s o s | |-cy C (LLC) k >k >k >k >k >k >k >k sk Shortly after the first car with its three passengers had swept away from before the woman's club house a second motor, the same in color and closely resembling in other points the first, also drew out from the curb, a little lower down and took its way for a time, northward, as had the other. But not for long. Turning off the Avenue it drew up soon, before a brilliantly lighted café and one of its passengers sprang out and hastened within, leaving a driver, curt and dignified, with one gauntleted hand upon the wheel, and a lady seated alone in the tonneau. Her gauzy veil was drawn up from a handsome but languid and discontented face, while one hand, all ablaze where the café lights struck fire across her sparkling rings, held her long even- ing cloak close about her throat. In a moment the late occupant of the car emerged from the café his handsome motor coat thrown open and showing him in faultless evening dress. Behind him stalked a stately servitor with a well assumed English air, and the correct English whiskers, bearing upon his upraised palm a tray holding a single sparkling glass. The man in the motor coat, paused at the side of the car, pushing back several street arabs, and brushing past two young girls, who were openly eyeing the girl in the motor. “Iris,—Miss La Croix, here's your cordial; and—I can rec- ommend it.” He proffered the glass and, while she drank, climbed into his place. “I’m really sorry I coaxed you out,” he murmured. At which the man in front turned, with a finger at his cap. 12 INTRODUCTORY “Will Miss La Croix have her heavier cloak now?” he asked, with marked deference. But the girl only uttered a curt “No.” And, ignoring her anxious escort, leaned out to hand back the half empty glass to the waiting man servant. “Oh, gee! I know who she is,” one of the girls at the curb sibillated, in a whisper more audible than the ordinary voice, “She's—” but the awful glare of the stately beaker bearer, and his haughty gesture, silenced her next word, and the voice of the girl in the car was again heard. “Drive on man!” she said, and sinking back into her place drew her veil down over her face as the machine hummed slowly away from the place. “Iris, I fear—” the man at her side lifted his eyes to her face significantly, as he leaned forward solicitously, but the ringed hand raised itself in a swift gesture, and the sweet, cold voice said curtly: “Do be quiet, a moment at least—” The gesturing hand wav- ered for an instant, and then, slowly she drew the veil away from her face once more. The young man smiled behind his visor and sank back in his seat, after once more glancing down into the fair face beside him, and so they rode on in silence until the car again pulled out of the crowded street into 42nd street, and drew up as near as possible to the entrance to Belasco's Theatre, where again he got out. Divesting himself of leathern cap and coat, and donning a soft silk cap, which he pulled off at the theatre's entrance, a moment later, he made his way slowly within, looking about him keenly, almost anxiously, or so it seemed. He was gone so long that the young woman in the waiting car grew restless, and began to stir uneasily, and to finger her veil, as if weary of the stares of the passersby, and of the effort to nod, now and then, to the prosperous looking elderly men, and more festive seeming youths who passed, and some of them, re- passed, looking as if they would like to approach and extend the friendly hand, had not the brief nod, the air, as of preoccupation, and the quickly withdrawn glance, given proof that, for some reason, the lady preferred, for the moment at least, her own society. So ten minutes passed, and then the girl saw her escort mak- ing his way toward her. WHAT THE PUBLIC KNEW 13 “I’m sorry,” he said as he reached the side of the car, “but we have missed her somehow; she's gone on, I suppose.” He paused with his hand upon the car door, and his eyes fixed expectantly upon her face, and in a moment she said, with her eyes half averted, and the words dropping slowly from her lips. “She has gone on—I suppose—and—its as useless to wait longer—here—as—as it—is—” the words trailed off her lips into silence, and once more the little ringed hand signaled and she whispered, almost fiercely. “Do go on.” Her escort uttered a short laugh, and sprang in, speaking a brief word to the chauffeur; and again they were off, and again there was silence, until, as they came out upon a quieter highway he looked again at his companion. “You’re getting tired !” he said. “I’m more than tired ! And I don’t like this round about road | I wish-oh, well—what must be must.” “My dear girl you are tired ! and that being the case we will just cut out that little dance—and forget your friend—” here he laughed lightly, “and in a short time you'll be at home, and rid of my society, and can rest and get back your color and temper—” And again he laughed, “To think of it, Miss La Croix in a temper!” The girl flung back her head and uttered a sound that was almost a hiss. “Stop it!” she commanded. “And if you speak to me again while we are in this car I'll—strike you!” she bent forward and touched the man at the wheel. “Go faster,” she said. “As fast as you can. Don't stop for anything!” Those things happened on a balmy night of early May, A. D. 1907. And, in the early mail of the following morning a singular letter appeared at the police headquarters of New York City. “To whom it may concern:” thus it began. “A young woman well dressed and very handsome left this place four days ago for your city. She is registered at the St. Regis Hotel as Miss Helmuth, of St. Louis, and she is there on business of great private importance; and should remain until the end of the present week. She is a stranger to your city, and she has an enemy. Rather her business there will, it is feared, make her “unwelcome to certain people. “Will you see that she is still there, and take such measures 14 INTRODUCTORY as you think fit to make the remaining days of her stay safe from annoyance. Such other details as you may require, you may gain from her. Ask for her by name only, giving no details, and communicate at need with the St. Louis Chief of Police, who will give you, the true status of the writer.” This letter bore the St. Louis postmark, and it appeared in full in two of the leading evening papers on the day of its appear- ance in New York City, with this statement—following: “The above letter was mailed from St. Louis on the—and was received at police headquarters this A. M. Twenty minutes later officer McNell was en route for the St. Regis at 55th and 5th Ave. He learned there the following facts: Miss Helmuth had duly arrived from St. Louis four days previous. She had breakfasted usually at the St. Regis, but after the breakfast hour was seldom seen. She had received no callers, and nothing seemed known about her movements. Once or twice some parcels had been received and duly sent to her rooms and on the morning of the previous day she had left her key at the desk with the information that she would spend a part of the day shopping, and, later, take a drive in Central Park. If packages arrived before her return they were to send them to her rooms at once. Miss Helmuth had returned from her shopping tour in mid- afternoon, had made a quick toilet—and the most elaborate one she had made since her sojourn at the St. Regis—and had driven away in a motor car at about four o'clock. Her dress was de- scribed as a dark blue, simple but rich and tasteful, and her general appearance was very handsome; with a graceful bear- ing and an erect and almost haughty air. Up to the moment of Officer McNell's visit she had not been missed from the hotel, but prompt inquiry brought out the facts that she had not slept in her bed, had not breakfasted in the house, and had not been seen that day by the chambermaids, who, during the few days of her stay had found Miss Helmuth “a very kind spoken and sociable lady” who being quite alone, and apparently a stranger had asked her a number of questions about the city, especially, the girl had recalled the fact that Miss Helmuth had asked her about the location of the club rooms where the great suffragist orators from London were to appear. The young lady had seemed much interested in the “Woman question,” and had expressed a desire to attend this meeting. WHAT THE PUBLIC KNEW 15 Beyond this nothing concerning Miss Helmuth or her where- abouts could be learned. That she had not returned to the St. Regis, after leaving it on the previous afternoon to drive in the park, was now sure. Inquiry at the Club Room where the “Woman's Council” had held on the previous night a large and successful meeting,- brought forth little. An attempt had been made to receive at the door the cards or names of those in attendance, and to record them. And a name that looked like “Miss Hamwell—Miss Bertha Hamwell” but might have meant “Helmuth,” was found upon the guest book; and no one could identify, or describe, a Miss Hamwell. Miss Helmuth wore, when last seen at the St. Regis an elaborate suit of blue broadcloth suited to the carriage, theatre, or reception; and took with her, down to the motor car that took her from the hotel an evening wrap of light color richly embroidered and a long veil of the same hue. The chamber- maid believed wrap and veil to have been of the hue known as champagne. A description which might have fitted a hundred good looking well bred young women followed. “Miss Helmuth was a little above the average height, slender and of graceful carriage, with a well bred air and a fine speech. Hair a rich golden brown, features regular with fine eyes, either dark blue or gray. She wore a number of handsome rings, diamonds and opals, the maid thought them, and a jeweled lorgnette chain. Information that might have led to the knowledge of Miss Helmuth's safety, or to her possible whereabouts, was desired at police headquarters. The yellow journals of the next evening greatly amplified the above-turning it, twisting it, touching it up; and retouching it; some of them, most elaborately. Amplifying the description of Miss Helmuth's toilet, adding to her beauty, and, one or two, sur- mising and imagining reasons for a possible elopement, abduc- tion, or murder, after the manner of yellow journals. Two journals in closest touch with “The Headquarter Crowd” had this item under display headings. Two young ladies whose names are withheld by request and who were guests at the Park Side Club Rooms on the evening of “The Woman's Rally,” remembered seeing a young woman, 16 INTRODUCTORY answering to the description of Miss Helmuth in every particular, leave the place at about eleven o'clock; going out to a motor drawn up almost opposite the vestibule window. The fine car- riage, the rich blue gown, the evening cloak which however might have been mist-gray instead of champagne, altho that is what they thought it at the time, they remembered distinctly. A man in auto rig had helped her into the car, and the driver seemed a tall person with broad shoulders and an erect bearing. The car went north quite rapidly. And for several days, this was all; at least nothing was added to it. And then in several morning papers, almost a week later, there appeared an announcement which set all Gotham wonder- ing and guessing. It appeared over monstrous head lines, spreading half across the first pages, or emphasized by large black type and giant exclamation and interrogation marks; the following being a sample: - KIDNAPPED ! PERHAPS A DOUBLE KIDNAPPING P IRIS LA CROIX IS KIDNAPPED ! WAS MISS HELMUTH KIDNAPPED TOO? WHERE ARE THEY NOW # AND WHERE ARE OUR POLICEP And this followed: After some days of silent searching it has become known at police headquarters that more than one young woman vanished seemingly from the pavement in front of the Park-Side Club House; and the police and detectives are getting busy, while all are wondering. For now it is known that Miss Iris La Croix, only daughter of Jerry La Croix, grain manipulator, Wall Street magnate, and millionaire, left her father's house of luxury, be- cause of her interest in the welfare of her sister woman, and was last seen, by her father's mechanician, when she tripped up WHAT THE PUBLIC KNEW 17 the steps of the club house; one of the many fair and cultured members of our best society who gathered in the luxurious club room, to hear of, and to plan for the best interests, and the needs, of the working women of America, and one of two who, since, have not been seen in their usual places, nor by any of the friends who should know of their welfare. The disappearance of Miss Helmuth of St. Louis, a stranger in the city, and also a guest of the St. Regis Hotel, has already : chronicled; and the mystery surrounding it remains as at rSt. The absence of Miss La Croix, when discovered, was at first believed to be merely a prank of this beautiful and high spirited young society belle. She has a host of friends in the city, and it was thought that she was somewhere among them. When this hope was shattered her father and friends thought to keep the fact of her disappearance from the public as long as possible, while searching with all the vigor that skill and money could put forth even when the knowledge that she had been kidnapped and was held for tribute, came through the medium of a letter boldly announcing the fact, and demanding a large sum for her ransom, they still fought to keep the matter secret hoping soon to obtain her release. But nearly a week has passed and these facts have been now placed in the hands of the police, too late for further comment. In fact few details have come to light beyond the fact that the letters and demands for money are not in the handwriting of Miss La Croix, and this fact—has, so far—held back the negotiations, her friends be- lieving that if Miss La Croix were in their hands, alive, and well, she would send some sign, some assurance, of the fact. Meantime the splendid La Croix home is overwhelmed with gloom, distress, suspense, Miss La Croix, the elder, is in a state of physical collapse, and the father is fighting a great fear. The utmost effort is being made in behalf of the imprisoned girl, and her distressed family. A glowing description of Miss Iris La Croix, her beauty, her talents, her home, her family followed, and below it this: The mystery surrounding the case of Miss Helmuth believed to have been also a guest at the Park-Side Club gathering and who has not since been seen grows deeper. No trace has been found, of the car in which she is supposed to have been carried away from the club house, or the two men 18 INTRODUCTORY who were with her; both wearing the long motor coats, caps, and goggles which, together, make a very effectual disguise. From St. Louis it is learned that a Miss Helmuth arrived in that city nearly two weeks ago, coming it is thought from New Orleans. She was attended by an elderly woman, who left after assisting her to find a suite of rooms in a select and semi-private hotel, in the suburbs, which she secured by paying a fort-night's rent in advance. One day she approached a policeman on duty near her place of residence telling him that she was alone for a time at this place; that she was living there quietly while attending to some matters of family importance, and that she had been given reason to think that she had been watched, and followed, several times. She supposed this to be because some one who knew her suspected that she was there to serve her father,—who was a man of some business importance,—in a matter which had made him a few bitter enemies. And she asked the officer to observe, when she was passing and repassing, and note if there were watchers, and if these also followed her; and if so to give her a signal in passing, when she would stop, as if seeking information; and she finished by saying “I am known here as Miss Bertha Hel- muth.” On the afternoon of the day on which Miss Helmuth dis- appeared as it is believed, from the Park-Side Club Rooms, the following letter much like that received in Chicago was delivered at police headquarters in St. Louis: “Dear Sir: Will you kindly make inquiries regarding the safety of a Miss Bertha Helmuth who, it is believed, has taken rooms at the ‘Family Hotel’ in the suburbs of your city. It is learned that she came attended by a family servant, but that said servant is no longer with her; also, there is reason to fear that she may be approached, perhaps annoyed, if not actually endangered in her present solitary situation. Her friends are unable—for some days past to reach, or hear from her through the regular channels and any information you can furnish me, or any service rendered her will be,—the first, gratefully re- ceived, the last promptly reimbursed, by—” Here followed the name and address of a well known clergy- man of Richmond, Va., which is suppressed at his request; as, upon inquiry it was found that the Reverend gentleman did not write the letter sent above his name, and had no knowledge of a Miss Helmuth. WHAT THE PUBLIC KNEW 19 Before discovering this fact, however, an inquiry had been sent out from police headquarters with these results. From the Family Hotel it was learned that Miss Helmuth's companion had remained with her but one night and that the young lady herself, after taking her suite for “a fortnight or more” had left, after a week's stay, having been gone several days at the time the inquiry above was received. ' From the policeman above mentioned it was learned that, on two occasions he had observed what he believed to have been attempts to spy upon the young woman and these he had duly reported to her, later he had witnessed an encounter between Miss Helmuth and a well dressed young man who had stepped from a waiting cab as she emerged from her hotel. She had not appeared to see him and their talk had been brief. Then she had swung about and re-entered the hotel seeming to refuse, with some temper an invitation to enter the cab, the door of which he held open for her. When the officer came on duty next morning Miss Helmuth did not make her usual morning appearance, and upon inquiry he was told that she had given up her rooms and taken an early morning train for Chicago. And here all exact information, where Miss Helmuth is con- cerned comes to an end. Of her home, her friends, her purpose, or her fate, nothing is known. In spite of their utmost efforts nothing has been learned by the police or the post office department, concerning the authors of the letters sent to the authorities of St. Louis and Chicago. Whence she came and where she went after she drove from the St. Regis and—supposedly—the Club House, no one can con- jecture, and what the mystery, be it comedy, drama, or tragedy, behind the strange appearance and disappearance of this hand- some, elegantly clad, and evidently cultured young woman “known here as Miss Bertha Helmuth?” In spite of the persistent efforts of the police of two cities, no one can guess. Will the future ever reveal it? Here so far as the public ever knew, ended the mystery of the “disappearance of Miss Helmuth.” A little more than a week after “the dear public” was made aware of the abduction of Miss Iris La Croix. She was returned to her father as quietly and as mysteriously, as she was taken away. And, so cunning were her captors that no trace of them, —of her hiding place, or the route taken hither and thither, could be found. 20 INTRODUCTORY The ransom money, a sum far less than that was first de- manded, was sent directed and by way of receipt the young woman was set at liberty not far from her own door on the same night. And, because Jerry La Croix was a man of might—in the world of affairs or because his statement that there was nothing more to tell was accepted and believed, beyond the mere announcement of her return, little more was said by the Daily Press concerning the return of Miss La Croix. Perhaps it was her illness following as it did upon the heels of her return, which closed the La Croix door alike to friends and reporters, for a time shutting out all news, save of the patient. And then new sensations followed, and so it happened that, concerning the disappearance from the door of the Park-Side Club house, nothing more was made known to the great public through the Daily Press, which, however, might truthfully have added as its final word, at the foot of its column of daily thrills,— “To be continued.” For this was not the end. BL IND LEAD CHAPTER I. ONE OF THEM. “What a gathering! and what does it mean?” The girl paused upon the step of the limousine and looked about her doubtfully, almost with hesitation; and a look of half- veiled surprise crossed the face of her escort as he replied, after a hasty glance about him. “Why, Iris! . One would almost take you for a stranger in New York—and at the Waldorf and 'pon my word, I had quite forgotten that there's a little gathering of politicians due here, to meet and greet Senator Latimer just back from his last continental tour. “Back, sir!” as a man in shabby garments pressed close to the car on the side nearest the lady. “Ah, you scoundrel !” as the man pushed even closer, lurching and seeming to stumble almost against her. “Are you hurt, Iris? Shall we turn back. You are pale! Really—” “I was only startled,” she replied, cutting in upon his solicitous speech, which evidently annoyed—or disturbed her. ... “It was silly of me. Let's go in—of course, out of this crowd,” and she stepped quietly to the curb, just as a big spick and span police- man pressed to their side, eagerly attentive, and anxious for their welfare. “Surely! What is it, officer? A thief? No, I hardly think it. Only a hoodlum—and drunk, I fancy,—crowding to get a look at the Senator. Why where is the fellow?” And the tall young man stared at him amazed. “He’s gone, Mister,” volunteered a small sharp-faced urchin, wedged close to the curb. “Dodged into the crowd that way; guess you won't get him this time,” and the boy grinned, maliciously. 