PL RESEARCH LIBRA IES uMumnmuufiummmm 34 06 8113 mummijr BLIND MAN’S BUFF BYn V JACQUES F UTRELLE AUTHOR 01' '“ml: DIAMOND MASTER," “er anss or ran GOLDEN“ ° Purl," "1n LADY'B can-ran," “THE MASTER HAND ' are. no. 0 . - ' o - ~’ .' '.O.“ ..'r 0 *1 .1 < ' . I \z. HODDER AND STOUGHTON PUBLISHERS LONDON MCMXVI _____________ THE NEW YORK wane LIBRARY 2801998 ASTOR. LBNOX AND TEhEN FOU N DATXONS R 1944 L ______-/~ BY THE 54m: AUTHOR THE MASTER HAND MY LADY’S GARTER Lennon: Honnzn AND S'rouax-rrou 2 BLIND MAN’S BUFF i potatoes in it. It would require many beef-stews, he figured, to fill the aching void caused by his eight-day ocean trip. _ So, meditatively, for a time Mr. John Smith stood looking upon Paris with comparative eye. And the longer he looked the worse it was for Paris. The time-stained, weather-beaten buildings across the street were not one, two, nine with the new brick-block back home; the rain-drenched square before him was neither wider nor grander, nor in any Way more calculated to arouse his enthusiasm, than was the square in front of the church at Passaic Avenue and Grove Street. Trim lines of trees edged the kerbs straight ahead of him, but they would be dwarfs if set down beside the trees at home. Awnings were flapping in the wind which drove the mist before it, but the awnings at home aIWays fiapped when the wind blew. The restless throng on the side- BLIND MAN’S BUFF 5 I. shakes a rat. For he had a purpose in Paris, had Mr. Smith, a purpose fixed, immutable, as was every purpose that ever laid hold of him. Nothing short of a purpose would ever have dragged him so far away from dear old Passaic. The sombreness passed from the straight- staring eyes, and there came a glint of steel into them as that purpose re- curred to him. It made him impatient to eat, to sleep, and to be at it. So the first thing was to find an hotel. He re- entered the great railway-station and approached a porter. “ Say, son,” he began affably, “ I want a hack.” The porter stared at him and shrugged his shoulders. “ Non compren’ pas,” he said. “ A hack, a cab, a buggy,” Mr. Smith explained. The porter shook his head. “ A vehicle, a waggon, a truck.” The porter appeared to be suffering 6 BLIND MAN’S BUFF intensely in his effort to understand. His shoulders were squirming, his arms writhing, and agony was depicted upon every line of his face. “ Something with wheels on it, you know—{'5 that turn round and round,” Mr. Smith elucidated patiently. “ An ox-cart, a herdic, a bicycle, a wheel- barrow—something to ride in.” “Non compren’ pas!” the porter wailed helplessly. Oh the pain and sorrow in his face 1 “Well, don’t take it to heart so,” Mr. Smith advised kindly. “ I want to ride, do you understand ? In a— a dray, or an omnibus, or a taxicab, or ” “ Taxi! Oui ! ” The fire had burned to the powder, and the explosion came; the serenity of a summer’s day settled upon the porter’s face. He seized upon Mr. Smith’s Suit-case, and gently, but firmly, led him around to his right, where he 8 BLIND MAN’S BUFF it, isn’t there such a thing as an hotel in Paris ‘? Hotel ! H—o—t—e—l ! ” “ Non compren’ pas! ” the porter and chauffeur bleated in unison. Mr. Smith drew pencil and paper from his pocket, and printed a word on it in large letters. “ Hotel! ” he bellowed at them sud- denly. They took the paper and read it. “ Hotel! ” They burst into song triumphantly; the storm had passed, peace had come. “ Sure, an hotel,” Mr. Smith agreed. “ Now, son, that you’re hep, understand me that I want a cheap little place where I can get a room and bath, and some- thing to eat, at about two dollars and a half per, on the American plan? ” “ Oui, oui! Américain! ” They seized upon the word they under- stood, and bore it aloft. Mr. Smith Was satisfied, and, when the porter’s palm was outstretched, thrust his hand BLIND MAN’S BUFF 9 into his pocket. He had been doing that steadily ever since he left Passaic. Good old Passaic! He dropped a coin into the waiting hand, then lounged back in the automobile. “And bang went ten cents!” he quoted. The taxicab wriggled out into the Rue de Lafayette, and went scudding along toward the Place de l’Opéra. Mr. Smith looked out of the window with growing interest and wonder. ’TWas a biggish sort of place, after all, was Paris! Passaic would have to look to her laurelsl He was whirled past the Opera House, and into the Rue de la Paix. The car stopped in the Place Ven- dome. Mr. Smith glanced up at the sign above the door of an hotel, and felt a cold chill start at the base of his brain and run down his spinal column, after which it ran up again. It Was one word—“ Ritz.” That was no place BLIND MAN’S BUFF 11 la, la ! Mr. Smith sat patiently waiting for the hubbub to stop; and it only grew. “ I said a cheap hotel!” he roared suddenly, and that mighty voice from Passaic extinguished the jabber about him as the wondstore extinguished a candle. “ This is no place for me. Giddapl Skiddoo! ” Whereupon the chivalry of France bowed low, and begged monsieur to believe them when they assured him it was the Hotel Ritz! A sergent de ville nosed his way through, and mon- sieur could take it from him that these gentlemen were telling the truth. He gave way to an imposing individual who came out of the hotel, wearing more uniform than Napoleon ever saw. Mr. Smith thought he was the chief of police, but he was only the head porter; and he added his voice to the hubbub. Mr. Smith looked out upon the growing mob with amazement in his straight-staring eyes. 12 BLIND MAN’S BUFF And then came to him, faintly, the voice of an angel—an angel from the United States—who seemed to be slightly amused. The crowd fell back respectfully, and a. young woman stood before him—a tailor-made young woman, trig and trim and charming. Her blue eyes were alight with understanding, and a smile tugged at the corners of her rosy mouth. “Can’t I assist you, Mr. Smith?” she queried ; and the sound of his own language stirred a responsive chord deep in Mr. Smith’s heart. “There has been some mistake, I am sure. Perhaps I can right it for you ? ” “ Thank you, ma’am,” said Mr. Smith humbly; and it didn’t occur to him to wonder that she knew his name. “ I told the driver to take me to some cheap American plan hotel, and he didn’t seem to understand. If you’ll tell him, please, ma’am, I’ll be much obliged.” BLIND MAN’S BUFF 13 “ Certainly ! ” . With perfect gravity the girl turned and spoke to the chauffeur. After a moment he touched his cap, and climbed back into the seat. The machine whirred and started to move. “ Thank you, ma’am,” Mr. Smith said simply. The girl smiled, nodded brightly, and entered another automobile which stood at the kerb. Looking back, Mr. Smith saw her car swing about the Colonne Vendome, and then his own car turned into the Rue de Castiglione, and she was lost. “ Why, Edna, how could you thrust yourself into a crowd like that?” a middle-aged Woman inquired of the girl reprovingly. “ It was not—-” “ Why shouldn’t I have done it, aunty ? ” the girl interrupted. “ Mr. Smith was a passenger on the steamer with us, and shipboard acquaintances are privileged to help each other when 14 BLIND MAN’S BUFF one is in trouble. And he was in trouble, wasn’t he ? ” She laughed a little. And then the mood passed, and she sat for a long time staring out of the window with sad, thoughtful eyes. CHAPTER II HERE and there across the Seine some prodigal giant has flung a handful of glittering stars in parallel arches, and these are bridges. As Mr. Smith’s taxi- cab spun through the Garden of the Tuileries, and over one of these—where, looking out, he caught the reflection of ten thousand lights in the rippling waters—he was reminded of the bridge down near the orphan asylum back home in Passaic. It gave him a com- forting sense of nearness to things he knew, and he found it good. Paris was looking up; there was nothing like it. Then he was whipped round a corner, and, as he struggled to steady himself, he caught the words “ Rue Bonaparte ” 2 15 BLIND MAN’S BUFF 19 Mr. Smith continued. “ W. Mandeville Clarke? He isn’t stopping here? ” “ Qu’est-ce que c’est ? ” queried the clerk. “ W. Mandeville Clarke ? ” Mr. Smith repeated distinctly. He picked up a slip of paper, and wrote the name upon it, then passed it to the clerk. “W. Mandeville Clarke ? ” “ Oui ! Monsieur Clarke ! ” the clerk burst forth rapturously. Here was something he could lay his tongue to. “ Monsieur Clarke! Américain ! ” “ You don’t know any more what I’m talking about than a jay-bird,” Mr. Smith declared unemotionally. “ My name isn’t Clarke; my name is John Smith. I’m looking for a man named Clarke ! ” “ Monsieur Clarke! Oui, oui! ” The clerk clung tenaciously to the thing he understood. Mr. Smith leaned over, pulled the slip of paper from the clerk’s reluctant 20 BLIND MAN’S BUFF fingers, tore it into four pieces, and dropped them to the floor. “ Forget it ! ” he advised. “ I wanted to know if Clarke was stopping here, and I stand a fine chance of ever finding out from you, son! And, understand, my name isn’t Clarke. My name is John Smith. Gimme that book.” He jerked the register from beneath the hand of the astonished clerk, and signed his name in it with a large flourish, just like the assistant-paying- teller in a bank in Passaic, New Jersey. “ Now, never mind Monsewer Clarke,” he told the clerk. “We’ll fight that out to-morrow. The thing I most want in the world is a room—a room with four walls and a bed in it—a bed-— sleep ! ” Mr. Smith made a pillow of his two hands, laid his weary head upon it, closed his eyes, and snored. The clerk beamed his delight. “ Sommeil! Oui! ” he exclaimed. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 21 “ If that means sleep, you’re on,” Mr. Smith agreed with a sigh of satis- faction. “Now, eats!” He dexterously applied an imaginary knife and fork, and rubbed his stomach with feigned delight. “ Manger ! Oui, oui ! ” There was a light of perfect under- standing in the clerk’s eyes. “ Now, son, you’re showing symptoms of human intelligence,” Mr. Smith re- marked admiringly. “ And now a bath -—a swim—the big splash? Are you hep ? ” Whereupon Mr. Smith laved his face and hands in the ambient air, and splashed it all over the shop, after which he dried himself. The little clerk was delighted! Monsieur was an artist! There Was nothing better in the Folies- Bergéres! In other words, the great Coquelin himself wasn’t deuce high! “Baigner! ” he elucidated. “ Oui, oui! ” 22 BLIND MAN’S BUFF And so, five minutes later, Mr. Smith found himself safely bestowed in a clean, sweet room, five flights up, surrounded by his suit-case. Then came a small waiter with a large tray of food, and, sans collar, sans coat, Mr. Smith set himself to fill a long-felt want. He did well. CHAPTER III WHETHER Paris has the most perfect police system in existence because it is the wickedest city in the world, or whether it is the wickedest city in the world because it has the most perfect—— Well, anyway, they do it differently in Passaic. In Paris the police have succeeded in establishing a cycle of tattle-tales, an endless chain which makes every man a spy upon his fellows, and the effect is a marvellous, albeit an unpleasant, system of espionage. That is, it is unpleasant when one comes to think of the manner of its existence, for its operation is noiseless, unostentatious. It would not be possible in any other part of the world. Being blessed with such extraordin 23 . 