing-
ing his night stick by its leather thong.
A few words from Kerrigan in the man's ear. The stal-


Counterfeit
307
wart, blue-coated figure stepped to the runningboard, hooked
his elbow inside the window that the captain of detectives
had rolled down, silently accompanied them to their destina-
tion, and remained by the cars when several of the occupants
had hastily disembarked.
The house in front of which they stopped was middle-aged
rather than old or new. It had recently been made smart,
however, with bright, modern paint on the trim, and boxes
filled with evergreen shrubs at all the windows and on each
side of the door. The brass of knob and knocker were
brightly polished. The windows shone in reflection from the
street lights, and on the drawingroom floor, with bright,
cheerful light from within, filtering through pale yellow
blinds and warm silk draperies.
"He's home. Thank heaven," said Peter.
Olmstead was aware of the relief in the tone. "Shall I
come with you?" he asked.
"You'd hate it?"
"Yes. In a way. But if George Ingalls has really be-
trayed the honor of my father's Company—" There was an
almost fanatic pride in the deep grim voice. "You think it
an advantage for me to be with you, Clancy?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll see it through."
"I want you, Harden," said Peter. "You, Northwick,
can guard this door after we're through, if you will."
"You bet!"
"He'll have to come to the door himself," said Peter softly,
as they went up the shallow steps. "None of his servants
sleep in the house."
"How the deuce do you know?" Northwick wondered.
"My office takes care of such details," Peter replied
quickly, and stretching out his hand, pressed the button
of the electric bell. He motioned to Harden to be the first
one in front of the door, while he and Kerrigan stepped aside,
and made themselves inconspicuous against the railing.


310 Counterfeit
"Well of all the nerve. Are you telling me?" growled
Kerrigan.
"Look," said Peter, shaking his arm. "His coat is a din-
ner coat. It's smudged and grazed, and he has four buttons
on his sleeve, as Wiggar said."
"Of course he must be dead." Kerrigan leaned closer.
"Yes. Cyanide. You can smell it. I don't think it can
have been long. Of course I know it wasn't. He must
have come straight home"
"And poisoned himself," Kerrigan finished.
Peter shook his head. "I wouldn't believe that if I told
it myself, Jake."
"What? With him all alone. The lights on. The doors
locked. And that glass lying there, right where he dropped
it?"
"That's why I warned you." Peter spoke hurriedly. "I
wanted you to take notice before the least thing was dis-
turbed. Look at that wrinkle in the rug, Jake."
"Yeah."
"How did the glass get on that side of it?"
"What!"
"If it dropped from his hand—even if it rolled—how
could it have rolled over that thick fold?"
"By Jove, Pete!"
"Either the murderer didn't notice the fold, or"
"Murder!" Olmstead had drawn slowly nearer. The
hand on Barry Harden's shoulder was clamped like a vise.
"Or—" Peter went on, with an effect of fearful haste, "he
accidentally pushed up the rug after he placed the glass."
"Right," agreed Kerrigan, sharply. "Nothing else could
account"
"And look at the glass, Jake. Can you imagine Ingalls
having a common, small tumbler like that? Perhaps in his
kitchen? But why go down into an unfamiliar region to
get what would be ready to his hand on the sideboard in the


Counterfeit 311
dining-room back there? Also, where is the bottle? The
one that the cyanide must have been in?"
"We haven't looked yet. Perhaps"
"Jake, for heaven's sake, don't let's waste time on this,"
cried Peter. "Every minute ought to count. Don't you see
Ingalls wouldn't have done away with himself? He thought
he had things cinched. He must have been taken clean off
his feet when the man he thought was safely locked in the
dark-room of the Olmstead Company appeared, or was
waiting for him here. Don't you grasp the situation? They
couldn't trust each other—those two. The police were hot
on the trail. Either would have thrown the other to the
lions." Peter's words rushed over each other. "He came
here primed. Pretended to be friendly. Caught Ingalls un-
awares. With almost superhuman strength, or by some
wrestling trick, he dragged his victim's head backward.
Closed the nasal passages so that he had to open his mouth.
Poured the poison down . . . I'm as sure as if I'd seen it.
The glass is only a blind. He poured it from a bottle . . .
His almost crazy strength was going—and his hand
shook"
"Pete! You can't know this!"
"His hand shook," Peter repeated, steadily. "He spilled
some of the poison on the back of Ingalls' coat. Look for
yourself. How did that round, light spot get there? In a
place where Ingalls could never have dropped it himself? It
isn't a smear of something. The color is taken out of the
fabric. By a chemical. That every photoengraver knows.
Photographic bleach. Poison. Cyanide."
"An engraver!" gasped Kerrigan. "Then"
"The man who made the counterfeit! Don't you see?"
Peter cried. "You suspected him, Mr. Olmstead. You and
Etherington must have known who was the only person in
your plant capable of completing that plate as it was com-
pleted. Who knew all the tricks of engraving, all the manip-
ulation of acids and acid-resists. Who had perfected him-