21 22 A BLIND LEAD Again the girl touched her companion's arm, murmuring— “Val, let him go! No, thank you, officer, I was only jostled— a little—and startled more. Intentional? Oh, I don’t think so. It's just an incident of the crush. We arrived at the wrong moment, I fear. Oh, don't look for him,” she urged. But again the boy's shrill voice clamored: “Say, Miss, yer wrong! He done it a purpose. I seen 'im! An’—s a fact, officer. He just scrabbled me one side to get closte enough ter the lady, and I—” “Here you, kid, drop that, and stand back so the lady can pass.” The officer was hurriedly donning his official dignity, for the moment almost lost sight of in this sudden encounter with wealth, fashion and beauty at close range, at the very doors of the Waldorf; and now, obedient to the behest of beauty, he abandoned all thought of the disturber of the peace so suddenly become invisible, and set himself to the pleasanter task of open- ing a way, from the carriage and curb, to the stately portal of the Waldorf just beyond. “It ain’t often we get such a bunch of all sorts as this is, so closte to the W. A.,” he informed the tall, handsome young man whose whole thought seemed now given to the pale girl clinging to his arm, but who turned in the doorway with a courteous word of thanks, “We have arrived at an unfortunate time,” he added, and it was thoughtless not to have observed the situation and waited a bit.” He nodded, then passing the flunkies on either side the wide entrance, and pausing just beyond them, he looked down again, studying the face of the girl beside him with what seemed a needlessly anxious glance. “Are you sure you feel like lunching just now, Iris?” he asked doubtfully. “Why surely, Val! I'm not ill! Only, the man almost fell against me, and I was startled, just for the moment. But it's all past now. We surely should know how to make light of a New York crush,” laughing somewhat nervously. “I even think I might have been guilty of pushing a bit to get a first glimpse of a real live Senator at the height of his popularity!” And she broke off to laugh again, softly, but more naturally, for her com- panion was hastily and suddenly running his hands over his pockets and person, a look of doubt upon his face, and now he echoed her laughter. “It's all right,” he said. “I at least came out scathless. Now ONE OF THEM 23 we can lunch with a proper appetite. Will it be—the Palm room?” “And the Hungarians? Oh yes,” and they passed on, and into a wilderness of bloom and beauty of soft color and sweet sound, of glow and glitter and all the restful well known luxuries of this splendid playroom of fashion and folly. Already, outside, the crowd was melting away. The policeman had turned his back upon it, at the moment when the two, who, next to the great politician, had drawn the eager attention of the lesser mortals, had passed from sight behind the stately doors of the great palace of pleasure, at which the masses might only look and wonder. - They had caught the Senator, sighting him from afar as his swift, soft rolling “devil carriage” chugged its way around the nearest corner; and a gamin' cry had drawn the first half dozen, —the nucleus of so many of the city's swiftly gathered mobs, not always so amiable as was this one,—so suddenly summoned by the popular rallying cry of the street, and so soon left without the object of its enthusiasm, that it began to ebb at the center, while it was still gathering its fringe of curious sensation seekers upon the outskirts. And, barring the passing of the “ristocratick pair,” and the attendant jostle, there had been nothing really worthy the authoritative flourish of the policeman's baton. “Shucks,” declared the youthful speaker of the curb, “see is nibs hike! Guess he's found out we ain’t no mob, if we does chivvy a bit. But my eye! wasn't they swell lookers! His other nibs wasn’t in it with them. Know 'em, Culty?” “Naw ! not me. Wot yer tookin' me fur? An I didn't git a real good see, nohow! Seems 'z'if I’d seen dem two, er somethin' like 'em in the noospapers.” For the thoro-bred street boy takes a pride in his knowledge of the faces of the “ristycrats,” conned from the Sunday supplements, and his familiarity with the history of local celebrities and “way ups,” would certainly amaze some of these great personages. “But say!” “Culty” anxiously questioned, “Why didn't this here Cop ketch that slob for buttin' inter a lady that way? An’ wot was 'is game, sez I? An' wot was it he seg| For he gabbled somethin’, sounded like dutch, to me. An’ that crowdin’ wasn’t all jest accident, you hear me.” But his comrade was crusty. “Dry up can’t ye,” he snapped, “I’m a listenin * !?? ! A BLIND LEAD 24 - ting man, and tW h - • *gle X" • * > * o or three girls, standing near the A ***, rder of the drifting crowd, were also listening to the dC. of a P't young Miss, who was enjoying to the full her W1S ata: #' * oracle; and assuredly she dispensed her ge *, *.carrying tones, and to some rapt listeners, eyond her '' immediate circle. & 4 ow 'em, she was saying, “sure I do! That was the La c:girl. Father s the millionaire La Croix-head of the family. The o” “VV hat 1” cried the tall girl at her elbow, “Iris La Croix? the --" • |But the £ £ mind to be deposed—yet. . #Kin’t th” th in 30yin'! Course! it's the Iris La Croix ain't no # er one. My! I bet it's the first time she's out since she got away from them kidnappers! Much as weeks ago, ain't it, Nell? h My, wasn't that a funny deal! And—” cat' the sudden anti-climax, “the fellow with her's £ntine Effingham, him that's just come into his grandmother's # fortune. An old La Croix paid a big price, they say, to muzzle "P the newspapers, most of 'em, about that abduction affair. B.' best to let the public know the rights of such things, I think! An' then nobody'll git misjudged. They say that cost old La Croix a lot of money too, that ransom" *What! Fifty thousand! and him with millions and millions? My, I call that just crumbs l’’ *Oh,” sniffed the tall girl. “T'would be for you, course!” And then they began to be personal, and the crowd to disperse, or divide; and the listening street boys drew away. “Huh ! Come on, Skip. Betcher that talky shirt-waist's a mannycure trimmer. They git awful chesty, my sister says.” And to this his chum agreed. “Yep,” he nodded. “That's right too. But I’m thinkin’ where in tunket I’ve seen that feller.” “Wot feller?” “That chap what bumped into the gal an’ then side-stepped. He makes me think of somebody—but—Oh shucks! over to the alley, Chub, maybe we'll strike er game.” :k sk :k >k *k sk sk •k *k Valentine Effingham had placed his fair companion in a posi- tion, in the Palm room of the Waldorf, away from the center, but where they could command a good view of the entrance, Let's go ONE OF THEM - 25 and had covered her agitation and momentary nervous weakness by a careless flow of comment, and a seeming interest in the menu; adding, finally—“I advise you to take an interest in my appetite, Iris, if you have not yet found your own, and we will take time to see things, and people, and to bow and smile at them, later. Do you feel like ordering—yet?” “Oh, yes. I feel a bit unsteady still, and, I don’t feel quite natural, somehow. I don’t quite get rid of that confused feeling, yet. The Doctor's advice, I fear has only emphasized the un- pleasant sensation. I—I don’t want to run the risk of failing to bow to some one whom I should notice Val. Isn’t it absurd?” “I think it's very natural ! And there's no need of looking if you don’t want to look. If you can bring yourself to feel, or feign, an absorbing interest in—my profound wisdom, and agree- able society, why the thing is done; or—shall I tell you, from time to time, who is looking this way, and where to bow, or not bOW P” She had spoken with her eyes upon the wine card, but now she lifted them to his face; and in the clear, soft light—all about her —they were brown eyes, luminous, almost yellow, as was the rippling hair above the low, broad brow. But the eyes fell before his too absorbed gaze, and the color which spread slowly across her cheeks was wild rose, in tint, and in its swift glowing and paling. “I think,” declared Effingham, “that luncheon under these conditions—” “What conditions, sir?” “Why the present conditions, with your attention confined to this table—a little—and to myself for the great remainder, while, now and then, I may direct a look to—” his eyes as he spoke were slowly surveying the scene just before and nearest them, and while he talked he turned slightly. “I will direct a look— you will look too—if you please—toward Mrs. Carrington Leach, who is sitting at the third table to your right. You can't miss her for her companion is Irene Smedley, and Irene, as usual, is wearing the very biggest hat in the room; and it’s not only big, but it's red—or near-red. They're quite by their two selves; perhaps because no man more than five feet high could get near enough to shake the fair lady's fat hand.” The girl's eyes came slowly up from the menu, almost as if with reluctance. 26 A BLIND LEAD “Mrs. Carrington L-" he ran on, “is facing us, and is reading your thoughts at this moment. I have not permitted her to see £ I see her ladyship, so when you discover them, and bow, I shall be surprised, and then follow suit.” “Hypocrite !” the girl laughed, suddenly, softly; and with the smile still upon her lips she turned her head, glanced, in turn- ing, at a 11ear by servant, then, beyond him, to note a young stage £uty, -passing at the moment, between herself and the third £ble to the right; and then, -the actress herself could not have £ieved better, the air of sudden pleased surprise with which the golden brown eyes fell upon that third table, and noted, and smiled yet again, while she nodded brightly to the two ladies there seated. • - There was a just perceptible salute from the little gloved hand, a second nod to the near-red chaperon, and then her eyes came back, really mirthful now, to note Effingham's pantomime of sur- rised discovery and his courtly bow. “Really. Val, you have missed your vocation, Who says that all the acting is behind the footlights?” and with a little gurgling laugh she lifted her shapely right hand and began to remove her long suède gloves. This took her full attention for the moment, for the flare of lace about her elbow, and a button of the opposite glove, had entangled themselves, and for the moment she was helpless. . - “Permit me,” said her escort. “What a predicament! Let me exhibit yet another talent, fair critic,” and he leaned toward her, and gave his full attention to the pleasant task. . . “Why it's obstinate!” he laughed, “and you'll have to relax that elbow, Missy; straight out please—there! Why—” he started and glanced up with his fingers almost gripping the filmy lace he had just released, and then, suddenly shifting his gaze, and withdrawing his hand, he drew back, “I—I don’t think I tore it,” he almost stammered. Then, quickly recovering himself, “It's my first attempt, you know.” She laughed lightly. “I can recommend you, at need, then. No, there's mo damage done, except that momentary pinch you gave my wrist. However, my maid has done worse—at times.” And she gave herself again to the removal of the other long love. She seemed, by now, to have quite forgotten the incident of the street; the luncheon order was given, and she jested while choosing, remarking, as the man turned away, that they must ONE OF THEM 27 now apply themselves to the serious business of luncheon, and he must not expect her to neglect a feast, just to nod to a- possible friend. “Let's play we are in haste, and very hungry; and, between eating, drinking, and talking, as even polite gourmands must, there will be no more time to look about.” And to all this he smilingly agreed. But as the luncheon progressed, it would seem that their rôles had changed, with the decision to abandon all thought of others—who might wish to exchange a nod and a smile with one who had been for a time mourned as one possibly lost, and surely in danger; and who was growing each moment more at ease, more cheerful, natural, and charming;—and, to Valentine Effingham, the mere presence, the nearness, of Iris La Croix, whatever might be her changeful mood, was a delight which grew with repetition, and had now, for many days, become his chiefest pleasure. He was a man of the world, in the best sense of this much abused phrase; and, because he knew how to play his man's part, and play it well, he spoke, and smiled, answered her many sallies, and met her bright glances, with looks that were guarded caresses. But from the moment when her soft rounded arm had been stretched out to him across the little table, a thing that, before, had been to him just a doubt, a fear thought, —appearing often but as often put to route,—had suddenly taken form, and had gripped him with a clutch which he could not shake off; a knowledge, an obsession, which would be with him by night and by day, sleep- ing and waking, until—he knew! or could slay the Dragon. Yet he sat still, and smiled, and ate, and looked at peace with all the world; for now he knew that he must not, he could not do otherwise. There must be no visible change—in him. But why? He was asking himself. For the situation was al- most unbearable! What must—what could, he do? He looked and laughed. He jested, and smiled at her jests. Outwardly he was the picture of content and unconcern; and yet he was thinking, thinking; and when, presently, they arose and walked smilingly down the splendid room, he knew that he had decided. He knew that he must act. But how? “I suppose,” Iris said, as she gave a final twitch to a long glove, “I am sure in fact, that we ought not—to pass Mrs. Carrington Leach, and—Irene. But not another halt! I'm not up to it. I begin to feel the wheels go round. Just a few words, 28 A BLIND LEAD Sir Knight; mind, we are in haste. At least you are. A man can always plead business.” “And this man can make that plea with truth, just now,” he replied, and the look accompanying his words, and which Iris, a pace in advance, did not see, was serious and full of newly formed purpose. It was Effingham who at last cut short the chatter of Mrs. Carrington Leach, noted as she was for her ever ready and vi- vacious flow of small talk; and it was Iris who held back for a last word, and some pretty phrases of regret that they needs must hasten. But, when they were in the carriage once more, both were unusually silent and grave. On reaching her home—“Are you coming in?” she asked, as she left the carriage, “or is that “business engagement still an obstacle to sociability?” “Do you wish me to come? I fancied that you were a bit tired. My business can always wait, if—” She checked him with a gesture. “I am somewhat weary, and I won't keep you long; but—there's something I wish to say—and at once! The sooner the better. Come in please.” She threw aside her light coat, and removed hat and gloves, slowly, lingeringly almost, and her face still held its look of grave preoccupation. He seated himself and watched her wonderingly. It struck him now, that she was finding the thing she had wished him to hear difficult of utterance. She crossed the room, and drawing back the heavy curtain between the library, where they were, and the morning room in the rear of it. “There's no one there,” she said, in a tone of relief. And then she turned and came swiftly toward him, only pausing when she was directly before him, and almost within reach of his hand. Her step, her pose, her look, all bespoke the resolve to utter that which was to be said, and to have no further hesitation or delay. Meeting her level, serious gaze, he smiled. “I see that ‘strong heart has taken the field, and that I have only to listen, and obey,” he said, “Will the queen be seated? Or—” “Don’t Val! No, I wish to stand; and—please don’t rise-And don't feel hurt, or angry, at what I am trying to say. Val, when you asked me, last night, to let our engagement be announced at once, I—hesitated. Now I am asking you to let that engagement remain as it has been—as it was, before—before this hateful thing ONE OF THEM 29 happened! Don't—misunderstand me. Val! There's no—no change in me. It's the conditions that are changed! I—I don't want to lose you; I need your friendship, your kindness, now more than ever. But dear—we can't be openly engaged now, for I can’t be your wife—until, in some way, this strange thing is ex- plained. Until light is, by some means, thrown upon this mystery of doubt that hangs over those three long weeks, of which I only know that I was caught on the open highway, thrust into a car- riage, made senseless, heavens knows how long, and awoke to find myself a prisoner, well housed, well fed, and respectfully treated, but never once seeing the face of my jailors and attend- ants. Dear friend, you know what our world is! You know how the tongue of gossip unbridled, of curiosity unappeased, can wag; and how rumor grows by what it feeds upon, or starves for. Yours is a proud family, an old name. And, I, too, am proud. I could, I must look up to the man I marry; but—not to his family, his friends, and the society in which we mingle! Val, oh Val! surely you understand!” “Yes—and no.” He rose slowly, and took her unresisting hands, holding them clasped together between his own. “Iris, dear heart, I surely recognize and comprehend the pride, the deli- cacy, which has prompted this, but—it is not enough.” “Not—enough?” “Enough for you perhaps—but not for me. Will you answer a few questions, Iris?” “Yes. If I can.” “You can. No other could. Tell me, if this—this strange ab- sence had never happened, if for those long hateful weeks we had mot #en separated, would you have let me claim you openly mozw'” “Yes. Oh surely!” She lifted her eyes to his, and suddenly let them droop behind their long upcurled lashes. “And—there is no change then, in your feelings? There is no one else!” “No one else! No one—ever.” “And—I may see you still, as before? may be your nearest, best, friend?” “Yes. Oh gladly! My nearest—best—dearest, only friend! But—just the friend. No more.” “And—when, or if, this mystery is cleared—then?” “Then—and ever, it will be as before, Val Effingham; oh surely you know it?” 30 A BLIND LEAD “And, by consenting, for of course I must consent, am I doing the thing that will make your present position most bearable? easiest? and will you at all times call upon me, command me, at need, and knowing how gladly, willingly, I shall come?” “Yes! Oh yes.” “Then, so let it be—for now! From this moment I am your friend, whom you will trust and believe in, and command. For I would rather be the friend of Iris La Croix than the lover of any other! and—some day, I will marry Iris La Croix, or I will die single.” He lifted the imprisoned hands, and kissed them like a courtier, and then, releasing them, “And now?” he questioned, “what now?” “Now—thank you, Val, and please go. I must be alone. Must rest, before I see Aunt Miranda, or—my father.” “And I, when may I come again—?” “When you will, dear friend; after today.” She dropped wearily into the chair he had but now vacated, and hid her face in its soft cushions; and he taking up his hat, ' long at the bowed head and drooping figure, and went out Softly. CHAPTER II. THE OPINION OF THE SHOPPERS. Mrs. Carrington Leach gazed after the retiring figures of Iris La Croix and her escort, with elbows on table edge, and finger tips daintily pressed together beneath the chin which they seemed to support—in reality they barely touched it,—and the pose, if held for long, would have been tedious, not to say difficult; for it was a pose, as were most of the little lady’s “before the public” attitudes. “Mrs. Carrington L.” as her familiars chose to call her, was pale and petite. Her sunny hair, when worn, au naturelle, was also pale, and somewhat scant. She often mentioned, by the way, “its natural and obstinate tendency to curl.” But she seldom wore it au naturelle, and her dressing table held—close beside a be- ribboned bottle of peroxide—a little electric heater, holding, across a miniature rest, a slim set of curling tongs, and a thing—un- known to men—called a Marcelle crimper. THE OPINION OF THE SHOPPERS 31 Ever since she had been told, during the wait of a waltz, that “the line and curve of her neck”—he had meant her spine—was “simply classic,” she had taken up the study of “the classic pose,” adopted an uplifted and overgrown Grecian knot, and discarded a full two inches of decolleté. And this, her present attitude, was one of the results of her mental dip into “The Modes of Ancient Greece.” She held her pose, until the subjects of her observation had passed from sight; and her companion, with a note of laughter in her voice, and a twinkle of malice in her eyes, said— “Tonie, my dear, how often have I told you that a nineteenth century look of curiosity, blended with a suspicion of malice, #" combine with a Psyche pose. Don't your poor neck ache?” “It does, my dear! And I'm jolly glad I didn’t live in the days of ancient Rome. Think of being always on your dig'!” ex- claimed this astonishing little dame du societie. “Gee! but my purée is getting a chill!” and she resumed her meal with renewed relish, while again her companion laughed, eyeing her with toler- ant amusement, and waiting silently for what, she felt sure, must come; and in a moment it came. “Well,” jerked the little blonde, “why don’t you talk / I hate a dummy at table!” “So do I. Aren’t these truffles delicious? I'm so fond of truffles.” “Oh—pouf Think you're smart—don't you?” Miss Smedley laughed tolerantly. “Tonie,” she said, “you know you're dying to say something about Iris La Croix, or her escort, or both; and you want me to open the ball. Well, I lack material, so you’d best begin. Come, what's on your mind?” “Oh, well!” Mrs. Carrington Leach put down her fork with a little clatter, and leaned toward her friend, abandoning her pose for the time, in the interest of gossip. “Irene, what do you think of that affair?” “You mean—” “Oh, bother! I mean Iris La Croix's disappearance—and re- turn?” “About what you do, I fancy. What do you think?” “I think—in confidence you know—” “In confidence—of course!” 