24 BLIND MAN’S BUFF facilities, Paris keeps close watch on the casual stranger, if for no other reason than that it keeps the intricate machin- ery in motion. Paris is not only always willing, but glad, to lend assistance to the police of any sister city of the earth. So, when a cable dispatch came from a private detective agency in New York asking the Paris police to locate one W. Mandeville Clarke, Paris doffed her hat and went to work. It was not surprising, therefore, that while Mr. John Smith of Passaic was peace- fully snoring five flights up in the Maison de Treville, an agent of the police, M. Remi, not Without fame in his own calling, should appear in the office downstairs and make certain in- quiries of the clerk. Dark insinuations underlay his man- ner of questioning, and the heady black eyes of him scared the amiable smile out from under the little clerk’s waxen moustache. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 25 “ M. Clarke—W. Mandeville Clarke? ” the sleuth questioned. Yes ; the clerk remembered the name ; he had heard it earlier in the evening; indeed, it had been written upon a slip of paper and handed to him, then snatched out of his hand so—and de- stroyed! “ Ah ! ” It was a long, aspirated ex- pression of relief from M. Remi; the Remi reputation threatened to be crOWned with new glory. “ Ah! You will be so kind as to go on! ” The little clerk leaned forward dra- matically. “ I have reason to believe M. Clarke is here in the hotel even now ! ” he declared. “ I will go further, monsieur: I will say I am positive he is here! ” “ Ah!” The cunning black eyes were alive as flames. “ Your reasons, monsieur ? ” “ He came here—an American—early in the evening, and his conduct was 26- BLIND MAN’S BUFF suspicious in the extreme!” the little clerk ran on volubly. “ He used strange American words, and a great many of them, although he must have known that I could not understand—I, who speak only the language of my beloved France.” “ I am awaiting details, monsieur,” remarked M. Remi. “ When first he came he repeated the name, W. Mandeville Clarke, many times, and finally, monsieur, I came to know that he was introducing himself. Ah I You must give me credit for the great acumen l I did not fully compre- hend this, monsieur, until finally he wrote the name upon a slip of paper; then, apparently realising that he had committed a blunder and betrayed him- self, he snatched the paper from my hand—so !—t0re it into bits, and cast it away. It must be here even now ! ” Together they pounced upon the four hits of paper which had been knocking 30 BLIND MAN’S BUFF the detective in his distinguished ribs —“ there are hair-dyes, eh, monsieur ? ” M. Remi admitted it with the strange feeling of having lost something. His voice grew stern, accusing : “ He is tall? ” “ He is tall, monsieur——so great tall.” “ Weighing about one hundred and eighty pounds ? ” “ Oui, monsieur ! ” “ Powerful of physique ? ” “ Of the grand physique ! ” M. Remi closed the book and replaced it in his cavernous pocket with an air of finality. “ That is all, monsieur,” he said simply. “ You will arouse him, and take him away with you now ? ” the clerk queried eagerly. “ I have no orders to arrest him, monsieur,” M. Berni explained. “ My orders were only to locate him, and keep him under close surveillance.” BLIND MAN’S BUFF 31 Oh, la, la! Here was disappoint- ment indeed! The little clerk’s Waxen moustache began to droop. “ But What has he done, monsieur ? ” he demanded excitedly, after a moment. “ Is he the robber? The murderer? Is it safe to let him remain in the house ? You must tell me, monsieur ? ” “ He will remain here undisturbed,” M. Remi declared positively. “Who he is and What he is I may not tell you.” There were four reasons why M. Remi could not tell. The first was, he didn’t know, and the other three are of no consequence. Meanwhile Mr. John Smith, of Passaic, New Jersey, wrapped in the utter in- nocence of slumber, dreamed lightly of the voice of an angel—an angel from the United States—Which came to him vaguely through a babble! CHAPTER IV IN the midst of his shaving, Mr. John Smith paused, and from the high-up windows of his room, looked down meditatively upon the sea of mist which veiled Paris. Far away, a snow-White island in the murk of morning, glisten- ing spotlessly under the rays of a pale sun, was Sacred Heart; to his left was Eiffel Tower, that thin, spidery struc- ture that thrust its flagpole straight to- ward the stars. What a fine young shot-tower that would make back in Jersey! As the mists began to lift he could trace the serpentine sweep of the River Seine, winding from a point almost at his feet away, away, and disappearing like a silver ribbon in the distance— just like the dear old Passaic River! 32 BLIND MAN’S BUFF 83 In front of him, at the far end of a trio of arched bridges, was the vast roof of the Louvre; it reminded him of the roof of the rubber works back home. And the Garden of the Tuileries! It made him almost homesick for another glimpse of First Ward Park. Homesick ! He shook off the shadowy suggestion, for there was work to be done in Paris, tedious work—the work of finding a man named Clarke—W. Mandeville Clarke—and his reward was to be the exquisite delight of pounding Mr. Clarke to a pulp ; after which they would sit down calmly and discuss two or three matters of moment to both of them. He had come all the way to Paris to do this, and this he would do! It had never occurred to him that Clarke might be hopelessly lost in the labyrinthine wildernesses of the city, or that he might not be in Paris. He would find him because it was meet and proper that he should find him, and Mr. 84 BLIND MAN’S BUFF Smith Was blessed with a firm belief in the eternal justice of things. He bared his great right arm, and, looking down upon it complacently, fell to imagining how Clarke would look when he had quite finished with him. The mental picture he conjured up pleased him, so he smiled; and smilingly he finished shaving. After which came breakfast—not a puny little thing of coffee and rolls, but breakfast with a couple of chops and three or four eggs and a few rashers of bacon. The waiter, who spoke eating English, allowed his eyes to grow round and rounder as Mr. Smith ordered; and he stood by in a sort of trance as Mr. Smith ate. These Americans! What gourmands they were! No wonder zey aire ze beeg ! These preliminaries disposed of, Mr. Smith planted his hat upon his head, and started out to get a tooth-hold upon Paris. It was of no particular moment to him that as he passed through the 36 BLIND MAN’S BUFF he sought. It was odd that he should be stopping at the same place—odd, but, upon reflection overnight, Mr. Smith could find nothing in it save its oddity. Miss Clarke had lived there for nearly tWo years, with a chaperon, while she was completing her education, but there seemed to be no reason why either she or her father should be knOWn at the Maison de Treville now. He had been convinced by the night-clerk’s manner that Clarke was not living in the hotel; and, anyway, if he found it necessary he could go into the matter further with the aid of an interpreter. Edna Clarke! She must be twenty- four or five years old now ; and, for no reason, he found himself wondering what she might look like. Once upon a time he had seen a little picture of her—one of a group of laughing girls on a terrace at Versailles—and he had wondered how anybody that far from Passaic could laugh! The picture had 38 BLIND MAN’S BUFF “ What is your name ? ” the stranger demanded suddenly in English. Mr. Smith paused, and regarded him questioningly for a moment. “ Smith—John Smith,” he replied, at last, curiously. “ Why ? ” “ Where do you live ? ” The second question came in the same curt, businesslike tone. “Passaic, New Jersey,” replied Mr. Smith. “What’s the answer?” Without another word, not even a nod of thanks, the stranger passed on, and was lost in the throng on the bridge. The incident struck Mr. Smith as curious, nothing more; and a minute later, in thoughts of more importance, he had forgotten it. Then began for him a systematic, wearying round. He didn’t know, and it probably wouldn’t have disturbed him if he had known, that M. Remi was trailing him tirelessly, accurately into and out of every hotel he entered. His BLIND MAN’S BUFF 39 questions at each place took the same form : “ Do you speak English ‘? ” In the event of an answer in the affirmative the conversation prospered, and there came other questions; “ Is W. Mande- ville Clarke stopping here‘? Has he been here ? Do you expect him? Is there any American or Englishman, with a full grey beard and white hair, stopping here ‘3 Anyone about my _ size?” In the event of a negative answer to the first question, the conver- sation ended abruptly, and Mr. Smith put the hotel on his black list, to be probed later on by an interpreter. At the Hotel Continental there came a pleasant break in the weary monotony of his search. He put the usual ques- tions to the clerk who met him. Yes, he spoke English ; and he spoke it with an intonation that made Mr. Smith’s heart go out to him. No; Mr. W. Mandeville Clarke was not there; he had not been there ; they didn’t expect 40 BLEND MAN’S BUFF him ; there was no full-bearded, white- haired American or Englishman stop- ping in the hotel; no one about Mr. Smith’s size. Mr. Smith was turning aWay. “From the United States? ” the clerk queried affably. “Passaic, New Jersey,” Mr. Smith boasted. “ Waterbury, Connecticut,” said the clerk. The kindred of country brought Pas- saic and Waterbury hand to hand in a long, hearty clasp, and Mr. Smith didn’t understand why, but there seemed to be a slight lump in his throat. “ Funny thing,” the clerk went on, after a moment; “ there was a young Woman in here just a moment ago inquiring for Mr. Clarke. She was from the States, too, I imagine—a slender girl dressed in black, rather tall.” Mr. Smith studied the clerk’s face with questioning, interested eyes. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 41 “ You don’t happen to know what she wanted with him ? ” “No; she didn’t say. She seemed to be very much distressed about something.” , “ She didn’t leave her name ? Or her card ? ” “ N 0.” There was a moment’s pause. “If you’ll let me have your name and ad- dress and Clarke comes along, I’ll let you know,” the clerk went on obligingly. “Bully! ” Mr. Smith exclaimed hearti- ly. “ My name is John Smith. I’ll write my address, becauseIcan’tpronounce it.” So a slip of paper passed, and, with a word of thanks, Mr. Smith went on hisway. Hehadhardlyvanishedthrough thecourt- yard into the Rue de Castiglione when M. Remi appeared before the clerk, with an eager glitter in his beady black eyes. “ You will give me, monsieur,” he commanded, “ the slip of paper which the American handed to you just a moment ago.” The clerk needed no introduction to 42 BLIND MAN’S BUFF this man; the type was common. He passed over the slip of paper without a word, and M. Remi devoured it with his eyes. It bore the simple words: “ John Smith, Maison de Treville, Rue Bonaparte.” It was mysterious—most mysterious ! M. Remi puzzled over it for a minute or more; then with keen, accusing glance, turned to the clerk. “ You will inform me, monsieur,” he commanded, “ of the exact con- versation you had with this—this M. Smith.” The clerk laid the whole matter before him, the while spidery wrinkles grew in M. Remi’s brow. At its end M. Berni hastened aWay, leaving the clerk to imagine strange things of this big countryman of his, things which were not wholly complimentary. Mr. Smith would have been amazed if he had even an inkling of what Waterbury, Connecti- cut, was thinking of Passaic, New Jersey. CHAPTER V MR. SMITH had just turned into the Place de l’Opéra when, for the second time, he was halted by the abrupt appearance before him of a man who blocked his way. Mr. Smith stopped, thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked him over. He was the same type of man, precisely, as the one who had stopped him on the Pont du Carrousel—who, in a general sort of way, was a twin of M. Remi—and something told Mr. Smith he was going to ask the same questions. “ What eez your name ? ” demanded the stranger curtly. Yes; the same question—in Worse English. “What’s it to you?” Mr. Smith queried belligerently. 4a 44 BLIND MAN’S BUFF Aha! He was not Monsieur John Smith any more; he was Monsieur Watts Ittooyu. It must be a Japanese name. Ze huge Américain must take ze police of La Belle France for ze grand stupid. Oho! “Where- do you live ? ” came the question. “ At the corner of the United States, and two o’clock! ” Mr. Smith declared hotly. “ Now look here, son: I don’t know why you people in Paris stop a fellow and ask his name, but it’s none of your business, and the next one who does it will get a good, swift poke in the jaw ! ” Mr. Smith stalked into the lobby of the Grand Hotel with a grim expression on his face, which softened instantly into mild interest as he came face to face with a tall, slender young woman, gowned in black and heavily veiled, coming out. She started a little at sight of him, hesitated a scant instant BLIND MAN’S BUFF 45 —he thought she was going to speak —-then passed on, hurriedly. What- ever he thought of her was lost in the throes of his verbal wrestlings with a clerk who boasted that he spoke Eng- lish, and understood United States. The first day’s search ended fruit- lessly for Mr. Smith, but rich beyond the most optimistic dreams to the sleuths of Paris who were seeking W. Mandeville Clarke. M. Remi listened to the reports of the men who were assisting him, and his mental con- volutions were weird in the extreme. He sent them away, and sat down to try to adjust all the odd facts in his possession. John Smith, alias Watts Ittooyu, was W. Mandeville Clarke! He was big enough. The rugged lines on his face made him look old enough. He kept clean-shaven with the most scrupulous care, and his dingy black hair bore every indication of having been dyed—badly dyed. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 47 entered, talking in French, with the clerk in charge. She finished, and started away. “ Do you speak English ? ” Mr. Smith began monotonously. “ Yes, monsieur. I speak him quite well,” replied the clerk. “ Do you happen to have such a man as W. Mandeville Clarke?” The clerk glanced involuntarily at the veiled woman, who turned quickly, inquiringly. At sight of Mr. Smith she became rigid where she stood, listening, listening ! “No, monsieur. He is not here.” “ Has he been here Y Do you expect him ? ” “ He is not here. We do not expect him.” “ There’s no American or English- man with a full beard and white hair here ? No man about my size? ” Again the clerk glanced at the young Woman, who, with fingers writhing with- 4 BLIND MAN’S BUFF 49 dered if she was going to ask where he lived! “ You don’t—don’t happen to know who I am ? ” she went on, apparently with an effort. “ May I ask—pardon me if my question seems impertinent —may I ask why you are looking for Mr. Clarke ? ” Mr. Smith thoughtfully stroked his chin. “ It’s a little personal matter, ma’am.” “You—you came from the United States to find Mr. Clarke? ” “ Passaic, New Jersey. Yes, ma’am.” “And When you find him ? ” Mr. Smith’s straight-staring eyes grew steely, and there was a glint of danger in them. His powerful hands worked spasmodically, his white teeth were locked together. “When I find him!” he repeated grimly. Then, quietly: “ I’d rather not tell you, ma’am.” For an instant she stood staring at 50 BLIND MAN’S BUFF him, and then, suddenly, she turned and entered the taxicab. The car jerked, and went speeding away up the Champs Elysées. For a long time Mr. Smith stood gazing after it blankly, wonder- ingly. CHAPTER VI SOMEONE has said that the corner table of the Café de la Paix-that table on the sidewalk precisely at the intersec- tion of the Boulevard des Capucines with the Place de l’Opéra—is the exact centre of the earth. When he dropped down into a chair at that particular spot Mr. John Smith didn’t happen to know that he occupied so important a geo- graphical position; he only knew that this famous outdoor place, with its thin-legged tables and unsubstantial chairs, was something like Terry Ma- loney’s Winter Garden back in Passaic, and that was enough. He was aweary of limb, battered by disappointment, and there was creeping over him re- sistlessly that longing for home which, 51 BLIND MAN’S BUFF 53 “Don’t know a thing about him,” replied the clerk tersely. That Was all. And once, in his great loneliness, he had paused to watch a child at play in the Garden of the Tuileries—a rosy- cheeked little chap who was whipping a top. And he had spoken to the child. The answer was an incomprehensible jumble of sounds—just sounds. Even the children in Paris spoke French! He had moved on wearily; and as he went a shrewd-faced man with beady black eyes—M. Remi—had come up and inquired of the child what the strange American had said, and what had been the answer. By noon on the seventh day Mr. Smith had exhausted those hotels where he could make himself understood, and now he had dropped down into a seat in the Café de la Paix to plan a con- tinuance of his search, with the aid of an interpreter. Disappointment had been added to disappointment as he 54. BLIND MAN’S BUFF had gone on with not one clue, but the bulldog determination was in no way dulled; his purpose had not wavered. It had never occurred to him to give up —to quit. It never would occur to him while W. Mandeville Clarke re- mained to be found. Across the Place de l’Opéra from the Café de la Paix is a large sign in bold, United States sort of letters—the sign of a great Chicago newspaper. Mr. Smith discovered it now for the first time, and the severe lines in his rugged face softened a little. It looked so homey and comfortable and United Statesey that it made him feel hungry all over—a hunger that took the form of an insane desire to see a United States flag, and to shake a United States hand, and to eat a United States pie —all of it, from upper crust to indi- gestion. Pie! Paris wouldn’t be so bad if there was pie to be had. Chest- nut-fed Jersey pork, and pumpkin pie! BLIND MAN’S BUFF 55 And perhaps just a smack of apple- jack; real, undiluted Jersey lightning! He wondered if it was to be had ? A waiter came and inquired what monsieur would be so pleased as to have—inquired in the lisping English which nearly every waiter in Paris speaks. How could he be so honoured as to serve monsieur ? “ Say, son,” queried Mr. Smith, “ I wonder if by any chance you know what apple-jack is? Jersey light- ning ? ” “ Apple-jack ? ” the waiter repeated painfully. “ J airsey lightning ? ” “ Apple-jack—it’s a drink,” Mr. Smith elucidated. “ If you can find me a small glass of it——” “ Apple,” the waiter pondered. “ Zat ees ze pomme. J ack—zat ees ze Jacques in French, and Jacques ees ze James in English. Did it? Zerefore vat you want ees ze apple of ze James to drink ? Ees it not so ? ” 56 BLIND MAN’S BUFF p \ Mr. Smith looked at him in amaze— ment. “ Oh, hell ! If it’s that much trouble, bring me beer,” he directed. Perched there in the centre of the world Mr. Smith meditated upon many things over his déjeuner—dinner back in Passaic—regaling his drooping soul ever and anon by another glance at that wonderful sign across the way—- the sign of a Chicago 'newspaper. He had never been to Chicago, but he loved it now. He would go over to that office when he had finished, and perhaps someone there—an American, oh, joy !——could give him some in- formation as to where he might get an interpreter. And, as he considered it all, with rising spirits, there came to him indis- tinctly from a table a dozen feet aWay a few words in English—good, United States English. The sound of that voice brought a quick, tense expression BLIND MAN’S BUFF 57 to his face and a spasmodic, gripping movement to his hands. He knew it—knew it, despite a certain whining quaver which had never been there before. He brushed the crumbs from his knees, folded his napkin carefully, a la Passaic, paid the waiter and arose. He had found Clarke! He turned in the direction whence the voice had come, and, as yet unnoticed himself, stared with frank surprise in his face. It was Clarke all right; he knew the commanding, gleaming eyes of him, but a different Clarke—a Clarke minus the square-cut beard he had always worn, a Clarke whose head had been stripped of its glory of white hair; a Clarke who had shrunk from the robust, ruddy man he had known to a mere skeleton of himself; a Clarke with thin, yellow face and colourless lips. But Clarke it was—the man he had been seeking ! Mr. Smith strode straight toward him 58 BLIND MAN’S BUFF through the web of spidery tables and chairs, heedless of all else in the world ; heedless even of the sudden appearance at his side of a strange man who said something to him in English. The slight commotion attracted Clarke’s at- tention, and there, while still half a dozen feet separated them, the eyes of the two men met. Clarke’s thin face went white beneath its sallowness, and, leaning heavily upon the table in front of him, he struggled to arise. It was an effort for him, a desperate effort, but he came to his feet at last, and his burning gaze fastened itself upon Mr. Smith. Detaining hands were laid upon Mr. Smith’s arm, he shook them off and took another step forward. Then, and not until then, he became conscious of the fact that Clarke was not alone. There was a young woman with him—a girl he knew, the girl who had on his first day in Paris directed his cab to the Maison 60 BLIND MAN’S BUFF looking into the troubled, pleading blue eyes of this girl, eyes which commanded with unspoken eloquence, he stood silent, rigid. Finally, after a great while, it seemed, reason came back to him, and vaguely he made out something that was being said in his ear : “ Monsieur