C ounterfeit
313
brave devotion the years were powerless to dim . . . Clouds
lifted . . . Men's honor unstained . . . There must be no
flaw in the evidence, no question of validity in the proof,
when he turned over the case . . .
And Rosen was clever. Wary . . . Even though, as
Peter suspected, there was a touch of madness in him. 01m-
stead spoke of it now, leaning forward in the darkness of the
car. Though they had had nothing to go on but Olmstead's
necessarily short examination of the counterfeit bill in the
hands of the Secret Service man on that first day of mental
anguish and suspicion, both the chief and Etherington, it
appeared, had secretly suspected that Rosen might be in-
volved. His early foreign training had given him a broad
grasp of the various branches of his trade and an unusual
knowledge of chemicals and dyes, so that matching the inks,
used by the Government on the currency, might conceivably
have been no insurmountable task for him, while his engrav-
ing technique, though lacking great artistry was mechanically
perfect.
"I suppose Mr. Etherington knew of Rosen's jealousy?"
Peter turned to speak to Olmstead, who was in the back on
Kerrigan's left.
"He hardly gave it sufficient weight," Olmstead replied,
"though it was all Uncle Nat could do to keep the peace. It
was better after we made two rooms for them"
"At Rosen's request?" Peter asked quickly.
"Yes. Why, yes, I believe so."
"He needed privacy," Peter remarked, pointedly.
"And Uncle Nat thought George Ingalls was putting it
in for his protection."
"You see?" said Peter.
"Poor Uncle Nat!" Olmstead shook his head. "We've
given him a pretty bad time. I especially. And he's so
stanch, so loyal. I can never forgive myself."
"He will, though," Harden leaned across Kerrigan to say
quietly. "He's happy, John. Happier than he ever expected


3H
C ounterfeit
to be . . . Back there in the car with Miss Fanny on ore
side and—and Marie on the other ... I looked back once
while we were coming up. Everybody was holding even-
body else's hand I believe, and the old gentleman's face—Oh,
no, John, you needn't worry about"
"Third door from the corner. Better stop about here."
Peter's voice was low but it thrilled through the darkness.
Northwick brought the car, swift, smooth and silent, to the
edge of the curb. The street on both sides was lined with
unpretentious shops, grocers, butchers, delicatessen. A
drug-store at the corner had one light burning behind a sickly
green jar. The far spaced street lamps and the faint glim-
mer of the washed out moon showed the shops closed and the
street well nigh deserted.
Silently the five men emerged from Northwick's car.
Wiggar had brought Harden's to a standstill halfway down
the last block, and stepping to the pavement, signalled for
instructions. Peter beckoned to him, not because he really
needed him, but because he knew it would break Wiggar's
heart not to be in at the death.
The death! How little had Peter thought, when he en-
tered so lightly into this affair, that it would turn out as it
had . . . An answer to Raymond Trant's challenge—an
effort to prove his own contention that things didn't just
happen—that there was a law—far-reaching—inexorable.
. . . He thought of Ingalls, disloyal, a betrayer of those who
put their trust in him, ready to betray his guilty accomplice
—and now—apparently dead by his own hand. But mur-
dered. Murdered just as surely
"Walk softly," Peter whispered. "He's on the third
floor."
Stairs that came down between a candy shop on one side
and a cheap clothing store on the other. There had been no
trouble with the street door. Olmstead supposed that it had
been unlocked. Kerrigan knew differently, but said nothing.
Peter, soft-footed, throwing the beam of his flashlight on the


Counterfeit
315
steps for their guidance, led the way. Kerrigan came next.
Northwick, who had never been so excited in his entire life
before, almost trod on Kerrigan's heels. Wiggar, in no
one's way, was coincident, first with one and then another.
Olmstead and Harden were the last.
The two detectives stopped in the second hall for a few
brief words. Below, in the darkness of the stairs, Olmstead
turned and put his hand on Barry's shoulder. "I never really
doubted you, my boy,” he whispered. "It was only—appear-
ances, I was afraid you wouldn't be able to prove "
"I understand, John.” Harden's voice was husky. "I do
understand-now. I can never be grateful enough—"
Their hands met in the hard clasp of a friendship that
nothing breaks. Passing but not eliminating the love of
women. And knowing what was in Harden's young heart,
John Olmstead buried forever in his own the face of a little
girl with honest blue eyes, that he had first seen wet with
tears and shining through the darkness and the rain. Not
for him—such youth and beauty . . . A godfather to their
little children, perhaps ...
Peter Clancy was speaking softly in Kerrigan's ear.
"You've got to let me do this my own way, Jake. Never
mind if it is irregular. If there's trouble, lay it on me.
Thank God I'm not on the force. I'm going to have no cas-
ualties that can be avoided. No warning- "
"Get on up, then," said Kerrigan, gruffly. “Maybe it'll
be a Yale lock. Maybe-Look," he whispered as their heads
rose above the third floor level—"Is that his door? Then
he's awake. Better-
"Leave it to me,” Peter cut in, below his breath. He
flashed his light down the dark stairs with an imperative ges-
ture for silence. Wiggar had slipped past Northwick, and
coming close, without word or sound, took the small pocket
torch from the hand of his master and threw its beam upon
the flimsy lock of the door.
Peter selected an instrument with care, and with a hand as