32 A BLIND LEAD “Well—I think, now, what I only wondered over before. I think there's more to this business than you nor I nor nobody knows, or is goin’ to find out,-if the La Croix's can help it. I think there's a mulatto in the woodpile!” “Name it—or is it just him?” Miss Irene Smedley sat sud- denly erect, and looked interested. “Wait—” of one accord the two drew closer to the small table, and the dainty luncheon became, now, a secondary subject, and was dallied over, and finally, almost neglected. “How much do you know about the affair, anyhow?” demanded the little matron. “Of course you’ve been away—” “That's it. I’ve been away, and I did not read the papers— regularly. We were almost constantly out of doors—I read of the reward offered by Jerry La Croix, —in a paper two days old, and—oh—well, let's cut it short, my evidence. The paper stated that Miss La Croix, at that time, had been absent from home for six days. At first her people had felt sure she was safe and well somewhere among her friends. I suppose that was because she went and came so independently, but of course, when no letter or message came, and an inquiry among her friends showed that she had not been seen by any of them, they reported the matter to the police, very quietly, at first; and then Mr. La Croix announced, in all the papers, the fact of his daughter's disappearance, and that a large reward awaited the person who would give her friends reliable news of her. Within twenty-four hours another letter arrived. It repeated that she was held for ransom and that her captors had not ill treated her, but that they were in deadly earnest, and demanded a large reward. The characteristic feature of the letter was that Iris did not ask that the reward be sent; although, as everybody knows, she has all her mother's money, or will have in a very short time, and might ransom herself.” “Yes. It comes into her hands sometime next month, so Carry says, well?” “Well, of course the thing was soon settled, then. It told her father how he must communicate with her jailers,—by a series of code words, one meaning a whole sentence—and then—and here I think comes the queerest detail of the entire business,—they accepted Fifty Thousand Dollars, from a man who could have paid them half a million and hardly miss it.” “Yes,” assented Mrs. Carrington Leach. “I said there was a THE OPINION OF THE SHOPPERS 33 darkey in the wood pile. Did the newspaper you saw state of this letter with its list of symbolic words,—that all the letters were typwritten? as were all the later instructions as to the send- ing of the ransom?” “Mercy—no!” . “And that she—Iris says she never dictated a letter?” “Well, well!” “And then her story which was kept back somehow because of her sickness, and so never got into print. How very queer! The boldness of her abduction, the room,—with only a skylight, but clean, and fairly decent,-where she was kept! The jailers, whom she never saw, because the lights were controlled from without, and were turned off, always, before they appeared— they only came at night, it seems. And then her being taken away, and brought back, in an insensible condition!” “It's certainly a very strange affair,” declared Miss Smedley, “and it must have been a severe ordeal, to break Iris down so utterly. How pale she is, except for a flash of color now and then. And Iris La Croix is surely not a weak or nervous person, she is high spirited; and one would fancy her the last person to break down utterly so long as there was a ray of hope! And yet, they say she came home almost shattered, mentally; and that, on some points, her memory, even now that she is out again, is very unreliable. I heard that she stared at Percy Loundes, when he called first with Valentine Effingham, and did not know him.” “True. Yet she did not seem particularly weak, just now. Irene, did you notice the little thing that happened at their table when she was removing her gloves?” “There seemed to be something wrong with her lace, and glove buttons. What of it?” “It was not the lace, nor the glove, my girl; It was—Valen- tine.” “He was rather slow in getting things straight. What else?” “And that’s all you saw?” disgustedly. “My dear Tonie, think! Val and I were almost in line, he being, like myself, on the lower side of the table. You, on the contrary, could look across, and directly at him!” “Right you are, Marie,” Mrs. Carrington Leach, in her mom- ents of relaxation, spoke often in the slang of the streets, and she enjoyed the spice, the “looseness,” of what she called, “relaxed Americana,” as heartily as any street boy, with the brand of raw 34 A BLIND LEAD nature still upon him. She leaned yet closer to her friend, and her voice, low pitched from the first, sank still lower. “Perhaps, if I had not seen them at the theatre, last night, and taken a note or two there, I might not have been so observing today. But I had them directly under my eye, then; and several times, after Iris had turned to speak to him, and then looked again toward the stage, I saw the strangest look, puzzled, troubled, anxious, come over his face, and he would sit and seem to study her every movement, and try to catch every word she uttered; and always, when she turned back to him, he would seem to force himself to look careless, and smiling, and interested. And today, as he bent over that tangle of lace and glove, his face—for a moment—wore that same look l—only more so! It was as if he were saying to himself, ‘Oh, this is worse than all the rest!’” “Perhaps he had torn the lace.” “Gammon say perhaps he had seen a ghost! for just an instant he looked it. And he sat, for a full minute, looking straight at her arm, from which he had just loosened the glove button; and, as she drew the lace away, and he pulled the glove down upon her wrist, he fairly stared.” - “Tonie, your imagination is working overtime. To borrow one of your phrases, ‘Give it a rest,’” laughed her friend. “Irene Smedley, you wait! And remember, we have not heard the last, nor the worst, nor the queerest, of this abduction case yet, mark me! My imagination's all right! It's on the job! My soul, where are your eyes? Val Effingham never once cracked a smile. He was on nettles, from the minute he pulled off that glove; and he almost rushed her away from us, altho' she seemed to want to chat; and—another thing—” “Mercy! I hope it is no worse!” “I’ll leave that to you. Everybody thought their engagement would be announced at once, a month or more, before she dis- appeared.” “True.” “Well, you wait! I'll wager a box of gloves, sixteen button, that that engagement won't come out—until—” “Well, until?” “Until Val Eff' ceases his trick of going about with anxiety in his eyes, and doubt, or some other form of trouble, in his mind! It won’t come out this week, or next, or the week after that! you hear me!” THE OPINION OF THE SHOPPERS 35 Irene Smedley laughed, and pushed back her chair. “I hear,” she said, “and I'll heed the outcome. Meantime, I wear sixes, and mode is my color. Come, Tonie, I thought you wanted to shop today.” “O, shop!” sniffed Tonie. But she signaled the nearby ser- vant, and began her swift, bird-like, picking up of gloves, vanity bag, wraps, veil, and so on, and the getting back into her demurest pose, for the progress across the Palm Room and down to the street. Mrs. Garrington Leach was the wife of a millionaire sporting man, club man, yachtsman, and all round good fellow. They belonged to the younger set of fashionable New York, and, because each was tolerant of the other, each had a few fads but never the same ones, and each took care never to bore the other by being too much in evidence, they lived in harmony; and while people sometimes said that Tonie was too faddish, too fond of gossip, and rather given to general frivolity; and while her best friends could but smile at and humor her poses, it was understood that her bark was worse than her bite, and, once she had squeezed the orange of her neighbor's affairs, dry to the utmost, she would champion him, at need, and to the bitter end. People who were not well informed sometimes wondered at the intimacy between Miss Smedley and this little matron, so quick, so changeable of mind, so volatile, and fond of trifles, and trifling. For Irene Smedley was the direct opposite of her friend. She was tall, and was rapidly developing what is courteously called “a fine figure.” She was slow of movement and of speech; good humored, and sensible. While she seldom jested, and was not quick at repartee, she possessed a keen sense of the ridiculous; and certainly no one could appreciate more fully, or smile more kindly at the numerous poses, fads, and incongruous fancies, of her little opposite. It was, in fact, the very difference between the two that had developed in them a mutual liking, and tolerance for these differences. They were cousins, once removed; and had grown up side by side, and in twin houses that were almost one big dwelling. They had studied under the same masters, and been graduated from the same schools; and what propinquity and “a touch of 36 A BLIND LEAD kinship” began, time and human nature had completed; and a strong and most cordial and frank friendship was the present result. Miss Smedley was almost a spinster, and a rich and independent one. She cared little for society—but did not shun it—she kept a house in town and a cottage in the hills; and an elderly aunt, almost a nonentity—but “good,” and a born house mistress of the old school—played propriety at her table, with no thought of criticism, dictation, or suggestion, where, surely, none was needed. Miss Smedley detested what she called the “puff, whiz, chug, and honk,” of the automobile; and she kept a neat coupé, and a fine saddle pair; while her friend would have only “devil wagons,” saucy runabouts, big touring cars, and swift pace- makers. And she scorned the slower, safer, methods of travel; and only rode in Miss Smedley’s “cart,” because only thus could she have Miss Smedley's company. They were seated in this same “cart,” now, a full hour after Iris La Croix and her companion had left them at the Waldorf, and had just been “held up,” in a jam of vehicles and surface cars before a splendid new skyscraper that had sprung up, been finished, and occupied, during the period of Irene Smed- ley's absence from the city; for she had passed the late winter and early spring upon the California coast, and, since her recent return, in early May, she had not caught up with the perennial newness and change of her home city. “Dear me! here is another giant come to town since I went away! what's in it, Tonie?” she questioned. “Offices of sorts; all except the lower floor. And such offices ! There's a score of doctors, lawyers, and brokers; the swellest manicure outfit in town, a ladies’ service agency, a private in- vestigation bureau, and—oh—everything! Irene look!” “Where child? At What?” “The curb there! and the entrance! It's Val Effingham; and his carriage is just driving away. Yes—he's going in, and —there's Bruce Abinger coming out. He's taken offices there.” “Who, Bruce?” “Yes, Goose! And see, Val has stopped him! see how in earnest he seems? See? Bruce shakes his head, and looks at his watch.” “Careful, Tonie, they'll see us peeping.” EFFINGHAM SPEAKS 37 “I guess it's the open street! Look now, Bruce looks as if Val had shocked or startled him; and, yes—they're going toward the elevator, and Val had urgent business, he told us; and Bruce is his second self! His confidant, if he has one. If the business is with Bruce Abinger, I'll wager it's something private, con- fidential; and that it concerns Iris La Croix l” “Hm!” murmured Miss Smedley. “Bruce Abinger is a lawyer, and very clever—in many ways.” “Irene Smedley, what do you mean by that?” “Just what I say. Come, Tonie. Let's shop now.” CHAPTER III. EFFINGHAM SPEAKS. Bruce Abinger closed his office door and turned the key, ran up the twin shades of his broad front window, admitting by the act a flood of sunlight, and placed a chair opposite his own, at his desk, and very close to it, motioning his friend to occupy the one seat, while he dropped into the other; all of these move- ments had been brisk, sure, easy, and quite silent. “Now, old fellow,” he said, “my time is yours! What do you mean by saying that you are in trouble? What has hap- pened since we dined together last night? When I left you at the Club, with a cigar between your lips and a long, soft, drink at your elbow, you seemed very well content with the world and all in it.” “That, Bruce, was last night. This morning I could mark by my stop watch the very moment when a thing, an imp of doubt—which, now and then, for the past few days, has peered at me, aroused by a word, a glance, or a suggestion—at last has seized upon me, and forced me to believe!” he paused. Bruce Abinger's eyes were fixed upon him, keenly, kindly, with the look of one who understands. And as he caught and read this glance Effingham added—“as I live, Bruce, you are the only man in New York today, who, hearing what I am about to say would not declare, at once, that I’ve gone stark mad.” Abinger's face, already serious, was taking on a look of con- cern. “No, Val,” he assured his friend, “I shall not say that. 38 A BLIND LEAD If you were sane yesterday, and the day before, and last week, and last year, you're sane still.” “Oh, yes, I'm sane, Heaven knows! I could almost wish I were not.” Again for a moment Abinger focused upon his friend's face his keen, clear, concentrated gaze. Then he bent toward him. “Val,” he began, gently, “I see that it is something serious—this trouble that has so suddenly arrived. If I can help you—let me hear it.” “Bruce, you know what Iris La Croix has been, and is, to me?” “Surely!” “And how her disappearance struck me; and almost downed me?” “Yes.” “You know how I rejoiced at the first news of her; and how, at her coming back, I thought I had nothing more to ask of Fortune or Fate.” “Yes,” quietly. “I know.” “Bruce—remember, you say that I am quite sane!—she has not come back l’’ Abinger's face never changed, and the young man sitting opposite him, and holding himself down with all his will and strength, began to feel this quiet firmness, like the touch of a steadying hand. “Explain,” urged Abinger. “There is no explanation! But the fact, Bruce Abinger, is as I state it. The girl who was left at the corner nearest the La Croix home, at midnight two weeks ago, the girl with the Iris La Croix eyes and hair, her face, voice, and figure, and who calls herself Iris La Croix, is not my Iris, the girl I knew so well! too well to be long deceived by a mere resemblance!” “Go on,—please.” Val Effingham, sitting opposite this quiet, grave, attentive friend, opened his lips to let loose some of the shocked, grieved, passionate thoughts, and growing beliefs, that were seething and clamoring for utterance within him; and then he caught his breath, gaspingly, almost, and drew slowly back. For hours he had been holding himself in check with a force, and at a cost, that was terrible. Before this friend, in whose brain and strength he trusted, he now felt the cruel, tense, locked, condition of muscle and nerve—as wearying to him, bodily, as was the stress and storm of his soul's emotions to his mental self-relax. EFFINGHAM SPEAKS 39 It was as if a strong, forceful electric current, calm, con- trolling, and giving out a quiet power, as of governed strength, were passing back the tumult of thought and feeling, which, uncontrolled, must soon break all bounds, and retard and weaken, at a moment where prompt, decisive action, clear and controlled thought, was the only helpful course, the one urgent need. Letting himself sink back, in a pose which was almost restful, Effingham met the gaze of his friend, and realized that his con- centrated quiet was silently beating down the tumult within himself; and that emotion was giving way to strength of will, and the shock and revolt of his most recent discovery, and ex- perience, was coming under the control of reason once more. Slowly the hands that had gripped the arms of the big chair relaxed and slid to his knees. He sighed heavily, like one re- lieved after exhaustion, and, presently, he said—“Bruce, that calm, clear, trained mind of yours was never more needed, never more gratefully felt! Give me a moment to settle my thoughts, for I no longer feel like beating the air, and screaming because I am hurt. Hurt! My soul! I can’t yet realize how much. For, Bruce, I have only to repeat what I have just declared. Iris La Croix was never so surely, so horribly lost, to me—to all her friends, as at this moment, when she seems to be up there in Jerry La Croix big castle; returned, unharmed and happy, to her home and friends! Do you want me to tell—” he stopped short at a gesture from Abinger. “If you’re quite sure of yourself now, old man,—I can see that you’ve had a shock, and have been “holding on a bit too long for physical comfort. If you’ve quite settled down, tell me,—how did this belief first come to you?” Effingham hesitated. “To be quite frank,” he confessed, “I don’t just know how to put it. As you know I was there—at her home—when she came. La Croix sent for me, as soon as he had the word. We didn’t know the exact hour; for the message merely said that she would be at the door that night, —Tuesday night—“sometime between sundown and sunrise.” That note, in itself, was a bit of gross cruelty! The brutes knew, of course, that such a message would mean long hours of suspense; for that she would not arrive by daylight, or twilight, we knew very well.” “Naturally.” “At ten o'clock La Croix sent all the servants to bed; all ex- 40 A BLIND LEAD cept one—the butler. And when the bell rang–Bruce, that hard old man, was as weak as water. Go and bring him in, Effing- ham, he said to me. And I was quick to go. I met them at the first, or vestibule, landing; and when he saw me coming toward them Harris, the butler, ducked down the corridor, and she stood there alone, waiting for me. It seemed an hour before I reached her side;—and when I spoke her name, -and took her hands in mine,—I felt her whole body quiver. She was closely veiled, and—Bruce—she almost struggled away from me. But she was very nervous, and she said, “Val, I'm horribly weak! and so confused ! It's all been so—terrible! I sha’n’t feel myself again until I have forgotten it, if I ever can forget it.” She met her father in much the same way. But I did not wonder at that. They have been so much apart all their lives, and La Croix is such a hard, old duffer.” “He is that! At least on the surface.” “Yes. Well, her aunt soon took her away, of course, almost at once it seemed; and I left the house, after a few words with the old man. It was a rare night, and once outside I crossed the street and walked slowly down to the Club. I had been very happy, thinking and planning for her return, we were just about to announce our engagement when she was spirited away—” “I knoW !” “I told you so? Yes! I remember. Well—when I got out- side, and was able to think, I didn't know myself! Bruce, I could not find a shadow of the thrill, the gladness, I should have felt at her safe return. I felt cold, and dazed, and— miserable ! But I did not understand the cause—then; and I was frightened; fearing that the ordeal the poor girl had under- gone had been too much, had broken her high and fine spirit—” “It should take much to do that.” “So I told myself. Well, I saw her again next morning; but only for a few moments, and—mostly—in her aunt's presence. She—Iris was very quiet, very pale, and excessively nervous.” “That is unlike Iris La Croix l’’ “True. Her week's illness followed. But I saw her daily, after the second day, with the nurse always close at hand in the dressing room just beyond us. I had thought of the commotion, the nine days wonder, that her sudden return—the whole affair —would provoke, in her own circle, and all about town; and, having first consulted her father, I asked her to let me make our EFFINGHAM SPEAKS 41 engagement known at once. She tried to jest, to seem just— unready; but it was plain to me that she was horribly nervous, and almost hysterical, at the mere suggestion. She parried, and then she just begged me to let her have time to rest and feel more like herself. And then—she told me how great the shock had really been to her. How real—for a time—was her danger. She said that she seemed, at times, to have an im- paired memory for facts, and folks; and declared that an an- nouncement,-thus—in her weak condition—would bring down upon her a host of friends, and congratulations, and that she could not bear it—yet. She wanted, first of all, to rest, and grow stronger. Of course, I yielded.” “Of course!” “For the past few days I have seen Iris daily. She has driven out with me, twice, and last night, as you know, she went with me to a place of amusement, for the first time. Several times she has had those strange lapses of memory. She says they come when she begins to feel exhausted, and are accompanied with a slight dizziness, and a sense of pain just above the eyes.” “Um! Severe mental strain; I should say.” “And so should I, if this were all. But you must remember— for you know how much, for the past two years, Iris La Croix and I have been together,-how much I have seen of her; in her home, informally, and with the restraints of the social world laid aside. Oh, I can’t describe them, in detail; but there were various little mannerisms, of speech, and gesture, that I miss. But, most of all, until today, has been the feeling! I have played, at least have tried to play, my part, as if she were indeed the girl I have known and loved. But—there it is! In the moment, even, when she is most like the old Iris; when I have not been startled, as I am, sooner or later, every time we meet! In her most quiet, natural seeming moments, there is the feeling that it is not my Iris, but a stranger, a nixie,—with her face, but not her soul,—who is sitting beside me. Iris was quick to re- spond, frank, spontaneous, affectionate. This girl just—tries to be. And—” “Just a moment, Val;” interposed Abinger. “You said—a moment ago you said, “until today—most of all until today—’ as if today had witnessed some change.” “And it has! It has! Until today I have wondered, doubted, feared! and—God; how I have suffered. But today—I knew! Less than two hours ago I had the proof!” 