Clarke, you are my pris- oner ! ” Clarke! Yet it was to him, John Smith, that the words were addressed. He turned to face the man who had spoken, the man who clung to him now with a grip of iron ; it was the inquisitive stranger who had asked his name that day on the Pont du Carrousel. “ Come along with the quietness, monsieur.” “ What for?” Mr. Smith demanded curiously. “ By order of the Prefect of Police.” “ But my name isn’t Clarke,” Mr. Smith protested. “My name is—” BLIND MAN’S BUFF 61 “ W. Mandeville Clarke,” interrupted his captor, “ alias John Smith, alias Watts Ittooyu. You are my prisoner, you will come along with the great quietness.” Mr. Smith riveted his gaze upon the face of the real Clarke, and his mind, usually slow-moving, whirled with the flood of things to be considered. He wasn’t Clarke, of course, but if he exposed the real Clarke, and the real Clarke should be taken prisoner, it would bring chaos. Clarke must remain free, even at the temporary cost of his own freedom! It would be easy, once Clarke had an oppor- tunity to escape, to prove himself to be the John Smith he claimed to be, and he would be released. Then would come his reckoning! His eyes shifted for an instant to the- face of the girl, and some strange, subtle message passed between them. She had not spoken, yet she, too,,seemed CHAPTER VII WITH one of his wasted hands clasped in the cool, caressing fingers of his daughter, and with her plump, rosy cheek pressed tenderly against his own, withered and yellow by a long, dragging siege of typhoid, W. Mandeville Clarke slept. It was the sleep of utter exhaus- tion—an exhaustion following closely upon the maelstrom of speculation and apprehension aroused by that unex- pected encounter with Mr. John Smith in the Café de la Paix. Smith, of all men! What was he doing in Paris, so far aWay from his wicketed window ? Why had he been arrested ? And why had he submitted to arrest under the name of W. Mandeville Clarke, with hardly a protest? 5 es 64 BLIND MAN’S BUFF There was only one answer, of course, and that answered only a part of the question. The disappearance of the United States Bonds from the bank- vault had been discovered. An order had been issued for his—Clarke’s— arrest on a charge of having made away with those bonds. That order had been turned over to the police of Paris for execution, and they had blundered. But how had they blundered? How was it possible to mistake Smith for Clarke ? And why had Smith not de- livered over to the arresting officer the real W. Mandeville Clarke, who was there under his very hands! It couldn’t have been that Smith hadn’t recognised him; the blazing, straight-staring eyes left no room for doubt on that score. Then why—why ? , Pondering these things, aghast at the hideous possibilities which paraded before his distorted vision in garish disorder, certain of nothing and fearful BLIND MAN’S BUFF 67 If her father was a thief, then John Smith—John Smith—Was probably a detective! That was the only infer- ence she had been able to draw from his answers to her questions that day in the Champs Elysées. But, on the other hand, if he was a detective, why had he permitted himself to be arrested as W. Mandeville Clarke ? After a while she detached her slim fingers from her father’s feeble grasp, and arose noiselessly. For a minute or more she stood staring down upon the emaciated frame of this man who Was so much to her, who was so dependent upon her now in his helplessness, who was so near to her and yet so isolated by the pall of mystery which seemed impenetrable. Then, suddenly, there came a blinding, blurring rush of tears, and she crept silently from the room. The door squeaked slightly as she closed it, but, slight as it was, the noise aroused Clarke. His feverish eyes 68 BLIND MAN’S BUFF opened wide, and he sat straight up in bed. The bonds! He had dreamed of them and fear for their safety had been born in that dream; a strange, vivid vision of a desperate struggle with some straight-staring, rugged-faced hulking man, some man who seemed to be——to be John Smith. In the dream he had lost the bonds! For a long time he sat listening, listening, then started to arise from the bed. It was an effort. Illness had sapped his strength, he was weak as a child, but the will of him came to his rescue, that merciless, all-compelling will against which no man or thing had ever stood. Made giddy by the effort, with the world swimming about him hazily, he rested for a minute beside the bed, steady- ing himself by the support it gave; ' then, his eyes a-glitter, his heart pound- ing, he went staggering, reeling across the room. From a shelf high up in the rickety wardrobe he took down a little BLIND MAN’S BUFF 69 leather bag, and opened it with fumb- ling fingers. Inside, folded separately, and placed one upon another, were many papers, bound into a package by a rubber band. He thrust his fingers into the bag. The papers crackled at his touch, and he laughed senselesslya They were safe! With trembling hands he slid one of the sheets out and opened it. It was a United States Bond, printed in the golden-yellow that one instinctively'as- sociates with things of great value. On its face it bore the figures $10,000. There were one hundred and fifty of these bonds in the bag—one million five hundred thousand dollars! Here was not his fortune, but the means to a fortune which was to become millions and millions under his deft manipu- lations. Again he laughed, a mirth that was cracked, hollow. After a while he folded the bond, slipped it back under the rubber band, 70 BLIND MAN’S BUFF locked the little bag again, and stood sWaying in the centre of the room, as if seeking a place to hide it. For weeks, during all the weary illness when he had lain unconscious, helpless, the little bag had remained safe and undisturbed. But now he had dreamed, and fear had been born in that dream. The bag must be hidden in some better, safer place, safe from Smith, safe from chance discovery by his daughter. An idea came. The bag was small. He could place it beside him in the bed, under the covers! There it Would always be at hand, and with a revolver under his pillow It was an hour later, perhaps, that the door opened with the slight squeak which had aroused him, and his daughter entered softly. The mist of tears was ' gone now; the lingering, doubtful fear had passed from the blue eyes, and the scarlet lips were smiling bravely. “ Edna,” he said, and for a moment BLIND MAN’S BUFF 71 there was a return to the terse, master- ful tone she had always known, “ does I it happen you have seen any account in the Paris edition of the ‘Herald ’ of trouble in one of the banks back home ? An embezzlement, perhaps? ” “No, daddy. Why?” So, Whether or not there had been an order sent to the Paris police for his arrest, nothing had come out back home! There was yet a chance, in spite of Smith. A chance? N0; an absolute certainty! Clarke closed his eyes, and lay back smiling. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 73 and something under the covers bumped against his side. One hand, exploring, came in contact with the little leather bag. The bonds! He smiled. They Were safe yet ! Smith hadn’t been able to get them ! “ I’m quite well,” he continued, and there was a steadier note in the quaver- ing voice. “ In another week I’ll be as good as new. It takes more than a little typhoid to knock out your daddy, girlie.” Edna didn’t stir; after one quick glance she didn’t even lbok at him. In- stead, she sat motionless, with pallid face, staring out the mottled window for a minute or more. The clear, blue eyes had become sombre and tense in the rigidity of their gaze. ‘ “ A gentleman called to see you while you were asleep,” she said irrelevantly at last. “ I told him, of course, that he couldn’t see you; that you were ill.” 71f BLIND MAN’S BUFF “ Who was he ?,” Clarke asked quickly. “ He said he was the Marquis d’Au- bigny,” the girl told him, with a deadly listlessness in her tone, “ and he inquired for Mr. Charles Roebling.” “ But I should have seen him—I must see him!” Clarke blazed, with a note of excitement in his voice. “ You shouldn’t have sent him away. You should have——” “ He will return this evening—he said he would,” the girl interrupted. Then, after a pause: “ Father, why Charles Roebling, instead of Clarke ? ” “For reasons you wouldn’t under- stand—business reasons,” he explained tersely. “Did he set an hour?” “ Eight o’clock,” she replied. “ And why this dreadful little place, instead of one of the hotels ? We have always stopped at an hotel before, and ” “ Girlie, you are asking about things now that I couldn’t explain—to you. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 77 for some reason she didn’t press it. Instead: “ You are not a rich man, are you, daddy ? ” she asked curiously. “ I 7 mean rich in the sense of the great rich men of New York ? ” “I’m a pauper, compared with the Wall Street crowd,” Clarke replied steadily. “ I am worth, perhaps, three hundred thousand dollars, perhaps less. However, if Smith stays in gaol for a week—just a week—I’ll be worth millions! Millions, girlie! Do you understand ? ” ‘ There was some inarticulate noise in the girl’s throat—a sort of gasp—and she arose. Her slim hands closed tightly behind her back; she stood rigid. “ I shall not ask you, daddy, why it is to your advantage for Mr. Smith to remain in gaol ; nor shall I ask you why he should have submitted to arrest under your name. But there is one thing I will ask, and I have a right to an 80 BLIND MAN’S BUFF yourself about horrid things you don’t understand.” That night the Marquis d’Aubigny, a little man of indeterminate age, im- maculate, foppish even, in dress, with that singularly loathsome expression of the eyes that one grows accustomed to seeing in the cafés of the Champs Elysées, called and remained with Clarke for an hour. Edna, in person, ad- mitted him to the poor little apartment, and under his stareflushed crimson with an intangible anger, a helpless rebellion against the things she saw there. With hot cheeks she turned away into the little cubby-hole of a room adjoining that in which her father lay, and flung herself across the bed. It was no fault of hers that she heard the conversation in that room, separated from that of her father by only a flimsy door which would not close per- fectly; but when the Marquis had gone she stood for a time staring after BLIND MAN’S BUFF 81 him, then entered the room where her father lay. He was sitting straight up in bed, in the act of opening the little leather bag. He tried to conceal it. “ What do you want ? ” he demanded harshly. She stood silent an instant, swaying a little. _ “Nothing, daddy,” she said falter- ingly. “ I don’t want anything. I don’t think I am—I am quite well.” As he glared she stretched out her hands to him implOringly, her lips moved silently, and she fell prone. CHAPTER IX MEANWHILE, Mr. John Smith was having troubles of his own, and rather enjoying them. He was sitting in a small office of the Prefecture of Police—police-head- quarters in Passaic—on the Ile de la Cité, facing M. Baudet, a