316 Counterfeit
steady and unswerving as that of a clock, stealthily inserted
it in the keyhole. Instantly, as the turning key clicked back
in the lock, he flung the door open.
"Hands up, Rosen," he said, and stepped swiftly across
the threshold.
The old engraver had been sitting, hunched up in his chair,
but awake. He leaped to his feet now, wide-eyed, staring.
As he did so, a little kitten dropped to the floor. It stood for
an instant, a little ball of gray fluff, with a pink nose and in-
nocent round eyes. It had a bow of pale blue ribbon sticking
up jauntily from its neck. As Kerrigan stepped into the
room, it ran gaily away to its little padded basket in the
corner.
"What—what do you mean, breaking into a man's house
like this?" said Rosen thickly. "Is it some kind of a racket?
If it is, I tell you I have nothing here. No money. Nothing.
What is it you want?"
Peter felt certain it was a bluff. He believed that Rosen
had recognized him at a glance, though he might not know
who Kerrigan was. The man, taken entirely unawares, was
sparring desperately for time. Suddenly he saw Olmstead
standing outside the door and his own face turned purple.
"The Chief!" he cried. "The Chief! Come back at last!
And condescending to visit his poor employee! How noble
of him. How kind and generous. Bah!! But come in, your
excellency! Why do you linger at poor Rosen's door? This
is a great night for him . . . Poor Rosen—, whose mother
was a painter, but whose father was a Prince. A bastard?
Yes. But royal! Did you never suspect it? You! You!
With your silly little business of which you were so proud.
Why, I could do what you would never think of—would
never dare! None of you—None of you—"
"You mean this?" Peter pulled a flat sheet of metal from
his pocket, and guarding it with his upraised automatic, held
it out before Rosen's wild, astonished eyes.


C ounterfeit
319
"You can't do that! You can't do that," he babbled. "In-
galls was nothing. Only a straw. He could never pass it
fast enough . . . Through with him anyway . . . Other
ways. Better ways. But he knew too much. Might en-
danger plans. Plans. Progressing as planned. Millions.
Millions of one-hundred dollar notes . . . Suit cases . . .
Parcel rooms ... all over . . . Ready—waiting—for me.
Me! The Fatherland! The Restoration!"
Before anyone could reach him, he had leaped to the other
side of the room, torn open a small closet door, and switched
on a light, that shone steadily from two gilded sconces. Be-
tween them, in a deep gold frame, topped with an imperial
crown, was a huge photograph of a youngish man, with
sharp, vertically pointed moustaches, and proud, fanatic
eyes. Scrawled across the bottom, in a bold hand was a sig-
nature that no one needed to read.
"My Emperor!" Rosen said in German, and his heels
clicked together as his hand came up in salute.
Beneath the portrait, propped up all by itself on a small
table was an Iron Cross.
Kerrigan's hand fell heavily on the man's shoulder.
Rosen turned slowly, and for an instant, the light of reason
gleamed again in his eyes. He looked around at the circle
of white faces, and his own went whiter than any. He
drew himself up, shrugged Kerrigan's hand from his shoul-
der, and stepping back, picked up the glass of water that
stood on his night table.
He raised it swiftly high in air.
"Deutschland Ueber Alles!" he cried.
Peter sprang—but too late.
The glass clattered to the floor. Rosen swayed forward
and struck the little table beneath the bold portrait as he
fell.
Peter picked up the glass and held it to his face.
"Prepared for any emergency," he muttered. "An in-
nocent looking liquid—colorless—used for bleaching silver-


320
Counterfeit
prints . . . The same that he employed—before. The hu-
man mind follows a pattern . . ."
A faint tinkle in the silence. Peter turned sharply. The
kitten had jumped out of her basket, and with velvet paws
was playing with the Iron Cross that had fallen to the floor.
The End