42 A BLIND LEAD “The proof, man? think what you are saying!” Valentine Effingham brought himself suddenly erect in his chair. The quiet with which, under the strong, calm of his friend's influence, he had forced himself to speak and listen, fell from him, as if by the suppressed fire of his thought and pur- pose. His cheeks flushed; his dark blue eyes flamed; and he brought his right hand down upon the broad arm of his chair with force and firmness. “Think!” he cried, “I tell you I am done with thinking! I do not know where Iris La Croix may be at this moment. I pray God she is alive and safe! But—I know where she is not! The girl who masquerades in her name, and place, is not Iris! I know it.” “Can you make others know it?” “Listen,” Effingham said, “and judge!” CHAPTER IV. THE SCARRED ARM. For a long moment there was silence in the room; and then Abinger's voice, quiet and with no hint of surprise in its tone, came remindingly— “I am waiting, Val. What happened at—the Waldorf P” “The Waldorf l’” Effingham started. “How did you—surely I did not tell you—” “You told me, as we came up here, between floors, as it were, that you had just left the Waldorf. And I guessed that some- thing had happened there. Also, this, I believe, is ladies' hour at that palace of pleasure. Having inferred the lady—from the hour—I—connected this person with the supposed happen- ing.” He was speaking lightly, and rather slowly. He wished to keep the atmosphere of quiet unbroken; and he knew that it was menaced. “Am I right?” he finished. “Yes.” Effingham stirred restlessly, but he kept his seat. “Bruce, did you ever notice the little scar upon Iris La Croix's left arm? It's just a small upraised scar, roughly rounding, and hardly the size of my little finger nail. It is not discolored, and is exactly in the inner curve of the elbow. It is visible THE SCARRED ARM 43 only when the arm is bared to above the forearm, and it can be discovered then, by looking for it, when the bare arm is flexed.” Abinger nodded. “I have seen it;” he said. “She must have carried it nearly all her life.” “She carries it today, living or dead,” affirmed the other, grimly. “It was the souvenir of a misplaced vaccination, which went wrong and inflicted an ugly sore. It healed slowly, because of its position, and left the scar for the same reason. Today the young woman was in carriage attire. It was the first time I had seen her—of late—in such a toilet, and—without her long gloves. While waiting to be served I assisted her to remove these gloves, and I saw—an arm without a scar! An arm as smooth and flawless as the arm of Minerva. And then—I knew! Bruce —in God’s name, what does it mean?” Again the silence between them was so long that, to one, it began to seem endless; and presently he arose, very quietly, and began to pace to and fro across the office. Bruce Abinger never stirred. He sat bending forward, his arms resting upon his desk, and his chin supported by his left hand, and while his face never changed, and his eyes seemed quite closed, the fingers of his right hand were beating a tattoo upon the blotting pad; now slow, now swift, but never ceasing. Half a dozen times the young man pacing the floor glanced across at him, and compressed his lips and clenched his hands into fists. But he kept up his steady march, and maintained his silence, until, finally, he heard his friend stir, and knew that he had swung about in his swivel chair. Then Effingham was be- side him in two swift strides. “Bruce,” he said, and only the slight rasp in his throat be- trayed any hint of emotion. “There's not another man in the whole city who would have heard me, and my story, without putting me on the grill to find out if I’m sure of all my premises, with a lot of rot about excited imagination, overwrought fancy- a removed scar—strained nerves—and all that blather! Who, in short, would have heard me out, even, to say nothing about believing!” “Barring your father, Val, I don't suppose there's another man in the city who knows, and understands you, as I do. However, I'll admit it—you’ve given me a mouthful.” “Well?” The word was a demand. “Whatever you tell me, declaring and believing it true, I'm 44 A BLIND LEAD bound to believe, old man! And—to cut out all useless detail,— for the present—all the perceived signs and tokens—I have not only seen that scar, but Mrs. Carrington Leach,—who at that time was lavishing the wealth of her matronly affections upon Miss La Croix,-once told me its history. She thought the little scar so cute.” “Good Heavens !” “Precisely. Sit down again Val, and lets look for a starting point. We will assume, at the outset, that you are right; what comes next?” “My soul! And I came to you for advice!” “Which I shall try to give, when we have got a few pre- liminaries set straight.” Valentine Effingham, in the long period of his intimacy with the man before him, had rather prided himself upon their— “difference.” He had never called the thing superiority, but the fact, that he was tall, muscular, broad of shoulder, and fine of figure, skilled in many manly sports and exercises, an all round college man, keen witted, and popular in business, and in society known of all men—and most women, was beyond dispute. Bruce Abinger, on the other hand, was slight of build, with the deep set introspective eye of the student and the fine face of the scholar; not handsome, with the beauty that made Val Effingham beloved of woman, but strong, and rare, with the mental illumination that, in all ages, has made beauty of mind prevail over physical charm, pure and simple. Abinger had never been called a ladies' man; but he was a man whom women instinctively trusted. And Val Effingham, looking now into his strong purposeful face, felt, for the first time since he had turned away from the doors of the Waldorf, a sense of trust and reliance, in this friend; and he knew, then, that, without definitely realizing it, he had always felt, and believed in his strength; his superiority of mind and will, and his splendid equipment for the struggle with the hidden, the in- tricate, and the deep things of life. Val seated himself once more, and squared his shoulders. “If you can suggest something to be done! Anything but this cursed inaction—do it,” he gritted. “If Iris La Croix is a prisoner—somewhere, there will be enough for us all to do. But first—Val, you must not be sur- prised—or offended at my ideas. And—if I am to help you, you must let me catechise you a little.” 46 A BLIND LEAD La Croix, the mother of Iris, lived much abroad. They were not exactly congenial, and the mother was rich in her own right. La Croix was not so wealthy then—” “Not quite, you mean. He was certainly not poor, even then.” “As you will! At all events the two lived apart much of the time; and after her death Iris went to her aunt in France, and the house here was closed. As for Miss La Croix, she hardly knew her niece when she came here four years ago; and—I once heard Iris say, half in jest,-that her aunt was too aloof' in nature and tastes to be congenial, or intimate, even with her own family. “Aunt Randa Stephanie, she added, sits at the head of the table with grace and propriety, and never shirks her duties as hostess. But she has acquired the spinster habit, and she loves a good piece of polite fiction; so she keeps her rooms, and I keep mine, when there are no calls or state dinners.” Abinger smiled. “That sounds like Iris La Croix in humorous mood. Val—” he hesitated a moment, “do you think this young woman, if she is not Miss La Croix, can long keep up the masquerade?” “Why not?” scornfully. “Isn't the worst over? the coming— the fitting into her place in a strange house? I tell you it is a very clever piece of acting. But it is acting!”. He caught the eyes of his friend fixed upon him intently, wonderingly. “I know what is in your mind, Bruce! and here, to me—is the strongest bit of proof that I am not mistaken. Whatever else she may be, this young woman is no common adventuress. She is far from it. We were lovers when Iris vanished, and in a week our engagement would have been formally made known. I first spoke to her of this, one night after her father had gone out to Smoke a quieting cigar as he said. But at the first word she put up her hand, checking me. “Dear, friend,” she said, “won't you humor me in this. Let us not speak of any change in our mutual attitude for a time. I am so worn, so wretched and weary, that I want to rest and feel no emotion stronger than simple content, and—security. Let us not talk of any more changes—for a few days.” - “Why, Val, one might understand that feeling; even—” “Wait!” broke in the other. “Of course, as you say, I thought, then, that it was a bit of natural reserve and delicacy, but naturally again, I asked. ‘Is it because you have found in your absence that you can live very well without me, Iris?” he stopped and bit his lip, flushing slightly. THE SCARRED ARM - 47 Abinger lifted his head. “Won't you tell me her precise answer to that Val? It may help me to an understanding.” “I had taken her hand, but, after a moment's hesitation she withdrew it gently, and said, ‘I—I fear, dear, that I never cared so much as just now!’” “And that was soon after her return?” “Yes. Before my suspicions had taken form. When I was only confused. But, today I admit it, was a test. I spoke of the matter again, and again she put me off; very kindly, very delicately, but quite firmly l” “Um!” Abinger's fingers recommenced their tattoo upon the desk. “Then who is the La Croix family physician?” he asked. “Flack. He's almost a member of the family.” “And—he was called in, of course, when she broke down next day?” “He was not?” “What!” Abinger swung about in his chair sharply. “She would not have it. She said he was an old dear, but she could not bear to think of his little jokes, and his too kindly in- terest. She felt as if it would drive her mad to be petted and pitied, now. She must get over the horrible feeling of strain, and get a little stronger before she could see her real friends—any more of them. Of course they yielded. I myself explained to Flack, over the wire, and asked him to send someone, a stranger, preferably. He sent young Strossman.” “The German nerve specialist?” “Yes.” “Has Flack seen her yet?” “He came into the box last night for just a moment.” Again Abinger swung around in his chair and then back, facing Effingham, and looking directly at him. “Val, have you thought, I mean decided upon any course of action?” “I must find Iris, if she is alive.” “You don’t fear—” Val stopped him with a fierce snarl. He was letting him- self go, at last. “Bruce Abinger, listen! It's a new thought to you! But I've laid awake all night, and night after night, ever since I began to doubt, trying to fathom, to guess, the motive in full. One A BLIND LEAD + Hing's £ this plot has been a long time in the 1 Hose devils never c *e upon a substitute, and got silich £fect training : 8, in a Week, or a *month / And ther. - y Ousand Dollars "ansom behind it! Els TEIHe #bstitute ?” - , echoed Abinger. ‘‘I think I Illa : * * I f not a Case # ave hit it. At least I pray it's nothing :*evenge of some $9tt, and for Some ca. <==rinot £ # is—whi 'uld explain the :* is 'd man called it. He thinks he got off ci DE 11t with ': ' * Place of Iris, what's to hinder a Ing O t - *> k >k *: :: :: :k >k >k sk As the astonished and agitated little man passed out, pulling the door shut with a backward reach and a bang, the three who stood grouped together near the doorway turned, as by mutual consent, their faces expressing, respectively, gratification, perplexity, and apprehension. It was in Larne's face, and in his first words, that the gratifi- cation was seen. 60 A BLIND LEAD “It couldn't be better; the situation being what it is!” he said quietly. “We shall have the Doctor's verdict before we sleep, and tomorrow, Mr. Effingham, we can act.” “Are you not taking a lot for granted, old man?” questioned Abinger, with a dry smile. “I’ll admit that the little Doctor's man- ner was not what I expected. He's usually hard to convince. But he dropped one word that made me have cold chills. This busi- ness, if it turns out as Val thinks it must, is going to be too com- plicated and delicate, to get it mixed up with the women—on the outside! And the name of Mrs. Carrington Leach has come into the story, twice, within the hour—almost.” Larne, who was feeling in an inner pocket in search of his faithful notebook,-kept always in shorthand—ceased the search, and turned quickly. “Explain!” he demanded. “Effingham, in telling me of his visit to the Waldorf, spoke of meeting Mrs. Carrington L , and her friend Irene Smedley.” “Don’t know her,” mused Larne. “Not—Mrs. Carrington L ?” “Miss—Irene Smedley—was it not? I do know the other—a little.” “Thought so! Well, Mrs. Leach has, under her light and some- times foolish manner, an eye like a hawk; and a faculty for guess- ing, as well as seeing. She's always looking for mischief, in short, and, if she met Val and Miss La Croix there, I'll wager her eyes were never off them during that little episode of the long glove and the unscarred arm; and then, shortly after, the doctor—and Jerry La Croix ran upon her in the same place! I'd give something to know her real errand, back there!” “Really !” was Larne's sole comment. But he turned at once toward Effingham, and his eyes were keen again, his lips com- pressed. “Mr. Effingham,” he questioned, “was it this same thought, in your mind, which caused the look of anxiety in your eyes as they followed our friend, the doctor, from the room?” “No, I never thought of the women,—but, there may be some method in Abinger's madness. Mrs. Leach has a keen scent for mystery—and scandal, I am told.” “Really!” began Larne, and then the door flew open with a bang, and Doctor Flack re-entered, with a bounce. “I’m a donkey!” he informed them, “a full blown, fat head, to go rushing into a delicate situation, such as this, like a bull into a china shop! and in the dark at that. Effingham, sit down here, PREPARATION 61 and tell me, as clearly and briefly as possible, the things that, first, and most, you found convincing. Not the simplest ones, but the things that you, and only you, would or could, observe. Come! I don’t want to have to look so closely that I get myself suspected ! I don't want the agony drawn out! And— I must not excite Jerry La Croix' suspicion. That would never do! He'd spoil every- thing!” - “Now that's rather odd l’ commented Abinger, “we were just urging this same point upon my friend, when you arrived. I thought—as I see that you must now be thinking—that his obser- vations, some of them, must be of value—and quite different— from—” “Yes, yes!” broke in the Doctor, “you mean of a more intimate sort? That's the very thought that halted me, as I stepped into the street! And it brought me back! I'll admit that the girl's queer notion, in not wanting to see me, yet, and preferring a stranger, struck me as very odd ! And so have Strossman's re- ports, which, of course, he has given me after every visit; for Jerry La Croix would consent to the change on no other terms. Gentlemen, putting what I have just heard, and what Strossman has been telling me, together, the one explains the other! I’ve cooled off—a little; and, of course, I had to come back! Come Val, time's worth—the Lord knows what, if things are as we fear! Begin man! You know what it is I want!—and for good- ness sake, let's all sit down.” And they did, promptly, and in silence. Valentine Effingham's face, since the Doctor's return, had changed from red to pale, as the excited little man made his de- mand, and he now sat with his lips compressed, and his face half turned from them. Evidently he was thinking,-and his thoughts were surely disquieting. But he turned toward them, after a moment, and began to speak, bending forward in his place, his elbows on his knees, and his fingers, as he sat, closing and un- closing with the nervous, unconscious movement of one absorbed and perplexed. When he began to speak his words, at first, came slowly, with frequent short pauses, as though he formed them, and fitted them together, with difficulty. “I think no man ever found himself in such a position of embarrassment, and—uncertainty, as is this of mine,” he began, “and for this reason, while I believe—am sure—that the young woman in Iris La Croix home is not Iris La Croix, is an imposter 62 A BLIND LEAD in fact, an imposter who is playing, every moment of her waking hours, a part—a part all deceit, trickery, and falsehood; still I—I cannot feel that she is the ordinary adventuress, or that she is a wholly depraved woman; and—there have been moments when I have felt that she is suffering! that the part she is playing is, at times, difficult, and hateful to her! I have caught—at moments when she has thought me unobserving—a glance of the eye, a spasm, as of pain, as it flashed across her face, that looked like- that made me think, of a soul in torment. But—in all her words, and acts, I have noted nothing that was not fine, and delicate—and womanly,–except—the acted lie.” “Ah!" Larne was bending toward him; and at no time, since first they came face to face, had he worn a look of such keen interest, such absorption; yet he spoke only that one syllable, and waited silently for the next word. “In truth,” resumed Effingham, “it was this very quality which first aroused me, and startled me to wonder, and then—to doubt.” “Yes,” breathed Larne; while Abinger almost held his breath. This, that his friend was saying with so much difficulty, was not the thing, not anything, that he had previously heard. “Iris La Croix is a warm hearted, impulsive girl; womanly deli- cate, but, likewise, womanly affectionate; and when I met her, that first night, and drew her in from the vestibule, and across the re- ception hall to where the others waited, I did not wonder that she shivered, and drew a little away from me.” Again he paused, and bit his lip. “But when, later, they both withdrew for a moment, upon some hospitable pretext, and I turned toward her, took her in my arms, and bent to kiss her lips, she yielded, momentarily, to the restraining touch, but instantly after drew back, averting her face, and saying—“Not yet, Val! not tonight! Please!