grim-visaged man of middle age, who perfumed his whiskers and smoked vile cigarettes. Mr. Smith wondered if he perfumed his whiskers to kill the odour of the cigarettes, or if he smoked the cigar- ettes to kill the odour of his whiskers. M. Remi was there, along with two or three other French sleuths, who glowered at Mr. Smith individually and col- lectively, and babbled incomprehensible asides. Mr. Smith stood it for a long time; then, to M. Baudet, who seemed to be the chief : s2 BLIND MAN’S BUFF 83 “ Well, Cap, you got me,” he remarked pleasantly. “ Now would you mind telling me what it’s all about ? ” Evidently this was what they had been waiting for—the prisoner to break the silence. M. Baudet stabbed him with a glance of his piercing eyes, and re- mained silent. It was a highly effective method of his own, this silence, to reduce a man to fear and awe in the beginning. It sapped his courage, and left him weak and flabby. “ If you’re going to ask any questions, commence,” Mr. Smith requested. “ I shall ask the questions, monsieur, at the proper time ! ” M. Baudet’s tone was cold, incisive, steely. “ And all I have to do is to answer ’em ? ” , “ That is all, monsieur.” “ Well, son, we’d better understand each other in the beginning,” Mr. Smith remarked easily. “ If you don’t answer some of my questions right now, I don’t 84 BLIND MAN’S BUFF answer any of_ yours. In other words, if you hold me here without telling me why, I’ll get a man down here from the American Embassy, and let out a scream they’ll hear all the way to Washington. In the first place I Want to know why I was pinched ? ” There was a note of calm assurance in Mr. Smith’s voice; utter composure in the powerful hands that lay idly on the arms of his chair. His straight- staring eyes were fixed xsquarely upon those of M. Baudet. “Understand me, I’m not going to start any rough-house or anything, but you’ve got to tell me why I’m here,” he concluded. “ You will answer my questions, mon- sieur ! ” A slender, manicured hand, delicate as a woman’s, tugged com- placently at the perfumed beard ; there was a merciless glitter in the eyes above it. “ You are W. Mandeville Clarke!” “ WVell, suppose I am ? ” queried Mr. 88 BLIND MAN’S BUFF “Again, when another of my men accosted you in the Place de l’Opéra and asked the same questions, you gave a difierent name. In other words, mon- sieur, when taken unawares you forgot the name you had assumed, and, realis- ing only the necessity of giving some name other than your own, you gave the name Watts Ittooyu, and your address as the corner of the United States and two o’clock. I have the direct information, monsieur, that there is no such address ! Therefore, you are Clarke ! ” There it was—all of it, as clear as mud! Mr. Smith didn’t smile, because the one question to which he had‘been seeking an answer was not answered. He returned to it unwaveringly. “ Was there an order from the United States to arrest Clarke? ” “ Well, monsieur, the fact is ” And M. Baudet hesitated a little. “ The fact is, our instructions from the BLIND MAN’S BUFF 89 United States were not as complete as we would have wished, so———” “ Was there an order from the United States to arrest Clarke ? ” “ Well, there was no direct order, but—~—-” Mr. Smith drew a long breath, a very long breath. “ But you did have a request for some- one, possibly a detective agency, to keep a look-out for Clarke ? ” he Continued. “ And a description of Clarke ? ” “ That is true, monsieur, but you must understand——” “ Now,” Mr. Smith interrupted abruptly, “you yourself say you had no order to arrest Clarke. Your men have evidently been watching me pretty closely since I have been in Paris. Have I committed any crime here?” “ You went on and on endlessly in the farce of searching for yourself, mon- sieur. We knew you were Clarke, and it was necessary to bring the matter 92 BLIND MAN’S BUFF “ You did, monsieur.” “ Wrong, Cap. I merely didn’t say that I wasn’t Clarke. -You must have a pretty accurate description of Clarke. He’s a man about my size ? ” “ Just your size, monsieur.” “ With grey hair ? ” “You have dyed it, monsieur. It has the dingy look of dyed hair.” “ Thanks ! If you know of anything that will take the dye off, get busy. Your description probably said, too, that Mr. Clarke has a full, square-cut beard ? ” i “A razor, monsieur! ” M. Baudet smiled. “ But your description did say a grey beard ? ” “Yes, grey—almost white.” “ Well, take it from me, I’m not Clarke. All you’ve got to do to con- vince yourself is to sit right still there for the next ten hours, and watch my whiskers grow. They’ll come out black.” BLIND MAN’S BUFF 93 There was silence, dead silence—a silence fraught with tragedy. After a long time M. Baudet turned upon M. Remi with a sinister glare in his eye. “ If that is true, Monsieur Remi,” he said measuredly, “it is evident that you have made the mistake.” M. Remi bowed his head in shame and sorrow; then another idea came. He spoke aside to his chief, who in turn addressed Mr. Smith. “Your name is John Smith, then, monsieur ? ” “John Smith, of Passaic, New Jersey.” “You have been looking for Mon- sieur Clarke, too. Who are you ? Why have you been searching?” “Because I wanted to find him,” replied Mr. Smith. “Now, you fly- cops in Paris are pretty nifty, Cap. Can’t you imagine why I came all the way from the United States to find 94 \BLIND MAN’S BUFF Clarke—the same man you are after ? Doesn’t it suggest anything to you? ” Gradually a light of understanding grew in M. Baudet’s eyes, and for a second time the perfumed whiskers parted in a smile. “Perhaps ”—it came in a thrilling whisper—“ perhaps you, too, are a de- tective ? ” “ Ah! ” It was most non-committal. Mr. Smith arose and stretched his long legs. “ There is the native shrewdness of France, monsewer ! ” They shook hands. . . . Late that night Mr. Smith returned to his room in the Maison de Treville, with an odd smile of satisfaction on his face. On the following afternoon five men met with W. Mandeville Clarke in the shabby little apartment in the Rue St. Honoré, and important business papers, involving millions, were signed. By the terms of the deal, Clarke was BLIND MAN’S BUFF 95 temporarily to hypothecate United States Bonds valued at one and a half million dollars. Smiling triumphantly, he opened the little leather bag. It was empty ! CHAPTER X FOR the major part of the day, and all of the evening, following the mysterious disappearance of one million five hun- dred thousand dollars’ worth of United States Bonds from the shabby little room in the Rue St. Honoré, Mr. John Smith hovered about the lobby of the Maison de Treville like an uneasy bill- collector. He had been expecting some- thing, he didn’t know what. A letter ? Perhaps. A telegram ? Maybe. A call in person? Not at all unlikely. Whatever form it might take, it was coming, a something from the void, an illuminating, starlike light to lead him through the maze. He was perfectly convinced of it, albeit the conviction was based upon nothing more substantial than a well-developed Passaic hunch. on BLIND MAN’S BUFF 97 Shortly after nine o’clock he strolled around the corner into the Rue de Seine to invest fifty centimes of hard-earned American cash in a bad cigar—all cigars being bad in Paris. As he re-entered the lobby, the night clerk, that astute young man, with the ingratiating smile and the delicately waxed moustache, picked up a letter and held it aloft. “ Billet pneumatique, monsieur,” he announced. “ Who ? ” queried Mr. Smith. “ Billet pneumatique ! ” “You can search me, son; I don’t know him.” The clerk shrugged his shoulders hope- lessly, walked around the desk, and placed the letter in Mr. Smith’s_hand. Mr. Smith glanced at the superscription. “ Oh, for me? I thought you said it Was for Billy somebody.” The handwriting was a woman’s! Now that it had come, Mr. Smith knew that it Was precisely What he had been 98 BLIND MAN’S BUFF expecting. Of course it was from a woman. He had known all along that it would be. He dropped into a settle in a corner and opened the letter. It was like this : “ To-night at 10.30 taxicab will pick you up on the north side of obelisk in Place de la Concorde. Matter of greatest importance to you.” There was no signature; Mr. Smith had expected none. He glanced at his watch—it was 9.27—after which he sat for a long time with utter blankness in his straight-staring eyes. His medi- tations were not unpleasant, if one might judge from a certain softness about his mouth—almost a smile. Perhaps he was dreaming of Passaic? What- ever it was, he was brought back to cold, sordid earth by the approach of a stranger who had entered—a small man of indeterminate age, immaculate, even foppish in dress, with a pair of evil eyes in the head of him. 100 BLIND MAN’S BUFF gracefully, languidly, on the settle. He reminded Mr. Smith of someone strange- ly. Suddenly he knew who it was. It was Richard Mansfield as the Baron Chevrial. That was it. That dis- gusting, loathsome, marvellous creation of an actor’s art. Verily, here was Bill Roue in person—so, to Mr. Smith’s unem‘broidered Passaic mind. Mr. Smith sat down gingerly. “I have come to you on a little matter of business, monsieur,” the Mar- quis said slowly, impressively. “ It is business, you understand. I come from Monsieur Clarke.” “Oh!” Mr. Smith stared at him for an instant, then arose and paced the length of the lobby twice with his fingers gripped behind him. When he paused in front of the Marquis, his eyes had grown steely, his powerful jaws were set. “ What business? ” he demanded abruptly. D’Aubigny permitted his wicked little BLIND MAN’S BUFF l 101 eyes to wander about the lobby. There was no one in sight except the night clerk. “He doesn’t speak English,” said Mr. Smith shortly. “Go on.” “ It is not for us, monsieur, to ask you how you got possession of the bonds, or to go into trivial details to show how we came to know that you have them. Neither is it necessary to touch upon your personal relations with Monsieur Clarke. It is enough to say that you have misunderstood him. He is an honest man, as you are. A vast busi- ness deal has been interrupted by your unexpected interference. It is a deal which will bring an enormous profit. It must be consummated. I come to I you, therefore, direct from Monsieur Clarke, to offer you a share of the profits which may accrue, upon the condition that you return the bonds immediately, you to go back at once to the United States—we know you have 102 BLIND MAN’S BUFF \ engaged passage from Cherbourg on. Wednesday, so this fits in with your plans—and,_once in the United States, you are to take necessary action to protect Monsieur Clarke until such time as he can get there, and then———- Is it necessary to go on ? ” _ “ Engaged passage from Cherbourg on Wednesday ? ” There was an odd little intonation in Mr. Smith’s voice. “ You are up to my plans all right, aren’t you? How much profit do I get if I do all this ? ” “ One hundred thousand dollars, mon- sieur.” “ One hundred thousand dollars.” Mr. Smith was speaking with irritating deliberation. D’Aubigny’s keen eyes searched the rugged face and found —-nothing. “ And if there are no pro- fits ? ” Monsieur 1e Marquis shrugged his shoulders. “ Then, nothing, monsieur. You take BLIND MAN’S BUFF 103 your chance with the rest of us. There are ninety-nine reasons why we should make a profit, and only one why we shouldn’t. If we fail, of course Mon- sieur Clarke is ruined; I am ruined; all of us. But we won’t fail.” “ If you get the bonds,” Mr. Smith stipulated. “ We have the utmost faith in your discretion, monsieur. One hundred thousand dollars is a great fortune.” “You seem to have no doubt that I have the bonds,” Mr. Smith observed calmly. “May I ask how you came to know I have them ? ” “ Details are tiresome, monsieur,” re- marked the Marquis evasively. “There were only three persons in Paris, in the world, I may say, who knew the bonds were in this city, these being Monsieur Clarke, you, and myself. He hasn’t them. I didn’t get them ; there- fore—— Do you see?” “But how did you come to know 104 BLIND MAN’S BUFF I have them?” Mr. Smith insisted. “ I want to know.” “Well, the trained nurse—his dis- appearance gave us the _clue.” The Marquis seemed to be tremendously bored. “ After Monsieur Clarke’s meet- ing with you, he was ill, and it was necessary to re-engage this nurse. He came to the house, remained there just two hours, then disappeared utterly. Monsieur Clarke kept the bonds in the little leather bag under the sheets. Only the nurse could have found them.” “ Perhaps you give me too much credit ? ” Mr. Smith protested. “ May- be the nurse pinched them on his own account ? ” The tentative suggestion startled the Marquis for a moment; then he smiled shrewdly as he stared into the im- passive face before him. ' “ It is idle to talk so, monsieur. Be- sides, the nurse does not speak or read English; and while he might have 106 BLIND MAN’S BUFF he had Monsieur le Marquis d’Aubigny in Passaic, out in the Second Ward, with Sweeney on the beat, what he would do to him ! He couldn’t have said why this sudden fierce hatred flamed within him ; he only knew it was there. “ One hundred thousand dollars ? ” the Marquis was saying insinuatingly. “ One hundred thousand dollars ! ” Mr. Smith repeated dully. It meant independence, wealth, power—back in Passaic. “ It is a fortune, monsieur.” “ It is a fortune,” agreed Mr. Smith. “ You will return the bonds ? ” Mr. Smith arose and stretched his long legs as he stared down upon this withered little man. “I’m awfully glad Clarke sent you to me,” he said slowly. “ Go back and tell him that you saw me, that you put his proposition up to me; then present my compliments to him, and tell him that I said he can go to hell ! ” BLIND MAN’S BUFF 107 Monsieur le Marquis d’Aubigny came away from that inoffensive settle as if he had suddenly found it full of red-hot needles. The shrivelled face went white, then scarlet. “ Monsieur, you will remember—’ he began violently. “ And, so far as I am concerned, you can go with him,” interrupted Mr. Smith. Petrified by amazement, his clawlike hands trembling with rage, the Marquis stood still, and permitted Mr. Smith to stroll out the door into the street. A CHAPTER XI HELTER-SKELTER came a taxicab out of the Rue de Rivoli into the Place de la Concorde. It swished to the right around the obelisk and stopped abruptly. Mr. John Smith stood for- ward from the shadows; a Woman, heavily veiled, thrust her head out of . the open window of the cab“ “ Quick, quick! ” she exclaimed. “ I am being followed.” Mr. Smith knew the voice perfectly. The haste in the command quickened his sturdy legs, and he flung open the door of the vehicle just as another cab came whizzing around the corner. Mr. Smith glanced back once, dropped down into the seat beside the veiled woman, and banged the door. 108 110 BLIND MAN’S BUFF “ Get down from there! ” Mr. Smith commanded sharply. “ Mademoiselle et Monsieur Remi began. “ Get down from there! ” Mr. Smith commanded the second time. “ Ah ! Monsieur Smith ! ” The note .of triumph in M. Remi’s voice gave notice that he had recognised the man, even had he not used the name; and he peered intently into the face of the girl. Evidently he had not the slightest purpose of getting off the running-board ; the cab gained speed. The girl pressed closely against Mr. Smith’s side, was moaning a little. Suddenly that mighty arm from Passaic swung, and a fist, hard as nails, landed squarely on the point of M. Remi’s chin. Just as M. Polichinelle vanishes in the Theatre Guignol, so vanished M. Remi. He tumbled backward without a sound. The thud of his fall on the 9’ M. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 111 pavement startled the chauffeur, who seemed to awake suddenly to the extraordinary happenings in his cab, and the taxi began to slow. Mr. Smith thrust his head out the window over the chauffeur’s shoulder. “ You understand English, don’t you ? ” “ Oui, oui! Yes, sir.” “Well, this is a revolver here in my right hand—this I mean,” and Mr. Smith prodded him in the small of the back with his huge forefinger. “ A gun, do you understand? Now it’s up to you to run like the devil. Beat it ! ” “But, monsieur, ze gentleman———’ “ Drive on ! ” , There was no disobeying that order, particularly as it Was emphasised by two more vigorous pokes in the back. Monsieur had said it was only a revolver! Oh, la, la! Francois’ frenzied imagi- natiop pictured it as a cannon! He BLIND MAN’S BUFF 113 into his arms. Vaguely he knew that a person in a fainting condition required air, so he stripped off the heavy veil that hid the girl’s face. It was Edna Clarke! Of course! He knew that! Edna Clarke, pallid as death, limp, motionless. He sat staring at her help- lessly, waiting and wondering at the strangeness of it all. ' Meanwhile the taxicab sped like the wind up the Champs Elysées, darted around the Arc de Triomphe, and straightened out into the Avenue Victor Hugo. Mr. Smith hadn’t the faintest idea where they were going, but they were on their way. Francois had not forgotten ze beeg American wiz ze beeg cannon! The little car was rock- ing with speed, and her muffler fairly boomed with the power he was crowd- ing on. For a mile or more past the Arc de Triomphe they sped on, Edna still lying against him inert, helpless. Then 114 BLIND MAN’S BUFF it occurred to Mr. Smith to look back. It so happened that the Avenue Victor Hugo is not a crowded thoroughfare after half-past ten o’clock at night, so he could see clearly—see another taxi- cab rocking, swaying along in pursuit at breakneck speed. He watched it, fascinated, for an instant, and then he knew! M. Remi was in that cab; and it was gaining on them. Mr. Smith’s massive jaws closed with a snap; he leaned out and poked Francois in the back. “ Faster! ” he commanded. “ She no go faster,” Francois wailed in dire distress. “ She no go faster! ” Suddenly they went reeling across a wide avenue with a jounce that made Mr. Smith plop up and down inside like a pea in a cigar-box, and then they seemed to be in the midst of a forest— it was the Bois de Boulogne—following a ribbon-like road. Just before they swung around the first turn Mr. Smith BLIND MAN’S BUFF 115 glanced back again. He wasn’t posi- tive, but his impression was that the cab in the rear had gained substantially. And that called for more thought. After twenty full seconds spent in con- sideration of the matter, he thrust his head out of the cab to hold converse With Francois. “Now, see here, son,” he began, “ don’t stop driving, but listen to me. The harder you listen, the less liable you are to get shot up.” “ Oui, oui, monsieur ! ” “Here’s a one-hundred-franc note —-that’s {twenty whole dollars in the country where folks live. I’m sticking it into your outside coat—pocket here.” “Merci, monsieur!” ’ “ Now, you are to drive just as fast as you know how until you come to some place where there is a sharp curve and lots of woods,” Mr. Sinith continued crisply. “ Immediately you. round that turn, out of sight of this taxi that’s 116 BLIND MAN’S BUFF following, you are to stop for one second and let me get out. Do you get it? ” “ Oui, monsieur.” “ When I get out of the cab, you’re to drive! You’ve been piking along here like a three-legged goat. After I’m out of the cab, drive, do you under- stand ? Go a long way, and go fast.” “ Oui, oui. You want me to—to— what you call him—shake ze cab? ” “ There’s a detective in that cab, and if you don’t shake it, you’re pinched.” Another hundred yards and Mr. Smith saw a glint of water straight ahead. “ Ze curve, monsieur,” Francois an- nounced. They swished around a corner, and the taxi stopped. Mr. Smith, with a feeling almost of sacrilege, gathered up the limp, inert figure of the girl in his powerful arms and leaped out. “ Now, son—skiddoo for you ! Twenty- three ! ” BLIND MAN’S BUFF 117 The little taxi fairly leaped out of its tracks, and was lost instantly in a cloud of dust. Mr. Smith, holding his preci- ous burden close, dodged back into the woods just as the pursuing taxi swerved around the corner, and flashed past. Sheltered by the gloom of the trees, he stood looking after it for a moment; then, grinning cheerfully, strode off through the forest. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 119 She had asked only two questions; and he had answered them—no more. “ Are you a detective ? ” “ N0, ma’am. Some people in Paris may think I am, but I am not.” Edna gasped—it was a sigh of relief —and Mr. Smith leaned toward her suddenly. He thought she was going to faint again. “ Then, what is your business? ” curiously. “ I am assistant~paying~teller in your father’s bank in Passaic, New Jersey.” 6‘ ! ’7 Then followed a long, moody silence, unbroken until Mr. Smith offered his hand to assist her from the taxi. In the small dining-room a sip of wine brought the colour back to her cheeks, and a certain, tense fear passed, leaving the blue eyes clear again. To Mr. Smith the last hour had seemed all a dream; he couldn’t believe it had happened, and yet here——here before 120 BLIND MAN’S BUFF him was the girl. He waited, waited patiently for her to speak. “It’s all very—very strange, isn’t it?” she queried at last, as their eyes met. “ Yes, ma’am ! ” “From the time I knew you were searching for my father I thought you were a detective. It’s strange that I should never have seen you in the bank.” “ It’s stranger that I didn’t see you, ma’am. I’m tucked away in a cage all the time, where you wouldn’t see me unless you looked for me. I don’t believe I ever saw you in the bank, but I know who you are. Years ago, when you were in Paris, I used to write letters to you at your father’s dictation. I was his private secretary. And once I saw a picture of you. I don’t recall ever having seen you, though, until that first day in Paris, in front of the HOtel Ritz.” 122 BLIND MAN’S BUFF “ No, ma’am. I was not sent.” “ Then, why did you come ? ” “I’d rather not tell you, ma’am. It’s a little personal matter between us.” “And why that day, at the Café de la Paix, did you permit yourself to be arrested under the name of my father, when my father was there within reach, and you knew he was there ? ” “I’d rather not tell you, ma’am. It wouldn’t do any good for you to know.” “I must know, Mr. Smith. Either I have done my father a great injustice or you have. He will tell me nothing. It seems to be within your power to make it all clear to me, and certainly it is within my power to rectify a——a grave error, if it all means What I’m afraid it means.” She came back to the original question. “Why did you follow my father to Paris? I must know. Don’t feel that you must spare my feelings. I must know ! ” BLIND MAN’S BUFF 123 Mr. Smith squirmed uneasily in his seat, and after a moment arose and stared out the window for a long time. “I am thirty-three years old,” he said at last irrelevantly. “ Twenty years of that time I have worked for yourifather. I was his office-boy first. Then I studied shorthand and used to help the stenographers in the bank. One day I was called upon to assist your father in some special work. He liked the way I did it, and a year or so later I became his private secretary. I held down that job until about six years ago, and in that time, of course, ma’am, I learned a great deal about his personal business. It Was then that I used to write letters to you, here in Paris.” He paused. “ Go on,” the girl urged. “The bank’s business grew, ma’am, and finally there was need of an assistant paying-teller. Mr. Clarke gave me the job, and I have held it ever since. 