—I—I am trying so hard not to break down.’” He paused again, and after a moment Larne said, in his first, quiet restrained manner—“Under all the circumstances, do you look upon that as unnatural—unlikely? A sensitive girl, fresh from such an experience—an experience so full of mystery al- most beyond belief—might feel, I should think, that old conditions —all things past, might well have changed.” “True! In itself the act was not so strange, so unnatural ! But in Iris La Croix it was most unnatural! In other things, since, she has done, and been, so like the Iris I knew, that, if it were not an insane thought, I should say that she must, at some time, have PREPARATION 63 been with the real Iris, studying her ways, her voice, her habits of speech and manner. But that—that first act, it was not her way! not her words! And, the very instant that I touched her, and drew her closer, I knew that it was not my Iris whom I held. It was a stranger! And it is the very delicacy and tact, with which she has since kept this distance, this reserve, pleading that she must be, in some manner, set right before the world, and before me, and that all strangeness, all mystery must be removed before she can allow me to publicly couple her name with mine—it is this that has convinced me that she is not Iris. I tell you, gentlemen,” he declared, suddenly getting to his feet again, as if further restraint were impossible, “it is this persistent aloofness, its very refine- ment, and the trouble, which, now and then, for just an instant, looks out of this girl's eyes, that makes me feel that we don't know and can’t even guess, the complications that will make an inquiry —or a search, so horribly—almost hopelessly—hard l’’ “Hopelessly!” It was Larne who spoke the word, and the frown which suddenly transformed his face gave them a new view of this strange, strong man. “It’s uncommonly early in the game, Mr. Effingham, to use that word.” “You are right, sir!” Val Effingham's head went up, and the flash in his eyes, as they met Larne's frowning glance, gave to that keen observer a sudden and most gratifying sense of the fight- ing qualities of this handsome ballroom favorite and social lion. “You are right!” Val repeated. “I was a noodle, a fool, to use such a word ' for while I have not a clue, nor a thought, or hint, upon which to base one, I mean to find the bottom of the mystery that has caught up the woman I love, and hidden her, God knows where; putting in her place a mystery, a woman, who, while she may be, must be, an adventuress, a cheat, and fraud, is, just as certainly, something more! and—I believe—better!” For an instant the eyes of the two men met, steely grey match- ing steely blue; and then, as by a single impulse, their right hands went out and met, in a firm, strong clasp. “I verily believe,” said Larne, smiling now, “that once we get Flack's vouchers, Mr. Effingham, we can make life worth living, for ourselves, and very interesting, for a few others—for a time at least.” “And I only hope I may have a hand in it!” It was Doctor Flack who thus broke the silence he had held grimly, since first Effingham began to speak in response to his urgent demand. And 64 A BLIND LEAD the others, as if acting in concert, turned upon him quick looks of interested inquiry, and so stood, waiting his next words. But it was no longer the excited and indignantly bewildered little man, of a half hour previous, who now looked from one to the other, and seemed weighing his words, as if they were uncertain doses. It was the slow spoken, quiet, controlled and controlling arbiter of the sick room, who could speak, and yet say nothing, while hope and calm spoke in his merest nod and glance. He looked at his watch, and his brows were knit and his lips shut tight, while the silence seemed to make itself felt through his preoccupation. Then suddenly he looked up, and into their ear- nest, puzzled faces. “Well?” he said inquiringly; and then, after a keener glance into each face, he replied, to the look in the eyes of Hillary Larne— “I may as well tell you!” he said quietly, “that there's one point which, if Effingham has not, somehow, been mistaken is, in itself, enough to convince me, and that's the scar! At first it did not stand out,—that one point. My mind, in fact, was too confused; the blow was too stunning; and at first—the whole queer business was a mental blur ! When I got to the foot of the shaft, and looked about for my cab, the air must have opened the eyes of my mind! and I saw myself, early in April last—No, it was the end of March when that last smallpox scare waked us up, and we were discuss- ing it at the La Croix dinner table, one evening. Miss La Croix, senior, is fidgety about these things, and it ended in my putting on my glasses and squinting at her arm, and then at the scar Iris has carried since her childhood. And—here's the point! It was there then, not three months ago. If it had been operated on, since, and before she disappeared, I should have known it. She would, for a few days, have had a stiff arm, and one which would not look well uncovered; and it would heal slowly. To remove such a scar and heal the arm within a month, would be impossible! To remove it, at any time, and leave no trace, is a thing almost impossible.” “Ah!” breathed Val Effingham. “Exactly! If there is really no scar on that arm, and I mean to know soon,—then—Val, here, is right, and we must hunt for the real Iris La Croix! But young gentlemen, the up to date femme- de-toilette is very skillful; the scar may have been only hidden be- neath court plaster and powder.” “Never!” exploded Effingham. 66 A BLIND LEAD friends who have won something better than a formal footing there. Miss La Croix had a genius in this direction; and her niece had proved the only magnet needed to make the La Croix even- ings delightful, and a place on their list of congenial friends, for whom the latch string was always out, was a much desired and sought for honor. During the early days, following upon the return of Iris and her brief but unpleasant illness, “Aunt Randa,” as she was known among her near friends, had been almost burdened by notes, cards, and calls of inquiry. And when the girl began to assume her place in the family circle, her Aunt, wisely and quietly, relieved the. strain upon her leisure by sending a briefly worded announcement of her niece's recovery to the most conservative of the society journals, and a handful of informal little notelets to the inner circle, informing them that “the ladies of the household could be found at home upon occasion, as of yore.” The appearance of Iris and her aunt, in an opera box, served as another signal for which the elect had waited; and now, Iris, a trifle pale, still, but with her eyes shining and laughter upon her lips, was seated in the rear drawing room, surrounded by a chat- ting, laughing group, and with the slim fingers of her left hand held firmly in the clasp of Mrs. Carrington Leach, when a ser- vant announced to her a telephone call, over the wire in the library across the corridor. “A telephone call!” exclaimed Iris, and then, blushing prettily, and followed by a bubble of laughter and jests, as they made pre- tence to hold her back, she ran into the library. But the smile left her face, and her eyes grew apprehensive, as she took up the “phone” and dropped into a chair beside the table where it was placed, hesitating so long, with the receiver in her hand, that the buzzer sounded again shrilly, and then she adjusted the instrument with haste—frowned, bit her lip, and, holding her- self very erect and firm, called—“Well—who calls?” “Oh! Vall—good evening!” “Why, thank you! I am feeling quite well.”—“Why, certainly— Yes?”—“Oh, surely! Mr. and Mrs. Foote Hall, are here, and Mr. Allen, and Tommy Fitzmaurice,—Miss Scott-Burton, and her brother, and—Mrs. Carrington Leach—and her husband—” “Oh, are you-a friend? Do I know him?—Oh, a stranger! why certainly.”—“ —“Of course, the poor man is lost in New York!”— IRIS RECEIVES 67 “Yes, but as you're coming, I must not talk longer—come soon— with both your friends—good bye.” She put down the instrument and stood for a moment beside the table. “I ought to have asked his name!” she murmured. “Oh dear!” She threw up her head, almost defiantly, and went back to the group awaiting her return. As she rejoined them, she was conscious of a stir in the room to the front, and knew that some one had just entered; and then Jerry La Croix, portly, white whiskered, and beaming hospitality, came in between the sweeping portieres, and the girl felt herself growing dizzy as Mrs. Carrington Leach exclaimed with a little delighted squeal, “O-h! if here isn't Doctor Flack Actually he's come a visiting!” “Ah! here she is !” exclaimed the amiable host, and, the next in- stant, a slim, straight figure had flashed half across the room meeting the two midway, and with both hands outstretched toward the little Doctor she was saying—her beaming eyes and smiling lips adding their own charming weight to her welcoming words: “Oh, Doctor Flack you dear, dear forgiving angel! how lovely to come like this when I can enjoy you, and talk to you, and tell you all about my troubles and adventures! Come! Come right in among the rest of these young people! See, there's just one old lady here, to play propriety,” making a delightful moue at Mrs. Carrington Leach, who made an absurd pretense at receiving the new comer a la grande dame; and then the doctor found himself seated between these two, the very center of the merry group, and Iris, glancing up, waved her white arm- “Papa, go away at once! You have brought us the doctor, and your whole duty—to us—is done. You're too dignified, and too important to those people out there; run back to them, there's a dear!” And Jerry La Croix went, well pleased, and smiling. He had not seen his daughter so gay, he thought, so like her old happy self, since her return, and as he passed his sister's chair, and saw that she, too, from her place opposite the wide archway, had been taking note of the girl's evident pleasure, he paused, long enough to say— “You see it's what she needed; just to get back into her old place, with her old friends. It was the first break that seemed hard—but it's over, thank goodness!” “Yes,” she smiled. “It’s well over, as I knew it would be! Iris is sensitive; but—she is sensible, too; and—she's young, and will 68 A BLIND LEAD soon forget !” And again they exchanged smiles, and then turned away, each to the chosen duty, and pleasure, of the evening. And soon La Croix pere, with a trio of congenial and weighty com- panions, had gathered about a little cloth topped card table in the smoking room, making the air blue with the host's best brand; and the pleased and greatly relieved spinster, was talking of the latest novel, with a group of “literary” people—which means people who talk books, and—sometimes—read them. For when it is the fad, or the fashion, to be “bookish,” it is really not safe to rely too much upon a magazine “critique,” and a group of quotations, cur- sorily gathered. Meanwhile, when the ball of gay chaff had been sufficiently tossed about, and two or three of the group in the rear, or “little” drawing room, had betaken themselves to the music room adjoin- ing, which was softly lighted, and cosily near the long, charming conservatory, Iris La Croix, seated beside the little doctor, who had been bestowing his attention, his old fashioned compliments, and fatherly smiles, in almost equal measure upon all the group, turned toward him, with a smile which might well have bedazzled a more practiced courtier, and said— “Doctor dear, do you know how very lovely you have been to me, who do not really deserve it—and yet—oh Doctor—” the smile fading into earnest, and the eyes growing dark, and almost pathetic, “You can’t, you never can guess how I dreaded, in those first days of my home coming, the telling you my strange, hateful story! I seemed to see, instead of pity, and sympathy, in the eyes of my listeners, the look of doubt, of incredulity, and to feel the little cold, psychic wave of reserve, and of confidence with- drawn, which, it seemed to me must follow ! It was days before I could overcome that feeling!” He took her hand between his own, and patted it, gently, but in silence. “And you,” she went on, “who are so full of sympathy, I felt as if I could not see that look in your face!” And then she turned toward the others, Mrs. Leach who still held her place, Tommy Fitzmaurice, a big, good natured youth, who showed his best upon the ball field or Tennis Court, and who was liked in all places, because of his unfailing good humor, and—greatest of social wonders—his unfailing honesty, and last, there were the Scott-Burtons, newly wedded, and—as yet—inseparable. “You poor, poor child ! It's too pathetic!” cooed Mrs. Leach. “But, Iris dear, you did this good doctor of yours, of ours, and all IRIS RECEIVES 69 your friends, an injustice! Who among your real friends has urged or even asked you to tell—anything?” . Again the Doctor patted the little hand, lingering and still quiet, between his own. “She will not be asked,” he said gently, “until she wants us to know—and tells us so—will she?” In the hum of their unanimous assurance that he was right, very, always, altogether right, Mrs. Leach, the ever observant, realized that there were new voices in the first drawing room, and that new arrivals were being welcomed by Miss La Croix, senior. But Iris was now speaking, and was, seemingly, unobservant. “I think after that kind assurance I shall be ungrateful indeed not to tell you, who are here, or—” she leaned forward, and peered into the Doctor's face. “Doctor dear, shall I tell you? just you?— and, if you like, you may let the others hear—or you may drive them all into the music room.” “You may tell me when you will, little lady. And—we will just ignore the rest.” “If you do you'll never be forgiven!” declared a new voice. The three ladies uttered their surprise, each in her own charac- teristic way, as, looking up, they saw Valentine Effingham, Hillary Larne, and Bruce Abinger, advancing from the door upon the cor- ridor, almost at their backs. “We fancied the more modest approach Iris,” Val explained, “especially as the trains of your lady aunt, and her friends, were very much in our line of march by the drawing room approach.” And then he presented his friend, Abinger, and Mr. Larne, who, not being a society man, was safe to figure as a stranger from far countries; and presently, in an interval of stillness, after the group had readjusted itself, and the new comers had found places quite near the young hostess, Larne turned to Mrs. Carrington Leach- “What have my friends and myself broken in upon, Madam? Someone—so I heard it decreed a moment since—was to be ban- ished to the music room. Is the headsman there?” And Iris, smiling and serene, replied. • “Not yet. Later he may appear. We were about to banish to the music room all those who did not care to listen to the tale of some of my adventures, of recent date, which I am about to relate to my friend, Doctor Flack; but which, being rather serious and heavy, I must not inflict upon people of light and frivolous minds —like—” she let her laughing eyes turn from one face to another until they rested upon her lover, “like Valentine, for one; and— 70 A BLIND LEAD Mrs. Scott-Burton, and Tommy, and,” she had reached Abinger, are you frivolous, sir?” “Miss La Croix, did you ever hear of a frivolous lawyer?” he demanded. “Or—poet?” spoke Larne. “Meaning?” she paused. “Myself, fair lady.” “Poets!” she affirmed, “may not be frivolous, intentionally- but—they are, sometimes—funny.” “She means unconsciously,” declared Mrs. Leach gravely, and when the laughter had subsided, and they had settled themselves to listen, it had been decided, unanimously almost, that there was no frivolity in the group; and then, greatly to the surprise of most of her listeners, Iris, who had, until, then, seemed to dread the subject, and the memory, of her late strange experience among kid- nappers, had tucked a slim hand snugly beneath the little doctor's arm, and, sitting close beside him upon the low divan, and address- ing herself—at first—entirely to him, launched into her story. “Mind, all of you, I am telling this to the Doctor, solely, be- cause he is my doctor and—because I have—of late—treated him rather shabbily. No one must ask how.” “She has rejected me,” declared the Doctor mournfully. “Turned me down for a younger man! It may as well come out.” “You are the youngest man here,” affirmed Mrs. Leach, “so it couldn’t be that.” “That's true!” Iris assented, “I stand convicted. And I was about to remark that, as I should address myself exclusively to my friend the Doctor, all of you, all the rest, that is, can say when questioned, or if questioned, ‘She has not told me.’” She drew her breath slowly as with an effort, while the others were nodding or murmuring their assent; and her slim figure seemed to grow tense, and firm, unnoted by any except the smiling, rosy faced little man sitting beside her, and who gave no least sign that, under the smiles and jests and soft laughter, a mystery, a tragedy perhaps, was moment by moment, developing. o “The story, my lady!” the little man murmured. “My story, if you please.” And the story began. “Once upon a time, not so very long ago, a stupid maiden, who had been wearying, in a seat not far from the entrance to a fash- ionable hall where dull charity entertainments were often given, and knowing all about the usual crush and chatter and deadly delay IRIS RECEIVES 71 at the end, slipped from her place, and went out, and to the door of the vestibule which, at the moment, was quite empty. But a man, in what looked like the garb of the usual attendant, stood just outside, and the foolish maiden asked him to call her auto, giving its name and number. There were a lot of them in waiting, and when the attendant very promptly returned saying that her machine was at the curb just a step below, she went promptly to the spot where it stood in a rather dense shadow thrown by the awning drawn across the pavement just beyond. She was to take up her—a relative—only a couple of blocks further on, and giving the order as she entered the auto, which looked like her own, and where, across the cushions at the back, her motor coat, or what looked like it, lay, just as she had tossed it earlier. She did not put on the coat, nor give it a moment's inspection, and when, at the first corner, a block occurred, and the 'river asked if he should not take the lower street, she merely nodded. In the lower street there was an elevated trestle, and in passing under this, in the noise and shadow, something happened! It must have been chloroform, and, it acted so quickly, she had not even time to utter one shriek, and, when she next became interested in mundane affairs, she was lying in a very well furnished room, and glaring up at a skylight, through which the light of day shown brightly. The room was large and high. It was fitted as if for the use of a woman, and through an open door she saw a well appointed sleeping room, lighted,—as she found when she left the couch and began to ex- plore,—like the first, by a smaller skylight.” The narrator paused a moment, and glanced about her. No one spoke or stirred, and looking up at the Doctor, whose face was almost expressionless, and whose eyes were cast down, she re- sumed, with a little shrug— “I find the third person a rather stilted mode of speech, so I'll drop the maiden, and resume the story. At first I thought it was a trick of some sort. But the place was too thoroughly equipped for prison duty to be a temporary, or play, prison. Going the round of the rooms I found a bell, and rang it vigorously; and then I found that there were also speaking tubes, for a heavy voice directed me to ‘look at the wall beside the bookcase”; and looking I found the tubes, and listening learned that I had been kidnapped, like a damsel on the stage; and that I must be ‘hand- somely ransomed.’” She paused again, and again turned toward the little Doctor. 72 A BLIND LEAD “Dockey,” she questioned, “how do you like the way my story begins?” The Doctor started perceptibly. She had addressed him by a nonsense name she had used, from time to time, since her child- hood. “My dear,” he replied, soberly, “when they told me you were a prisoner, I thanked heaven that you possessed that high, hot temper, and strong courage, which usually brought you out of a row, as you used to call it, with flying colors.” “So did I—at first,” she said. “But later I—nearly lost both.” And now there was a sympathetic stir, and the sound of quickly indrawn breaths. But no one spoke. “I am not going into details,” she resumed, with a hard, little note in her voice. “It’s just impossible! Beside the door of entrance was a something that looked like an inner, or closed up, window; only smaller, and I soon found that while it could not be moved, from within, it opened on the other side into a small and dark—or darkened—ante-room. Through this my meals were served to me; and, after the second day, a colored woman —one of the sort who look just like a hundred others—used to come in and serve me, and look after my rooms, and my wants in general. She brought me the pen, ink and paper with which I was commanded to write to papa; and they were taken away again when I refused as carefully as if I were not unable to get a word outside, except through her hands. Sometimes F thought they even distrusted her a little. I never saw another face. When I grew too obstinate, and the task, I suppose, be- came tedious to them, my room would be suddenly darkened; they always talked with me at night, and by day the place was hatefully still. A few times a woman came in, always in the darkness, and she talked with me quite gently; but always urg- ing me to do all that they asked. I suppose she was the wife of one of the men; there were at least three who came and talked to me, in the dark which I could never control, for the lights were all managed, somehow, from without.” “Electricity,” murmured Doctor Flack. “Was it in the city, do you think?” “I can’t guess! They dropped a word to each other, once or twice, that made me think we were somewhere in the older, quieter, part of the city—and I could hear, now and then, the whistle and roar of trains, not far distant; and then the house! IRIS RECEIVES 73 Wherever it was, my rooms must have been in the middle of some large building—and high up. It was the skylight, with only a patch of sky, that got on my nerves the worst! Ah, me- I wish I could forget it—all!” “Do you mind—or do you know, just what it was that induced them to set you free—at last, for the sum they accepted?” asked the Doctor. She glanced up at him from between half-closed lashes, long and bronzy black, and a ripple of reminiscent laughter bubbled out from between her upcurled lips. She nodded. “Some time ago—you may remember it,-there was a foolish rumor that papa La Croix was booked to marry a certain fair lady—she's now—I believe, in Paris. Well!” as the Doctor nodded. “I was fighting ‘villans, and I had to choose my weapons accordingly. I had utterly refused to ask my father to pay the sum they first demanded; and, as luck would have it, my money was not—is not—quite my own, yet. But I had exhausted this argument; and so, one night, I confessed, to the woman who visited me in the dark, that really, since that affair, my father and I were not on very affectionate terms; and that, if they held me too long,-until after that long delayed marriage had been patched up—he might go abroad and leave me to my fate, for, certainly, the lady in the case would not use her influence—which in my absence would naturally grow—to lessen her own income. Well—laugh, sir!” for the Doctor was shaken as with silent mirth; and then she, too, smiled and shot a swift glance about her. “I fancied, next day, that my new line of battle had disturbed them somewhat; and then I began to sigh, and groan, and ex- press my fears that, in my absence, papa La Croix would marry the lady, for very need of a comforter; and I quite seemed to lose sight of my own danger—for they had begun to hint, darkly—I think something must have occurred outside to make them un- easy, at about this time, and then after a few more days of this kind of sparring, I consented to that last letter asking that the ransom money be sent payable to me, and warning papa that if any attempt was made to follow the person who would receive the parcel at the general delivery, or if any manner of trickery be attempted, I should be made to suffer for it; for, you must know, the money was sent to me, and was made over by me to “bearer. And it was only when it had been turned into cash, 74 A BLIND LEAD and had been put safely in the hands of my captors, that they let me go. I did not know the exact time set for my deliverance, and that night I drank, in a cup of coffee I suppose, the sleeping draught which enabled them to carry me out from my prison, quite as unconscious as when they took me there. I had made them solemn promises not to do anything to betray my homeward escort; who, I was assured, had been hired for the occasion, and knew only that I was to be taken safely to a certain street corner, and there left. I came to my senses in an auto, riding down an unknown city street,_-and it might have been one hour, or two, that we rode on in perfect silence, when, suddenly, I began to recognize localities, and knew that I was approaching my home. As we neared our corner I said, as commandingly as a captain on his quarter deck, stop at this corner, the northwest side, and the man replied, very politely, “Them wuz my kazact instruck- shuns, laidy, and we sprang out, almost at the same moment; I took to my heels, and they, -there were two—took to their wheels, much faster, and in the opposite direction,” she laughed, and then her chin quivered. “Doctor, dear, you may imagine my mental condition when I tell you this—I have never breathed this absurd secret before—but, I sat out there, under the stars, on my father's doorstep—oh, a long time—or so it seemed, before I found courage to ring that bell!” She let her hand slip away from the doctor's arm, and dropped back upon the supporting cushions of the divan; and then the momentary silence was broken by the uneasy stirring of her eager listeners, and, here and there, by a quick drawn breath, or a whispered syllable. All seemed reluctant to utter the first com- ment, aloud. Then, suddenly, she turned toward Hillary Larne, sitting at her left hand, and asked, imperiously, as if in his attitude she had surmised a criticism— “Kind, sir; what, may I ask, do you think of my little story?” He met her inquiring glance with a gaze of open and interested friendliness— “I was thinking, just then, what I have sometimes thought be- fore, Miss La Croix, —that the strangest stories that are told are the true stories ! Fiction cannot equal them for wonder, and— sometimes, terror. And—” a slow smile breaking through his gravity,—“I was also thinking that I have, tonight, had the pleasure of meeting—a brave woman.” IRIS RECEIVES 75 She came slowly to her feet, and standing in their midst swept him a low, slow, swaying, courtesy. “And I,” she replied, “an American, who, if he were an English- man, would be—a courtier.” Then, swinging about, as her circle of listeners began to stir and push back their chairs. “One further word, my friends,” she said; her voice sinking as her glance wandered beyond her immediate group. “I know there are many things that you are thinking, and wondering over; things, questions, you would like to ask of me. But this is all I can tell you. Where I was I know no more than you. From the fact that so great an effort seemed, made always, to keep out all sounds, and that, in spite of it, I could hear moving trains; and, now and then—as through an open door hastily shut—street sounds, like tram cars, tinkling bells, and rolling wheels—I think I must have been high up in some part of this great city. Where could one be safer hid?” “True!” It was Larne who uttered the word, in a tone of con- viction. - “As to the identity of my captors, I cannot guess that either! I never saw them, and I did not know their voices. The colored woman, and the other one, seemed kindly; but through fear, and because there were, or might have been, always, listeners, I could gain nothing from them. You have heard, now, all that I have to tell! and now, and always, I ask, I implore you who are my friends, help me to forget it!” She put out a slim hand to the little doctor, who sprang erect to grasp it. She bent her bronze brown head to those beyond him, and, as if at a signal, the circle opened; and, nodding, and turning her limpid, brown eyes, and suddenly glowing face, toward Val Effingham—still sitting silent at the farthest edge of the now dissolving group—she smiled at him and again held out a hand to the Doctor, who, from the first, she had so frankly distinguished, saying- “Come, Doctor, dear! I must now take you to Aunt Randa, who claims a share in you by right of conquest. And then I must say some pretty things to Mr. Effingham's friends, Mr. Abinger of whom I have seen very little of late, and Mr.—L— Larne who must explain to me where, in this small world, he has been concealed, that we have never met before.” And she drew herself erect, and swept toward the larger drawing room, paus- ing a moment beneath the mellow light in the center of the room, 76 A BLIND LEAD where her hair and eyes, her now glowing cheeks, and rose red # all were illuminated, and shone gleaming, and splendidly a11". Bruce Abinger, looking, was saying to himself. “Have I ever before seen this woman? Is she Val’s betrothed? Or—can it be possible that there are two, so beautiful, so unusual, and so alike—in one world?” As for Hillary Larne, while his own story was briefly told and he paid to Miss Iris—as, in her aunt's presence, her friends and associates were accustomed to address the younger Miss La Croix —just the right measure of courtly dignified attention, she was under his observation and in his thoughts, during every moment of his stay. And when, at the right moment, the three young men withdrew, as they came—together—his parting thought— as he turned at the threshold for a last backward glance, and a bow—that was observed and commented on by the older Miss La Croix was— “If that young woman is a criminal, she's a criminal of an uncommon sort! A rare sort | Can it be that she's just an actress and not—a criminal?” And, somehow, this thought seemed to please him. * >k x :k sk :: >k sk x “That young man,” said Aunt Randa, as the curtains fell be- hind the three, “what was it Valentine called him, Iris?” “Larne, Auntie,” supplied the girl, so promptly that her father, who had just began to hunt through a rather hazy memory for the name, looked up quickly. “Stranger, I thought,” he remarked. “Ever met him before, Iris?” “I think—not,” the girl replied, carelessly, “at least not in this life.” “G-r-r-r!” grumbled Carrington Leach, standing beside his wife in the middle doorway. “Tony, don't you dare pinch me like that again! I won’t stand for it!” “Sh! you noodle!” his wife whispered; adding aloud malicious. ly, “It must have been your boots, dear,” and a volley of jests followed, and almost drowned Miss Miranda La Croix's voice, —she always liked to finish a sentence, and Iris liked to humor her—as she said. “Mr. Larne! yes. He certainly has the manner of a person who has had an experience of courts. Did you observe it, Tony? He bows. Most young men nowadays merely nod.” AT THE END OF THE DAY 77 “Mr. Larne,” replied Mrs. Leach, demurely, “has, I think, been something of a traveler. I am told that he has mingled with some of our very aristocratic people, both here and abroad; and that he should have appeared at court—is not unlikely.” And turning she whispered in her husband's ear— “Carry, if you love me take me home—at once. I'm so tired !” >k >k >k >k >k >k >k >k :k The three young men who had left the La Croix drawing room together continued in company until they had reached the outer door of Abinger's office, and there Hillary Larne drew back— “I’ll not go in now, Abinger!” he said, “I must go up to my rooms, for, possibly, ten minutes. I'll be with you before Flack gets here. He won't follow us at once, and I'll not tarry long up there. sk >k :k >k >k >k >k •k >k As Bruce Abinger closed the door of the inner office, and turned toward his friend, Effingham put a hand upon his shoulder. It was a jesture he often used when about to propound a puzzle, or ask a difficult question— “Bruce,” he said, in the low, even tone of one whose intelli- gence has weight, “I saw a thing this evening, early, that's been bothering me, ever since!” “Well ?” “Passing along the drive, on my way downtown, I saw your friend, Larne coming down the steps of the Carrington Leaches' and I saw her face, at one of the library windows.” “Well—what of it?” preparing to cut off the end of a black cigar. “He’s a friend of theirs. Can't a man make a call?” But in Abinger's eyes, which his friend could not see, was a look expressive of both surprise and anxiety. CHAPTER VIII. AT THE END OF THE DAY. Hillary Larne did not stop at the door which bore his own name, in modest letters, on a deep blue card that was slipped into a “removable” frame. He went on up to the floor above his own; the tenth floor; and, as he left the car, the boy said with a grin- AT THE END OF THE DAY 79 the effect of a vaulted arch, wore a dark blue, deepening toward the center, with a few tiny flecks of gold showing, at what seemed its utmost height, and glimmering there like living stars set in a measureless distance. The sides, seemingly, were upheld by close set pillars, covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics in crude Egyptian coloring. At either side of the door of entrance, just within the tiny outer vestibule, stood a tall stone soldier of the Pharaohs; and, guarding the arch, between this and the second room, were a pair of urn bearing slaves of Egypt. Two stone benches, of the ancient, narrow, backless, griffon- supported pattern, and a quaint lamp, in dull bronze, swinging from almost invisible chains, finished and furnished this place of entrance, which did not invite a long delay, as the occasional un- welcome reporter of small importance—and now and then, an undesirable visitor, had found; for, during Madam’s “official hours,” strong bronze grilles guarded the gothic arches behind the closed velvet curtains; and the outer door, guarded by the grim stone soldiers, opened and closed automatically when Madam so desired; and the guest, then, waited and departed unseeing and t111Seein. - In the second room, velvet hung and dimly lighted, stood a bronze tripod, which, earlier, had sent up a dim votive flame, from an urn at its top, and a broad divan, velvet draped, like th walls, ran on either side from end to end. - Larne bent an impertinent nose over the urn, still smoldering dully, and heard a malicious laugh, as he drew back from a whiff of pungent smoke, not discernible in the dimness, but causing him to enter Madam's presence the next moment with two moist eyes, and a tendency to sneeze. “Madam Lorraine,” he announced, loftily, “I shed these tears in honor of Iris the great; and the lady is welcome to them. But I shall not again venture my unhallowed nose near that odorous urn of hers; although it surely holds good smelling stuff.” The tall and stately woman who stood awaiting him put out a firm, white hand, and smiled indulgently. “You always leave your dignity behind you when you come up here, Larry,” she said. “And I really can’t blame you. We have quite enough of that article here, between the hours of ‘one to five, and seven to ten. Are you really in haste?—or will you come into my tea room, and be comfy, as Una says?” Madam Lorraine Dalmeney was a woman in middle life; and, 80 A BLIND LEAD in any simplest garb, would have been a striking figure. Robed, as she now was, in sweeping folds of crimson velvet, falling straight from shoulder to feet, erect, and fine of figure, and with masses of snow white hair crowning a broad, high brow, and giv- ing to her large velvety black eyes an added depth and bril- liancy. She was truly impressive, her features were large, in keeping with her tall figure, but they were as regular, and as clear cut, as those of the classic Greeks. She seated herself in a straight, high backed chair, evidently intended for her occupancy; and, leaning a firm, rounded arm upon the altar-like table beside her, she beckoned him to take the seat opposite. “Can I give you a reading?” she asked loftily, picking up a long stilleto-like thing of twisted silver; “Or,” touching with it the large crystal globe at her elbow, “will you see your future—or past—in the ball of Iris?” And then they smiled, in good- humored, and mutual, understanding. For the two were old friends, and they knew each other as few other people knew them, in the big city where each was “a character,” and known only in character to the outside world. And they were not friends only, they were, at times, co-workers, and mutual helpers. For, while this stately Madam Dalmeney was a very fashionable and therefore successful, reader of palms, and interpreter of the magic crystal, she was, behind this, something more, and of more serious importance. In the act of placing himself upon the ottoman opposite Madam, Larne's face had lost its smile; and the lady asked quickly- “What is it, Larry?” “How much,” he asked bluntly, “do you know about—the La Croix family?” “As a family, do you mean?” “All, or one. How much about Jerry La Croix? His past?” “How far back?” “The farther the better—I suppose.” “Larry!” she bent upon him a keen, clear gaze. “Is it that kid- napping affair?” - “I can’t go into details, now, Lady Lorraine. Two men are waiting for me, at this moment, a few floors below us.” “Ah! In Bruce Abinger's law office?” “You will be psychic, my Lady! Do you think you can help me look up La Croix—you and Una—at once?” AT THE END OF THE DAY 81 “We can do our best.” “Your best will be all I am likely to need,—yours and hers. And —the quicker the better. I'll look in again tomorrow. But it's important that we loose no time, so I came, tonight, to get a start.” “Wise, boy! to know that things start best, and grow best, in the night, and silence. Let's see—with what we may have in hand, we can give you—I think—something tomorrow—or, rather, this evening. Don't apply earlier than ten o'clock—nor Iater than—midnight, if you wish to see Una! She's at the opera tonight, with the English Tourists. “Ah!” Again they exchanged swift looks of understanding; and then Larne caught his hat from the floor, where he had let it fall beside his low seat. “I’ll let you out;” she said, and, rising, turned toward the left. “This way, boy.” He smiled as she opened a small door, looking so exactly like a framed mirror set in the wall that it passed for that, among those who did not know. It gave exit, upon a narrow side pas- sage, and a lesser stairway, to the floor below, and with a mur- mured “good night,” and a swift, firm hand pressure, he hastened away. Madam Dalmeney stood, for a moment, beside the mirror door, as if listening to his light receding footsteps. Then, closing the door, she turned away, murmuring “That La Croix abduction! I fear it's not ended. Larry Larne does not take up small matters; nor matters of money, only. And what should trouble—or in any way concern, Jerry La Croix, now? save his ducats, and his daughter.” >k >k >k >k sk >k >k x * “I’m somewhat tired,” Iris La Croix had said, after the de- parture of the last guest. “And I'll leave you good young people to talk over the evening, all by yourselves. And she left them— almost hurriedly.” - “Young people, indeed!” grumbled La Croix pere. “I feel ninety; and growing older every minute! But I'm going to have one more cigar before I turn in. Iris certainly don’t take to late hours so kindly as before her—visit to the moon.” It was thus that he usually referred to the girl's unexplainable absence. His sister shook her head. “Iris is different, in—several little ways;” she complained. “She used to be so frank, and con- 82 A BLIND LEAD fidential and she liked to talk things over, when we had been out together; but of course she's not quite her normal self, yet! Doctor Strossman said it might take—” “Hang, Strossman!” her brother exploded, after the way of brothers—some of them. “I tell you, Miranda, I'm glad Flack walked in upon my lady as he did. And see how coolly she took it, too! after all her nerves and her fussing—er—” his cigar had ceased to draw, and for a moment he gave it his full attention. When he looked up his sister was at the door. “I’m going up to talk with Iris!” she said, “she used to like to have me run in like this, and she did look tired, when she left us!” “She was gay enough while all those people were here!” he grumbled, smoking comfortably. “That's it! She seemed, and looked, so happy; but—I'm very observant, Jeremiah, and I felt, at times, that she was making an effort. Poor child!” “Poor pooh!” scoffed Jeremiah. >k >k k >k >k >k >k >k >k Iris looked up as her Aunt came into her snuggery, as she had used to call it; and with a quick, furtive, movement, she pulled some loose sheets of note paper over one across which her pen had been traveling swiftly, but with exceeding nervousness. “Come in, Auntie! I am trying to find a note—from Valentine.” Her hands were tossing about her desk a medley of loose sheets, letters, and cards. “I did not think to ask him about that auto party—the hour, that is—and I don’t want to write—just for that. Oh, well!” she ceased her search, and turned to face her visitor. “It will come, I dare say, when I look again, in the morning.” And then, for a time, they chatted about the evening, and their guests; especially the bridal couple, and both ignored the fact of the hurriedly discarded pen, lying under the litter of the little desk, and still dripping ink. Presently the girl yawned, and then, laughingly excused herself; and Miss La Croix arose. “You are too sleepy to talk child! and I am about to yawn, also; it's sure to happen, once some one begins it. Good night, my child!” She bent to kiss the girl upon her upturned forehead, and in lifting herself glanced downward. “Why, this may be Valentine's note! here—beside the desk—” she cried, “yes, it—is—or—” AT THE END OF THE DAY 83 “Why, surely!” The girl caught the sheet from under her Aunt's peering eyes in a panic of haste, and something almost like fear; swaying, and catching giddily at the desk, but clinging to the little note, the while; and panting, like a spent runner. “Oh! I beg your pardon, Auntie! I stumbled, in rising, just as you picked up Val's note; and I fairly grabbed at you; as the children say, to save myself! It was the rug!—and my high heel —I—” “Then it is Val's note?—I thought—at the first glance, that it was not his monogram—” “Val's note! Why of course! His are the only notes I treasure —thus.” And she slipped the creamy square in among the laces of her bodice. “Must you go? No, I won't ring for Hortense, I sent her to bed, in fact. Sometimes I hate a maid about me? Good night, Auntie.” - The girl stood watching until the door had closed, and then she flew to it, listened a moment, and shot the bolt softly; testing its security before she turned away. Then, snatching the note from her bodice, as if it were a live coal concealed there, she held it at arm's length, and shuddered; in her eyes a strange mixture of fear and loathing. But this mood was soon conquered, or held in check; and in a moment she was tearing the missive into tiny bits, which she flung upon her little grate, after removing the guard, and burned them to the last fragment; striking the en- kindling match as if it were a weapon, and meant to slay. She went to her desk, then, and, brushing away the concealing matter, with a fierce sweep of her hand, she drew out the hidden sheet, caught up her pen, and added, with swift, careless, strokes, two or three more lines; after which she folded and sealed it, finally locking it in a little drawer, and concealing the key. “Bah!” she flared, as she turned away with a fierce outward fling of her two white arms. “How I hate it!” >k >k >k >k >k :k sk >k While the above scene was passing in Jerry La Croix' handsome upper rooms, Tonie Carrington Leach and her big, good-natured husband were rolling across town toward the Riverside drive, where they meant to “look in,” at a coming out ball, given for the daughter of a relative. It was what Mrs. Tonie called, “a right dull family,” and they had already brought out three daugh- ters, so that the Carrington Leaches knew what to expect, and were not in haste. 