124 BLIND MAN’S BUFF Being assistant-paying-teller isn’t of any particular importance, but it carries responsibilities. That is, ma’am, I don’t mean that the fate of the world hangs upon a man in such a position, but in the course of a month he will handle, perhaps, millions and millions of other people’s money. That’s the sort of responsibility I mean. All paying- tellers have that kind, but I had another kind. For instance, sometimes, stocks and bonds are left with a bank as security for a loan, say. Those securities are in my care ; I am responsible for them. They are sealed by the president of the bank in my presence, and my own seal is added in his presence before the securities are placed in the vault. It comes to this, ma’am—there are two persons responsible for the safety of such securities, and either can call the other to an accounting in the event of any irregularity.” He stopped suddenly, struck by the BLIND MAN’S BUFF 125 ' \ frightened, haunted look in her eyes. Her slim white fingers, bare of gloves, were interlocked fiercely. “ Well ? ” she insisted. “I guess I hadn’t better go on, ma’am.” “You must,” she commanded. “ I must understand it.” “ It will hurt you, ma’am.” After a little pause: “ I’d hate to feel that I’d hurt you.” The girl arose and went to him pleadingly. Her hands were at rest upon his arms, her face, white again, upturned to his, the faint perfume of her hair was in his nostrils. “ You must go on,” she commanded. “Whatever you may say cannot be worse than this agony of suspense— uncertainty.” “Well, about four months ago one hundred and fifty ten-thousand-dollar United States Bonds—that is, a million and a half dollars in negotiable securities 126 BLIND MAN’S BUFF —were left in our keeping,” Mr. Smith continued. “ They were sealed by your father in my presence; I added my seal in his presence. They Were put into the vault. About two months ago your father, as you know, came to Paris. About three weeks ago I had occasion to rummage around in the vault and I discovered that mice had gnawed a big hole, as big as a silver dollar, say, in that sealed package. Then I discovered, ma’am, that the bonds were gone—there was only blank paper inside the package.” “They were stolen, you mean?” The words came with an effort. “They were missing, ma’am. The seals had been tampered with—that is, broken, and new seals affixed. It had been done cleverly, so cleverly that even I would not have detected it if I hadn’t known that the bonds supposed to be inside were gone. I had no choice in reaching a conclusion, BLIND MAN’S BUFF 129 on a charge of embezzlement, where, if I could keep them away from him, it meant nothing particularly, unless, Of course, the theft—er—the bonds had been missed. As a matter of fact, the arrest eased my mind a lot, because I learned from the police that there was no charge against your father, which means that the bonds have not been missed, and there was no charge against me. Someone in the United States has asked a private-detective agency to locate your father; and the police, thinking I was Clarke, pinched me to bring the matter to a climax.” “ That search was instituted, I imag- ine, at the direction of my uncle in New York,” the girl explained. “ We knew father had come to Paris, and then we had been unable to hear from him for weeks. It was because he was ill with typhoid, and unconscious, of course.” “Yes, ma’am. It sounds awfully BLIND MAN’S BUFF 133 again after that meeting with you; he is ill now. And it Was necessary to have a nurse—the man who nursed him during all those weeks when we didn’t know where he was. The nurse came. I was afraid father would dis- cover that the bag was empty, and—— and I sent the nurse aWay, bribed him to go. Now my father knows the bonds are gone, and another nurse has come. I stole the bonds, Mr. Smith.” Mr. Smith stared as if expecting her to go on. She dropped her head on her hands, and her shoulders shook with a storm of emotion. He took a step toward her, then stopped. “ Yes, ma’am,” he said helplessly. “ I sent the note to you because I thought~—I knew—you would under- stand,” she continued. “When I left the house to meet you I was followed. I don’t know why, but it frightened me.” “ I know why,” said Mr. Smith. “ I’ll tell you some time.” BLIND MAN’S BUFF 135 She didn’t ask how he knew. From the folds of the light coat she wore she produced a package, carefully wrapped. “ Here are the bonds,” she said simply. “ Whatever your motive in returning them, you are doing me—doing my father—the greatest favour that one can do. Some day it may be Within my power to repay you, after a manner. You’ll have to take my word that I will do it if the opportunity ever offers.” For the first time in his business life Mr. John Smith forgot the bank, forgot his commercial integrity, forgot all else in the world save this wonderful woman, with eyes aglow, with hair shimmering in the soft radiance of the light, with scarlet lips pleading. She read the hungriness in the straight-staring eyes and impetuously extended both hands. Bending low, he kissed them. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 141 with it. Understand, Monsieur Remi was following the girl. When you got into the cab he aSSumed it was Monsieur Clarke, and jumped upon the running- board. Then, monsieur, you struck him -—Monsieur Remi ! ” “ Well, well! ” remarked Mr. Smith. “ Was that Monsewer Remi ? ” “ So it was, monsieur. He gave chase in another cab, as you know, but when he caught it, it was empty. It was clever, monsieur, very clever, but from Monsieur Remi’s standpoint it was also painful. Neither Monsieur Remi nor myself desires to be unpleasant about the incident, recognising in 'you, as we do, a master of the craft, but, under all the circumstances, we agreed that it might be advisable to Warn you against employing such—er—such for- cible tactics. We trust you will under- stand our position ? ” “I think I’m hep, Cap. I’m sorry I hit him. You see, I framed this thing 144 BLIND MAN’S BUFF speaking four and five languages each, had not been able to find! It was a reflection upon the boasted efficiency of his system. He looked quite sad about it. “I’ll tell you What I’ll do, Cap,” Mr. Smith volunteered magnanimously ; “ suppose you cable to the people who asked you to find him, and say that you have found him. I’ve made no report as yet, so you’ll get first crack at it. I don’t mind, because, as I say, it was all in the day’s work. It might mean something to you.” M. Baudet arose and shook Mr. Smith’s hand. The honour of his beloved France was saved through the generosity of this so big American ! One of M. Baudet’s satellites entered with a card. As the chief read it, Mr. Smith, by chance, caught the name. “Ah ! ” he exclaimed. “The Mar- quis ! ” “ You know him, monsieur ? ” M. q. CHAPTER XIV FOR an hour or more, M. Baudet, grim- visaged, artful, domineering, showered questions upon Mr. John Smith, and to all of them he received the same answer—utter silence. Threats, plead- ings, cajolings, taunts, they all came to the same. He twined his manicured fingers in his perfumed whiskers, and plucked at them until devastation seemed imminent; he smoked vile cigarettes fiercely and continuously. If only this pig of an American, this impostor, would say something—just one word! Apparently undisturbed, Mr. Smith permitted his straight-staring eyes to linger upon M. Baudet meditatively, and occasionally, at some unusual out- burst, there was a flicker of interest in them, but his lips were sealed. At 147 148 BLIND MAN’S BUFF first he had seen a possible avenue of escape, both for himself and for Clarke, a way of staying the avalanche that D’Aubigny was bringing down upon them : If he could have reached Clarke before the police reached him, and closed his mouth. That was the hope. It died when D’Aubigny, accompanied by M. Remi, rushed away to bring Clarke. Not understanding the true condition of things, Clarke would babble, and then chaos would come. Hopelessly enough Mr. Smith sat waiting for it. Immediately after his arrest—arrest- ing him seemed to be a habit with the police of Paris—Mr. Smith submitted gracefully to a search. The bonds should have been on his person; M. Baudet had said it. They should have been on his person because no man in his senses would leave seven and a half million francs knocking about his room. But they were not on his person. Upen discovery of this fact M. Baudet had 150 BLIND MAN’S BUFF Finally there came a clatter at the door, followed by the reappearance of D’Aubigny and M. Remi. Mr. Smith glanced around quickly; they were alone. “ M. Clarke ‘? ” demanded M. Baudet. “ Where is he?” “He is ill, dangerously ill,” replied the Marquis. “There has been a re- lapse. Two physicians and a nurse are with him. They refused to let us see him, or even to send word to him. It may be three or four days, even a week, before anyone is permitted to talk to him.” Mr. Smith almost smiled. Here was a respite. There was still a possibility of reaching Clarke and shutting him up. “ Were the bonds found ? ” the Mar- quis asked. “ They will be found, monsieur,” replied M. Baudet confidently. “ My men haven’t returned, but I am expect~ ing them any minute. They will tear 152 BLIND MAN’S BUFF Mr. Smith didn’t say. “ Will you deny it ? ” Mr. Smith didn’t say. “Where have you hidden them?” Mr. Smith didn’t say. M. Baudet dropped down at his desk again, hopelessly. Monsieur le Marquis, with a malignant grin distorting his pasty face, addressed him. “ This man ”—and he pointed at Mr. Smith—“has threatened me. You heard, monsieur. He is a dangerous man. I demand that he be handcuffed.” “But, Monsieur le Marquis, I hard- ly__’, “ I demand that he be handcuffed!” Mr. Smith extended his hands without a word of protest, and at a nod from M. Baudet the slender steel bands were slipped about his wrists by M. Remi. So he sat, until the door opened again, this time to admit one of the two sleuths who had been sent to search his room. He seemed crestfallen. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 153 "‘ Nothing, monsieur,” he said simply. , “ Nothing ? ” “Nothing. We searched the room as no room Was ever searched. We ransacked the closets, took the ward- robe to pieces, destroyed the mattress, took up the carpet, tore out the base- boards, examined Monsieur Smith’s be- longings, and found—nothing! The bonds are not there. I came for further orders.” M. Baudet arose with an exclamation, and for half a minute he stood staring down upon Mr. Smith, placid, un- ruffled; then, commandingly: “ Where—are—those—bonds .9 ” Mr. Smith didn’t say. Then came another interruption. A voice of protest Was raised suddenly outside the door. It ceased as the door was flung open. There was a rush ' of skirts, and Edna Clarke, with flaming face, stood before them. “They told me at the Maison de 154 BLIND MAN’S BUFF Treville that Mr. Smith was under arrest here,” she explained hurriedly. “ I must——” Then her eyes, defiant, met the straight-staring gaze of Mr. Smith. Mutely he extended his hands, bound together by the slender bands of steel. For an instant she shrank from him in horror, shuddering at what she saw ; then rushed to him, clasping his hands in her own. “‘What does it mean?” she asked tensely. “ It means that I am under arrest, charged with the theft of one million five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bonds from your father,” Mr. Smith told her simply. Here was his sal- vation, this girl! “You?” shegasped. “You thethief?” “Of course you know I did not steal the bonds, Miss Clarke,” he went on calmly, and a warning flashed in his eyes. “ I did not steal the bonds, and ” BLIND MAN’S BUFF 155 --meaningly——“I haven’t them now. The police have searched me and my room. They found nothing!” Fascinated, bewildered, yet knowing there Was some hidden message in his words, the girl was silent. Finally, the light of perfect understanding il- lumined her face. “ Of course I know,” Mr. Smith went on placidly, with eyes rigidly fixed upon hers, “ that your father did not have any bonds in Paris with him, but I haven’t told the police. If your father will tell them——” “ How do you know it ? ” interrupted the Marquis. “ Shut up, or I’ll throw you out the window,” replied Mr. smith unemo- tionally. Then to M. Baudet: “If you want to know how I know it, I’ll tell you that I’m paying-teller in the bank of which Mr. Clarke is president; and if you’ll inquire of him, you’ll find that he had no bonds for me to steal.” BLIND MAN’S BUFF 159 pack and ask for a new deal. They had him in their hands just at that psychological moment, when he must have been maturing plans for the theft of seven and a half million francs, and they had released him! M. Baudet had swallowed hook and line the idea that Mr. Smith was a detective. He couldn’t remember that Mr. Smith had ever said he was a detective, but—— Oh, la, la! It made his head ache! Now the only thing to do was to wait until Clarke recovered sufficiently to give the facts in the case. On the morning of the fifth day M. Baudet called upon Mr. Smith in his cell with the information that the phy- sicians would permit a very short inter- view with Mr. Clarke. Mr. Smith arose, and put on his hat. “ It is most irregular, this thing of allowing you to be present at the interview,” M. Baudet explained, “ but M. Clarke has refused to talk at all n r» 160 BLIND MAN’S BUFF unless you are present. Besides, the circumstances are unusual, and I have consented.” “Good!” remarked Mr. Smith. “Has Clarke been allowed to see anybody yet?” “ Only his daughter. She was with him last night for half an hour.” Looking straight into the inquisitive eyes of M. Baudet, Mr. John Smith of Passaic, New Jersey, laughed. “ Cap,” he queried enigmatically, “what is French for lemon? ” “ Citron,” M. Baudet informed him, after a puzzled pause. “Why?” “‘Well, that’s what you’re going to get—citron,” remarked Mr. Smith. Monsieur Baudet pondered it all the way to the little apartment in the Rue St. Honoré where Monsieur le Marquis was waiting. Citron! What had that to do with this most mysterious case ? He doesn’t know yet. Worn, haggard, white, feeble as a child, helpless in bed, yet with that BLIND MAN’S BUFF 161 same old commanding glitter in his eyes that Mr. Smith knew so well, Clarke received the three of them—M. Baudet, Monsieur le Marquis d’Aubigny, and plain John Smith of Passaic. The phy- sician had withdrawn; Edna stood beside the bed watchfully. Her eyes met Mr. Smith’s as he entered, and she smiled bravely. “Father,” she said softly, “here is Mr. Smith.” The gaze of the sick man lingered for an instant upon the keen, inquiring face of M. Baudet, thence shifted to the Marquis, and finally Was halted by the straight-staring eyes of Mr. Smith. For a second perhaps they stared, each at the other, and Clarke lifted a wasted hand. “ Hallo, Smith,” he said. “ I’m glad to see you.” “Same to you, Mr. Clarke.” And Mr. Smith shook the proffered hand. “ I’m sorry you’ve been ill, sir.” 166 BLIND MAN’S BUFF \ “ There are tricks in your profession, M. Baudet, just as there are in mine. I didn’t get the funds from London as I expected, but I permitted the deal to go ahead up to the point where I was to pay a million and a half dollars as my part. Then I opened the bag to produce the bonds, and it was empty. It was a trick by which I calculated to hold up the deal for a couple of weeks —in other words, to gain time—enabling me to come in later. So you see, I had no bonds; no bonds Were stolen; I didn’t even report the bonds were stolen. I’m sorry I have to put myself in this position, but it’s only fair to my good friend Smith. He is an official in my bank at home, and the last man on earth that one could associate with theft.” Mr. Smith’s eyes were bulging with admiration. He had never known the old man to fail in a crisis, and he hadn’t failed now. Edna was smiling softly BLIND MAN’S BUFF 167 as she stroked the emaciated hand she held. M. Baudet’s face was corrugated with Wrinkles of perplexity. “ It was a trick, then ? ” demanded the Marquis curtly. “ That’s a pretty good guess.” And Clarke smiled benignly. “A contemptible, disreputable——” the Marquis began. “ Never mind details, son, inter- rupted Mr. Smith. “ Mr. Clarke is not well. Any time you want to discuss this matter further, come to me. I’ll talk it over with you.” M. Baudet shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “ There is nothing to be done then, Monsieur le Marquis? ” he queried. “ That is, unless you have been misled, and this is not M. Clarke ? ” The Marquis shook his head. “ It is M. Clarke,” he said. “ I know him well. I have known him for years.” “ And if you have any further doubt ,7 172 BLIND MAN’S BUFF Those were the halcyon days. Mr. Smith dreamed through them, light- hearted as a lark. At last came the summons from Clarke, and Mr. Smith went to him. The trained nurse had been sent away and Edna, at a nod from her father, withdrew. Clarke was propped up in bed, his masterful eyes alight, his lips set, and a tinge‘of colour again in his withered cheeks. “ Now, Smith, just between you and me,” he began, without preliminary, “ Where the devil are those bonds ? ” “Bonds?” Mr. Smith repeated blindly. “ Bonds ? I thought you said you had none ? ” “Never mind that!” said Clarke impatiently. “ You beat me ; I admit it. There’s no need to taunt me. You put me in a position where I had to lie, and I did it. Now where are the bonds ? ” Mr. Smith paced the length of the room a couple of times, then turned and 174 BLIND MAN’S BUFF my position perfectly clear,” Mr. Smith Went on. “ Now, we might as well call _ things by their first names—you stole bonds for which I Was personally re- sponsible. Now, don’t interrupt! I re- covered them to save myself, not you, and, once they are placed where they belong, I finish with you. It was purely by accident that I discovered this theft, which endangered all my future; and I came all the way to Paris, not only to get the bonds, but to give you one sound Whaling. I got the bonds, and I’ve changed my mind about the Whal- ing. I made you lie, as you say, to save me. That’s all I have to say about it. Now you may go as far as you like.” There was a long pause. Clarke’s bony fingers clawed nervously at the sheets the while he studied the rugged face of this man before him. “ Smith, you’ve misunderstood this thing from the jump,” he said, not un- 178 BLIND MAN’S BUFF proffered a shrivelled hand. Apparently Mr. Smith didn’t see it. “ Smith, I’m sorry,” he said simply. “ So am I, Mr. Clarke,” was the re- sponse. “ It means more to me than you understand.” He was thinking Of Edna. Again he turned away, as if to go. “ And the bonds?” queried Clarke. “ Where are they ? How did you man- age to keep them hidden from the police? Are you carrying them about your person ? ” “Oh, the bonds!” Mr. Smith said listlessly. “ Just at this moment most of them are in charge of the French Government, and the others are in charge of the British Government.” “ In charge of the---—” began Clarke, amazed. “H0 —-what——” “ The first thing I did when they came into my possession was to get rid of them,” Mr. Smith informed him. “ I’d already had one little run-in with the BLIND MAN’S BUFF 181 there. I thought it was a pretty good scheme.” He was silent a moment. “ These funny little fly-cops over here would never get wise in the world. While they were searching me down at headquarters, there were two or three of the envelopes containing bonds in the mail-box directly in front of the door.” " For a time, Clarke, lost in admiration of the utter simplicity, the audacity of the idea, said nothing. “There is still danger, of course,” he remarked, finally. “ However, it is safer that way than taking them in through the Customs.” There Was one other question. “ Smith, how did you get hold of those bonds, anyhow?” “Don’t you know ? ” Mr. Smith queried. “ No, I haven’t an idea, unless the trained nurse——-—-” “ Well, if you don’t know, I’ll never tell you,” replied Mr. Smith. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 185 boasting, that we’ve known each other pretty well during that time.” Edna recalled that instant when she had returned to consciousness to find herself being carried, as a child, in the powerful arms of this man, and the memory brought roses to her cheeks. Her clear blue eyes flickered for an instant, then grew suddenly grave. “ It’s been splendid of you, Mr. Smith, all of it,” she said at last seriously. “ You have tried to make it appear that it was all done for your own sake, but ——but somehow I don’t quite believe it! I believe yet there was something deeper behind what you’ve done. I believe——-” She paused. “You were very fond of my father once, weren’t you ? ” “ He made me what I am. I am grateful; yes.” “But something more than that?” she insisted. “I know from the way he speaks of you that ”