84 A BLIND LEAD “Carry !” spoke the little blonde, who liked to invent, and apply at will, odd names for her relative' friends, “Did you see about the horses? especially, Lady Gay?” “Sure, Mum! Don't I allus obey orders?” “Carry, my Son, some fine day you'll catch yourself talking stable Batter in somebody's drawing room. It's getting a habit. Better break it off. • He grinned, and shifted his big cigar. “I will, Missus, if you'll tell me why you've so suddenly taken a fancy to have more horses up; especially, Lady Gay? . You never used to use her, except for country roads, and field Jumpin', I'll bet one of my new Beagle pups that yo' up to some mischief.” “Pooh pooh! - “And I'll beta hat its got 'methin' to do with Hillary Larne!” "I'd''...the pip, G'. hat—if I may choose it. But-Carry-five been thinking of what you said, last week, about Mr. Hiliary Larne—that he is, you think really if that's true: I think we'd better drop him—very quietly-so that it won't hurt much. As for my riding, if you must know- I'm going to help Irene look for a mice country house, to suit her taste, and her purse; and-between you and me—I reckon it will be mighty hard to find.” “GPh," he broke into a roar of laughter. “Oh—my— soul ' You want to cut Larne, and to find a country house—an impossible £try house, for your old maid chum! He, ha, ha! now I knew there's mischief brewin' Hallo, missus, upon my word, we’ve arriv,” “And I guess it must be pretty generally known, indoors as well as out! I like to be announced by the braying of-trumpets!" she declared, maliciousl And, , as he helped her to alight, he murmured in her ear— “Scored again, Ton ! Beats all how you do always get the last word " Oh, well! y which it must appear that the Carrington Leaches, if not *actly matched, were very well mated. >k >k • >k sk >k >k >k >k >k “It’s not Iris La Croix.p, it Was Doctor Flack who made the announ't, And then he added, explosively. “But I'm bles, gentle" if she is not the 'e: most perfect thing, in the way of a woman, that old lady Nature has ever turned out, I'm not a judge of women-and beautyr; AT THE END OF THE DAY 85 The silence following these words was oppressive. But, pres- ently, Val Effingham spoke. “Then—it's settled !” he said dully. And, after a moment's thought, “I’d like to know—” The impatient upward jerk of the Doctor's head seemed to halt his speech. “You’d like to know all the reasons, I suppose. But you won't get them! I can't give them, by God! I can't give them! She's as beautiful as Iris! She's her twin in face and form. And she's as charming of manner, and as refined, and dainty, in her ways. As to the arm—there is not the sign of a scar. And—further- more, I don't believe this girl ever knew there was a scar to imi- tate! Yet I'm sure she has seen Iris; and has studied her ways— some of them. But not all! No sir! how could she, in two weeks, or a little more? Yes, or in a year! Oh, yes! I believe that this girl has seen Iris, and has studied her, and copied her, as she could ! But still—she's different!” “And the arm?” ventured Larne. “The arm—well. I think we may make too much of that. I am told—I have never had occasion to try the thing, myself- that a wash of sulphate of magnesium, properly applied, will re- move all traces of scars—some scars; but, even if this girl carried the scar, I would still say what I say now—It is not Iris!” Val Effingham flung himself back in his place, and covered his face with his hands. He had believed this thing, or thought that he did; and had waited impatiently for the doctor's confirming word. Now that it had been spoken he was shocked and pained anew; and he realized now, that he had, from the first, been hoping and longing for his opinion to be reversed. But his was a strong nature, and proud; and in a moment he dropped his hands, and lifted his face. “In God's name, Larne,” he demanded, “What shall we do?” “Begin,” said Larne quietly. “And—first; do you still wish me to handle this case?” “Why surely! I supposed that settled.” “We will settle it now. Do you understand, Mr. Effingham, that I work only in my own way? with full control of all lines of the search, and—a free hand, in details?” “Do you mean—” Effingham hesitated. He had never inquired into the man's methods. He felt at a loss. “I mean that, from the moment when I assume control, we 86 A BLIND LEAD must meet seldom, and, if secretly, never twice in the same place. A public meeting place, changed from time to time, is often best. But this will depend upon the length of the chase.” “As you will, of course.” “Of course,” continued Larne, “it is understood that no one, outside this group, and such aids as we must use, No ONE must know, suspect, or guess, that there is a doubt, or question, as to the identity of the young woman calling herself Miss La Croix.” “Of course,” again assented Val, and the other nodded. “I realize,” persued Larne, “that you, Mr. Effingham, will find your share in this quest, more and more unpleasant, and hard, as the work advances—for we may be forced to follow a path which will be long and difficult.” “I do not—understand.” “I am trying to explain. If we are to succeed we must, first and all the time, keep in close touch with the young lady; who, if I am not much deceived, is quick to observe, tactful, and skilled in the art of seeming whatever she chooses, or is constrained, to seem. You must, of course, continue to be, or appear to be, the lover of Miss La Croix.” “I know it!” Effingham replied with firmness. “I have faced all that; and I shall play my part! You have only to command me.” “Good! But I quite expected it, from you; and I think we may rely upon you. If we fail, it will not be because you have ‘muddled your lines, as they say upon the stage. I may wish to call upon you, also, Mr. Abinger. As for the Doctor, I rely upon him always, at need.” “I am at your service;” Abinger said, quietly. “As Effingham's friend, I owe him this.” The little doctor nodded vigorously. “I’ll hunt with the pack, as long as my little Iris is in difficulty, or danger!” he declared. “Larne,—let's begin!” “Oh!” declared Larne as he drew a slim note book, marked ostentatiously “Receipts and Memoranda,” from his waistcoat pocket. “The game is already begun.” “Why !” ejaculated Val, “I thought—that is—” “Val!” Abinger interposed. “It's time, now, to give Larne the floor, and await orders. You see, I chance to know a little about his methods.” “Thanks, Abinger; pull me up at need ! I won't bolt again, 88 A BLIND LEAD searching in the note book, as he talked, and now he glanced up. “Listen,” he said, “to a quotation,” and began to read. “If any least effort is made to detain or follow our Agent—or any of them, when cashing those checks, it should be remembered that the prisoner will not leave our custody until all the money is collected, and made secure. We make no threats, but—we always retort in kind. Your word, and her’s together, will be taken as surety—for our protection—and for her safety.” “Great Scott!” the doctor was staring in open mouthed wonder. “That is from the letter, word for word?” he exclaimed. “Yes.” Larne put down the note-book. “I would better ex- plain as I go,” he said, and smiled in his turn. “When Miss La Croix first disappeared, or when the fact first became public, I felt, somehow, that it might prove an affair beyond the common; and, being idle at the time, I called upon Mr. La Croix.” “You?” exclaimed the doctor. “Oh, no! A reporter from The Wheel; a middle aged, spec- tacled man, who looked so respectable, and harmless, and who was so much meeker than the usual reporter, and so respectfully will- ing to be instructed, that he won his way into the inner sanctuary.” “Do you mean to tell us?” Abinger inquired, “that Jerry La Croix allowed you to interview him?” “Jerry La Croix | Perish the thought! I told him that my manager, knowing his distaste for publicity, had instructed me to say that while we stood ready to make known anything he wished placed before the public, my only other errand was to ask if he desired us to give his absolute denial to any of the rumors float- ing about, and being printed, etc., etc. In short, I agreed with him so fully, and was so respectful that he actually told me all the story, it was not long, and showed me the letters. Fortunately my memory is very good. But don't look for more, gentlemen! It was my first and only call; and, having made it,-I dropped the matter—until you, Mr. Abinger, invited me down here this after- noon. Now, let's return to our muttons. You see how Miss La Croix was used, as a buffer between her jailers and all danger from spies and trailers. Does it suggest anything?” Val Effingham struck his clenched fist upon Abinger's—fortun- ately—padded desk, with vigor. “It does!” he exclaimed. “It suggests that at least one of that precious trio of jailers, if it was a trio, knew the people he had to deal with—and that their word, once given, would be strictly kept.” AT THE END OF THE DAY 89 “Ah!” said Larne. “Yes, that is more than likely; and we are progressing. Doctor, what is it?” “I was about to say that she-the present Miss La Croix—did not speak of this, tonight.” “But—you knew it—eh?” “Yes. Of course!. Jerry has told me all he had to tell, I guess. All the ugly details that she omitted ! I'd like to know how near to the real thing her story came, as she told it to us, tonight!” “We shall have to learn that from quite another source, I fear,” Larne replied. “Did La Croix ever hint at any suspicions, in your talk with him?” “Never. He had none. I'm sure of it! And he was badly cut up. He had no thought of retaliation—either. Oh, me! It's a devilish queer business, all around !” The doctor fairly gritted his teeth.” “True enough! And here's my point, so long neglected. The checks were received—between the noon hour, say, and—sun- down. And after this the young lady was brought home. Now, observe? The last La Croix letter is posted, here, in the city, certainly not sooner than mid afternoon. It must now be taken up, pass through the hands of the distributing P. M., then get into the hands of the delivering P. M. who must pass it on to their receiving agent then they bring her home. That she was brought to the nearest corner, in an auto, just as she has told us, we knew. La Croix was bound in honor not to spy, and he didn't. But Effingham's man was on the watch; and he saw the arrival.” “Val!” the little doctor snapped, as he turned upon the younger man, “what in Heaven's name were you about, that you didn't put in an oar, just then? Nobody'd sworn you—I don't 'spose!” For reply Effingham thrust a hand into an inner pocket and drew forth an envelope, so thin that it seemed only a single scrap of paper, and, as he silently withdrew its contents, its meagerness stood explained. It was a mere slip of carbon paper, and he held it forth, and smiled bitterly. “I’m not proud of the thing—the reason,” he said grimly. “But I kept it on the chance that it might be needed as, ‘one of the exhibits, sooner or later. It came to me by the mail which brought La Croix his. Read it, Mr. Larne—if you will.” Larne spread the bit of paper upon the corner of the desk at his elbow, smoothing out the creases slowly. Then, giving the others a glimpse of the few dimly pencilled sprawling words written 90 A BLIND LEAD across it, he began—“‘Effingham,'” he read the one word and stopped, wrinkling his brow. Then, “pencil,” he explained, “and not too clearly written,” and began anew. “‘Effingham; if you have, now or later, any desire for Miss La Croix' comfort, or safety, you will not interfere in any way, with those who help in her return. We leave no loop holes open, so be careful.’” Again Larne hesitated, glancing across at Effingham. “There's a word or two below in a different handwriting,” he suggested. Effingham nodded. “Read them;” he said; and Larne read the two words— “‘Please, Vall’.” “I thought the two words were written by Iris La Croix, Doctor;” Effingham now explained; “and that's why I did not- interfere.” “The body of the note reads as if it were written—or dictated— by a dutchman,” commented Abinger, in order to tide over an awkward moment; for no one wished to comment upon the inci- #: or the briefly pathetic message; and Larne, understanding, SalCl- “We have certainly a far-seeing, and cunning head to deal with. And I feel inclined to predict that if we trap him, it will be through something so simple that it could not be so much as per- ceived, and so guarded against.” “Um! may be so; sniffed the little doctor, who was not a respecter of persons. “Then you have, probably, got hold of the first clue, right now!” He was getting nervous, and impatient. “Where's that point of yours, Larne? That's what I’m wonder- ing about.” In spite of their doubts, and anxieties, the others laughed; and felt the better after it. “Why, it's very simple,” retorted Larne, with a touch of malice, “we have now, first, to figure out the greatest distance a good motor can run—without exceeding the speed limit—between early nightfall, and late midnight, and then to draw a line about the city, and in a circle which shall be just that distance, equally, and at all points of the compass, from the La Croix home; after which we shall,—perhaps—need to go over all the intervening space, in all these directions, with a fine toothed comb. For, I think, we may drop out much of the young woman's story. All, in fact, for the present, except the one point, to which, as you may have observed, she gave most emphasis.” AT THE END OF THE DAY 91 “What point?” Again it was the Doctor who questioned. “The, suggested, probability that the place of imprisonment was in the city.” - “And you think—” hesitated Val. “I think—the narrater being an imposter—that her story is doubtless a clever mixture of fact and fiction. If, as it would seem, she is endeavoring to make it appear that the city is the place where Miss La Croix—the real—was taken, and, as we must therefore hope, is still in hiding, it is more than likely that the real hiding place is not within the city limits. And so, not to lose time, my friends, I have already drawn this imaginary circle; and, tomorrow, the combing process will begin. I can send out a dozen men before ten o'clock, and as many more before two P. M. I have my own little system for dividing up the territory, and the men will figure as book agents, census takers, larking city idlers, bicycle fiends, and so on. I have also set on foot—an inquiry into the past history of Mr. Jeremiah La Croix. For, gentlemen, I believe we will succeed only when—or if—we can find the motivel” “I’m inclined to believe,” said Effingham, thoughtfully, “that you'll find Jerry La Croix has a pretty straight record.” “So am I,” agreed Larne. “But he's the very man to have left an enemy or two somewhere along his trail. Besides—there's the substitute! Don't you think there's a slight family resem- blance?” “My soul!” exclaimed Abinger. “Good heavens!” cried Effingham. “How absurd 1’’ this from the Doctor. “Not so fast! There may be a host of the La Croix breed hidden away somewhere. By the way, Effingham, have you- but of course you have, a good picture of Miss Iris La Croix?” “Yes. Several of them.” “Let me see them tomorrow, please. And I would like, also, a good picture of the present incumbent. Can you persuade her to add to your collection? And soon? I'll tell you how I mean to use them—tomorrow.” “Larne,” urged the Doctor. “I can’t feel right about this search ! Is it wise—or quite safe, not to have a look within the city, as well as outside? Couldn’t it be managed?” “Not for a million | What! set up a search here for Miss Iris La Croix?” It’s unthinkable! However—I fancy that, very soon, 92 A BLIND LEAD the police will be called upon to rake the town over for a stolen child. Some nice reliable person—like yourself for example,— may be the prime mover; and we will then get a record of the doubtful “hide outs,” should we wish to use it, later. One can look quite as thoroughly for a lost little girl as for a stolen larger one; and the result will be the same, I promise.” “My word, Mr. Larne,” exclaimed Val Effingham, “you have made a beginning! And I am growing more sanguine! I feel as if I might sleep—tonight!” And he stretched out to Larne, two strong arms and firm gripping hands, and grasped his smaller, slenderer ones, that gave back a response no less sincere, and quite as full of virile force, and power, while lacking little of that trained muscular vigor that had made Effingham a leader in most manly sports, and in many exercises of strength and skill. “My soul!” exclaimed Abinger, when, soon after, he took leave of his friend at the street door of the great building, where often, as tonight, he slept, in the solitude and comfort of the well- to-do city bachelor. “I call this going some, Val! It's still in the wee'ness of the small hours; and you first met Hillary Larne— at—when—” “We lunched at two o'clock, Iris and I; and we left the place soon after three. It was—'pon my word, Bruce, I have not marked the time, since I met that man Larne!” “You came in here not long after four P. M., my son; and soon after five o'clock you made your bow to Larne. At almost six the Doctor appeared. I heard the fellows tramping through the halls, in going out for the night.” “We had separated by seven o'clock?” “Yes ?” “And at half past ten, or just a little later, we met again, all four of us, in the Jerry La Croix drawing rooms. Flack, busy man that he is, was already there. And as for Hillary Larne, my soul, man, how did he get out on the drive, and back, so-” “Pooh! Auto's fly away with time. But he must have made a short call, and it must have been important.” “It was. Larne's calls always are. Well, we all took our dinner in one course, I fancy! After all we have only talked. But Larne, Gad! see what he has done! Actually he's planned out a season's campaign; and set the wheels a running. Ah! There's your taxi, Val! Wise millionaire, not to tote a carriage and man on these occasions!” AT THE END OF THE DAY 93 “Really!” snorted Val, already half-way down the steps. And then, relenting he turned back and called after his vanishing friend—“Night, Bruce!” And—so much had his spirits risen since his noon time luncheon—he flung himself upon the cushions of his car and actually yawned and closed his eyes, restfully. As to Hillary Larne, for him the “wheels,” were running still. He was at his desk, and was dashing off a short letter, or a long note, in a very queer style. There was a name, and address, very handsomely written. Then a few words; then half a line of queer Chinese looking hen tracks, and then, more clearly written words; then, two full lines of the hen tracks, more words; and some more “tracks” by way of a signature. To the—postman—or others of inquiring mind, this sheet would have read like this— “Una girl—hark. I think you must know [hen tracks here] and if you are still my little partner I will ask, yes, implore you, first, to make ready the completest possible history of the same. And, later, to make him an object of your interest and constant attention. I write because, in this matter [two lines of the tracks] the wire is too easy; and I cannot see you, I fear, before almost this time tomorrow—not today. I am up quite early this morn- ing. This [many more hen scratches] may prove of much im- portance; and is one of the tendrils that twine about a rather unusual romance. Girl, if you have to drop all else don't fail me in this [a long row of hen tracks]. “Yours more and more!” Some final hen tracks finished the missive; and, when it was ready to be dispatched, Larne produced a pile of small note books, and, for a long, slow, moving hour, pored over them; pausing, now and then, to think, or write, or, for a little time, to pace to and fro; murmuring softly to himself, and, sometimes, jesturing oddly. When strong nervous tension began to manifest itself, this was his way of working it off- through the muscles. And so he worked, and wrote, and took his queer exercise, until the dawn showed grey, his eyes grew heavy, and his task—this task—was done. Larne was a creature of rare vitality, and singular nervous force. To rest, thoroughly, and enjoy to the full the food, of which he partook sparingly but with almost clocklike regularity, his mind must be free from perplexing unfinished problems. To put a case aside, untouched, in the interest of his personal well 94 A BLIND LEAD being, was one thing. To sleep long, to eat, to rest, with a problem half solved, or left in doubt, was for him, almost impossible. He had trained himself, however, to take at need, the short dreamless siesta, that, to the eager nervous temperament, is often more restful than the prolonged slumber, and to wake almost at will. And so, with the coming of the grey dawn he put his tired muscles through what he called his three-minute relaxing exer- cise, and, finally, laid himself down upon his cushioned couch and went promptly to sleep. But he was awake, and at his open window, when the first gleams of the early summer sun was illuminating the high towers, dormers, and cornices of the great city buildings; and already the absorbed look, which his friends so well knew, and so scrupulously respected, was upon his face. For, at the last waking moment, a new thought had sprung into being, and almost compelled him to wakefulness once more. He had put it down resolutely, for the moment, but he knew, even then, that it must be reckoned with before he came again into conference with the others. And now, standing at his open window, inhaling deeply, and swinging and swaying his arms and body with rhythm and vigor, he was reopening his mind to the latest and most insistent thought. “My word " he exclaimed as he swayed and swung, “what an oversight—for all of us!” For it had dawned upon his mental horizon,—the thought thrust up from the ever active subconscious inner self—that, in considering the abduction and return of Miss La Croix, they had all overlooked, or ignored, that other disap- pearance, so nearly a counterpart of the one they were seeking to probe; the disappearance of Miss Bertha Helmuth of St. Louis. Slowly his arms and body came to a rest, while his features lost their look of perplexity, and took on that of intense thought. Slowly he drew an easy chair before the window, and, sinking into it, rested his elbows upon the window ledge, and his eyes upon the fleecy cloudlets which the sun's rays were tinting with opalescent colors. And so, for nearly an hour, he remained, move- less—intent. Then he arose, pushed back his chair, and stretched his arms, and his body, upward to their utmost— “Jove!” he said airily, “I’m hungry.” But his next movement was not in search of breakfast. Instead he went to his desk, and taking from an especial pigeonhole a note- book marked Special notes, he began to write in it. FROM CENTER TO CIRCUMFERENCE 95 “In La Croix case—Memo.” “To look up date concerning the disappearance of one Miss Bertha Helmuth, on night of June third, from front of Park- side Club House.” “To consult with Una, or Madam;—especially not to speak of this second case to my co-workers; or, in any way, suggest a pos- sible connection.” “Adding date and hour he closed and locked away the note- book, and left the office; walking briskly.” When he stepped out upon the pavement, shortly after, his face was as placid and care free as that of the veriest son of “the idle rich;” and, as he turned westward, he murmured, with a half smile, “Now we will breakfast; and it shall be a full breakfast, for this bids fair to be a full day;” and he began to whistle; softly, and cheerfully. CHAPTER IX. FROM. CENTER TO CIRCUMFERENCE. “Ours is not a search for a person who is visibly lost;” Hillary Larne had said to his comrades of the search, as he grew to call the quartette; for Doctor Flack would not allow them to bar him from any of their conferences, and declared himself ready to abandon his work as a life-saver, and,—until Iris La Croix was found, or her fate made known to her friends—become “a woman hunter—and a mankiller,” at need. The little Doctor was given to the use of tall, even lurid, language, in his moments of storm and stress; and Larne, whose “looks ahead,” were “long looks,” was very willing to swear him in. “Visibly lost is a phrase I like!” Abinger commented. “I pre- sume you mean—ah—something—” “A person is visibly lost,” Larne obligingly explained, “when all can see that fact, and recognize the absence. But to institute a search for a person who is visible, at all times, to all people in all his accustomed places, is a new thing under the sun; or as near to it as a mere mortal may get. It has its advantages, and its disadvantages.” “Could you name just one advantage?” asked the Doctor, who was a frank pessimist in all things not quite clear to him. 96 A BLIND LEAD “Surely! Our first advantage is, that, wherever we may go, and whatever we may do, we will not be suspected of the business we are actually about. At least not until we get visibly on the trail.” - “I wish to heaven that time had arrived !” sighed Effingham. And this was natural. His mind was filled with doubts, fears, and longings; for his love for Iris La Croix had grown with his growth, and had now become the strongest thing in his life. Added to this, his position, as the chosen attendant of this “other Iris,” as they oftenest called her, was one of constant strain, and growing difficulty. As a man of the world he was able to play his part; but it was none the less an irksome task, and all the more so when,-as the days passed, and she, on her side, still played her rôle, so cleverly, and so skillfully that it grew, daily, more clear to him that she was striving to make his bondage easier, and to spare him when she could. “If she had been a worse woman,” he thought; or if he could have believed her such, his part would have been made simpler. Then he could have hated her honestly; instead of feeling, as he sometimes did, an actual pity—and sympathy, for a trouble he could see, at times, and could not fail to understand, in part— because of what he knew;—and it might have been less hard for him. It was not difficult to set a “flying squadron,” of blue coats, and plain clothes men, to the task of scouring the city, and, after some thought, Larne had put this matter into the capable hands of Bruce Abinger, who chanced to have upon the force of the city’s “finest,” a very capable friend. One Captain Rohan. A prompt and sufficient display of “real money,” will soon put a cordon of watchers about a state; much less a single city; and, twenty-four hours after he had received the order of his Chief, Abinger and Rohan had set an example of diligence not to men- tion a display of skill, in the art of plain fiction, which awoke the interest and admiration of Larne, himself. And the evening pa- pers—of the day following that first meeting in Abinger's office— came out with a pathetic and mysterious tale of a lost little daughter, a distraught and beautiful mother, and a wicked and too clever husband—now vanished, like the child !—with veiled hints of cruelty—threats of utmost horror—some hints at disappearing family diamonds, and a constant—verbal—trail of shadowers, FROM CENTER TO CIRCUMFERENCE 97 spies, masquerading as curbstone salesmen, agents, plain peddlers, etc., etc., until adjectives and imaginations failed together. The tale gave entertainment, and furnished “thrills,” for maids, matrons, and men; ladies, and—cook ladies; and it ended—this first example of Abinger's talent along a new line—like this— “So persistent, so annoying, and so daring has this hateful sys- tem of espionage grown, that the poor distracted mother has at last been forced to take refuge with strong and able friends, and protectors; and for the present, this band of spies, cab followers, and alley watchers, with the persons who employ them, will find their only occupation in trailing the able legal gentleman who is, at present, the lawfully qualified agent and guardian of mother and child.” A badly printed woodcut of a charmingly piquant child's profile, filled one corner of a first page; and a reward,—so amazing in amount as to set amateur Hawkshaws at work all about the city —was outspread upon the corner opposite, while posters, large and lurid, were conspicuously displayed wherever a place offered, or could be found—or made. The papers, on the second evening, held an added item, and in- creased the general interest. This ran as follows: “It is now feared, by the friends of the stolen child, that her nurse, a good looking, faithful girl has also been seized and im- prisoned, lest her knowledge of many damaging facts should be used against these law breakers; and her testimony is so important that a sum equaling that offered for the finding of the child, will be given for her safe return, whether she be found alone, or in company with the child.” “That,” remarked Larne, “will make sure that our searchers do not overlook any person of larger growth, who may be unearthed in this house to house visitation; for I intend to leave no stone unturned, here in the city; and the reasonable proof that Miss La Croix is not in the city, will be only second in value to the proof that she is! Meantime, our circle has been drawn, an auto's flight from the house on Fifth avenue, out into the wild in all directions; and all places that are for rent, or have been recently taken; all institutions, public and private; all new establishments, and new comers, will be—investigated.” And they were. “In a search like this,” Larne declared, “it is useless to attempt 98 A BLIND LEAD to cover great spaces, unless it is done thoroughly; otherwise there is risk of losing our needle, in the too carelessly shaken up haystack. And so, once we find a place, be it village, house, or locked room, which is not quite open, and ready for inspection, we shall not leave it, nor pass on, until we know its secrets.” “It does look like the hunt for the needle in the haystack, in very truth!” sighed Effingham. “At least let us not lose time!” And they did not. As for his own first task, he set about it at once. He had imagined that “Iris the second,” might not be willing just at that time, to sit for a picture—especially at his request. But she consented with a readiness which surprised him, and allowed the “artist” to pose her as he would, or as Val wished; and so he was soon able to place this picture in Larne's hand, and also an excellent likeness of the other Iris La Croix, who had posed for it on the day when they had decided that they would announce their engagement two months later. Purposely, though with repugnance, he had asked this present Iris to pose in much the same attitude as had the other, and the result, when the two pictures were placed side by side, was startling. - “At first glance,” declared Larne, “one would think it needful to label the two cards, in order to distinguish them! The resem- blance is certainly wonderful. But—upon closer study—there is a difference, altho'—I confess, I see it more clearly than I can de- scribe it. It would indeed be difficult to put the difference into words.” - “I think,” said Effingham, gloomily, “that I see what you mean, —and—I think—I can give it—a name.” “Do it then. We need helps of this sort.” “This one, then,” Effingham took up the first picture, “is the face of a girl-woman who has enjoyed much, and felt much; she has known more of happiness than of trouble; and—she has never had anything to conceal! This,” touching but not lifting, the sec- ond picture, “is a woman girl, a girl in years, and a woman in ex- perience; and she has had—and has learned how to almost conceal —trouble!” “By Jove, Effingham, I believe you are right! But—don't you see what that might imply?” “I see what you mean 1. This one,” again holding up the first picture, “if sitting for a likeness now—would pretty surely look more like that other. She would certainly show a change—but”— FROM CENTER TO CIRCUMFERENCE 99 here he lifted his head, and met Larne's eyes squarely, “it would be in her eyes! The change I find here now, is in the whole woman —the soul of her!” “Effingham,” Larne's eyes met and held those of the other, “for the first time in all my experience, in this kind of work, I am taking up a blind lead! I have never seen the daughter of Jerry La Croix, except in her carriage, or across an opera house—if this girl who is now under his roof is not that daughter—and I confess to you, now, that there have been moments when I, Abin- ger, even Doctor Flack, have doubted and been half ready to be- lieve that her abduction, and imprisonment, would be sufficient to account for all this change that seems to you so impossible. But —I do believe that spirit is stronger, and a more trustworthy guide, than body! In my experience, in nine cases out of ten, I have found that, as between the two—the visible only, and the invisible, or seeing and feeling, the latter has been in the right! In short-strange as it may seem to you—or would seem to most, —as between soul and body, Effingham, I trust to soul!—the in- visible! And so I say that, from this moment, I must believe that the thing you have believed all the time, and Flack and Abin- ger almost all the time, is right! and—I am going to help you prove it!” He turned again toward the pictures ignoring Effingham's start and his half extended hand. “How did this young lady take your request for a picture?” He asked quietly. , “Ah!—talk of your proof, well! But first I’ll answer your question. She took my request very amiably, and—almost-in- differently.” “Ah! hal Indifferently, eh?” Effingham nodded, saying “This picture, you will remember, was taken shortly before Iris disap- peared. Now my Iris, if asked again, and so soon, for her picture, would have laughed—and refused. This Iris never mentioned the earlier picture; altho' I said purposely, and—as a test, “I want a good picture of you, Iris, our old school day pictures are not up to date!” and she merely replied, “I don’t care much for this pic- ture posing, on all possible occasions, but—if you really wish it, of course I'll sit for you.” Larne, for a moment, seemed to be considering this last state- ment, then “That speech, under the circumstances,” he mused slowly, “Seems er—almost conclusive,” and, as if quite ready to drop this feature of their discussion, he asked, “Are you wonder- ing what use I intend to make of these?” taking up the two photo- graphs. FROM CENTER TO CIRCUMFERENCE 101 “It's a poor show-down, Larne. To be quite frank, then, I'm just restless because I can't be doing something, anything to help push things! I'm ready to grease the wheels, to bring on the horses, or—Oh well!” Larne laughed. “I think we will let you grease the wheels.” In fact I had in mind, but pigeon-holed for the moment, a thing that may prove helpful. In truth, all—anything, that will let us see as much of Iris the second as possible, may prove a help; and I meant soon—tomorrow—say, to talk with you about it. The young woman is troubled, you tell me, and seems sensitive about the secrecy of her imprisonment; don’t you think it would be well to consult her about an effort you would like to make—in her be- half—but very secretly—to find if possible the author of the out- rage. Of course—” Val Effingham's sudden gesture caused Larne to stop as suddenly— “Larnel it's the one thing I could not do! Think!” “Hold hard young man! I don’t ask you to undertake the ac- tual work. My plan would be that you merely consult her, and, if she agrees,—as it would seem that she must, —you could ask her to let—say your friend Abinger hear her carefully told story and plan for the work. You can be the outdoor man, who fol- lows the scent—and reports.” “And—the object?” * “Bruce Abinger is the very man to see the weaknesses in a story long drawn out and oft repeated. He might get an actual fact, where she meant to give misleading fiction. It would be something of a game of ‘Hot and cold, between the lady—and himself. But, most, should she happen to see danger in this effort, and try to communicate with her confederates, we might be able to trace them. Of course you see, my friend, that unless we can find through this young woman, some clue—some starting point, we are actually condemned, I fear, to let this house to house can- vass I have set going, drag out its slow length, unless some lucky chance, rather than our wit, furnishes the needful clue. Confound it man! We ought to have a spy near that girl by night and by day! Well—what now?” For Val Effingham, who had reseated himself and replaced his hat, now sprang suddenly erect, with a short exclamation that was, almost, profanity. “At last,” exclaimed Val, “there's something I can do! Tell me—which would serve best? a woman, or a man?” “Both would serve best, of course. If I could supply her with a 102 A BLIND LEAD maid of my own selection, and put in the house an extra man, to act as footman, or out of door man, at need, it might make our search a shorter one!” “Then we'll do it!" cried Effingham with energy. “If you'll sup- ply the people, I will make the place. One can always buy off a maid; and the man—” “Hold on, good sir, a plain bribe, in this case, won't do! We must not let your hand appear in this! Give me the maid’s name and I'll attend to her. You may look to the man; or to his place. You think you can arrange it?” “I intend to try. Give me until tomorrow morning. That gives me the remainder of today, all of this afternoon, to lay my wires.” “We don't lay wires, usually, my friend.” “Pipes then. Good morning Larne. Don't urge me to stay. I’ve got a job at last.” “That man,” mused Larne as the other closed the door, “was suffering from inaction. If I had not found him a genuine bit of useful work I’d have faked him a job. It's amazing how many idle people there are, dying, by inches, for want of something to do! Work that is of interest, agreeable exercise for mind and body, for all mankind, would bankrupt the hospitals, cut down the death rate and almost put the ‘dram shops’ out of commission. Um-m, I wonder though, if Effingham's job will be agreeable- altogether?” - CHAPTER X. A NEW MAN AND MAID. “Well, Effingham, happy to see ye! you don’t call often at this end of the La Croix establishment. It's the only grudge I hold against you, young fellow! I sometimes wake up o' nights worry- ing, and wondering what would become of you and my girl if you should lose your pocket-book one of these days! My, My!” “We should ask papa La Croix to set us up in the ice business,” replied Effingham, who knew the tastes of his host in matters of jest and repartee. “I have heard there's money in ice; although I hope I can always make more cutting coupons. It's not difficult, after you once get the hang of the shears, and it's considered very 104 A BLIND LEAD entered Marbury's gallery, yesterday, with a certain young lady, I chanced to be sitting close by, in auto' and goggles, waiting for— another, and I observed that your every movement was watched by a man who seemed to have followed you there. It looked queer, and time being of no great value just then, I kept tab on the chap. You were gone less than half an hour, and when you came out and I saw that the fellow still lingered near, still watched, and still followed—it set me thinking. Passing the lady's home this A. M. on the way down town I saw the same chap pacing the opposite side of the street. I purposely circled the block, and he was still on guard when I repassed. Under ordinary circumstances I should not put in my oar. Still, the feeling that I should make the business known to you is strong, and so—here goes! Don't hit me. “Yours, T. Fitzmaurice.” “Uh!” grunted La Croix, and he read the note a second time, and more slowly. “Er—Tommy does live farther up this street!” he said finally. Then after a brief silence, “What do you make of this, Effing- ham P” “It was awfully white in Tommy to post me,” Val replied. “But it was not a surprise. The fact is, I have been trailed twice of late, when in company with—Iris; that I have been able to dis- cover for myself. How much oftener they have given us their attention I don't know, of course. It's the fact that the thing is being done at all that has brought me here!” “Um!” Again the elder man inbreathed the rumbling syllable that usually preceded, and often ended, a discussion, not to his liking. “Were—ah—were you thinking of the police—perhaps?” “Good heavens, no!” Jerry La Croix, the man who had been, up to that moment, on guard, drawn up, as it were, behind a wall of reserve, watchful, ready, and a trifle suspicious, suddenly disappeared, and Jerry La Croix, relaxed and at his ease, sat in his place. “I’m dammed glad of that!” he said fervently. “I tell you, Val, the dread of having, sooner or later, to call the police into this business has spoiled my appetite-at times! Come—I have felt, ever since Iris came back, that we ought to confer together over this busi- A NEW MAN AND MAID 105 ness; for I've had a feeling that the scoundrels were letting me off pretty easy, and might have another shot in the locker. And then —” he paused, and his ruddy face grew yet more rosy. “Yes?” invited Effingham. “Well, confound it. I was a bit set back when you two-be- tween you-shut down on that announcement, and—” “Mr. La Croix,” Val interposed, “since you have opened the way it is only fair to myself to say that I simply yielded in this; yielded, I may say, to-pressure. I wanted it otherwise! and I hoped—at first—that the trouble would end in a prompt, open, and brief, engagement, and an early marriage. It is what I had planned for—and now, since I can do no more, I want to make sure that nothing else—and possibly worse,—happens! For, if the war is over, as we say, why this continued espionage?” “Why indeed? And—what can we do?—having barred out the police? Have you any plans?” “I came to suggest—something.” “Good!” Again the relief was evident. “Let us have it.” And now, having gained and prepared, his audience, Val made known his plan. “I remember hearing you say, once, before all this happened, and shortly after taking on your second car, that you really needed at times, an extra man; one who could be shifted, from a footman's duties, now and then, to a place on the new machine. A good mechanician, in short, who might be trusted with the ladies’ car when you needed Zahn.” “Yes?” The syllable was a question. “Of course we don’t want to alarm the ladies. Iris must not suspect this. But you do need a man who could be on the watch, with his duties more or less shifting, and his real business to look after his young mistress, in doors and out, all the time. And-I think I can furnish the very man, sir, if you'll make the opening. It might save—trouble.” “Gad! I should say so! And we'll do it! We'll do it, at once!” And they plunged into the details with great vigor. sk >k >k >k >k >k sk sk sk Harriet Goodnow, for two years the maid of Miss Iris La Croix, was a model, as a maid, being born, and trained in her duties, in that high school for good servants—Monu, England. As a maid Harriot was practical, sensible, discreet, industrious, sober, and honest. As a spinster, off duty—she was romantic, a devourer of A NEW MAN AND MAID 107 day—just a few, so favored a few.” Whereupon Harriot beamed and fluttered, and wondered if she might, perchance, see the so favored ones. - A look at the mirror in her pretty little room would have showed her the “so favored,” the first and the last, in one glance. She was overawed by the stone effigies, the stars, and symbols; and especially at the gleaming crystal globe, for all these were strange to her. But before Madam's velvet robes, and lofty bear- ing, she stood firm. Had she not seen the belles of New York in all their glory, and outlived that glitter? Neither, after the first moment, was she unduly overcome when the globe—which, for a certain impressionable class of patrons was made to revolve slowly, and so to glitter yet more—revealed to Madam that she, Harriot, was about to make a journey “for a very good, a noble purpose, and in the service of innocence and beauty.” She would also meet a dark man—would hear strange things, and, if she followed his advice, did what he desired, she would not only live, for a time in a grand new place, where the servants would wait upon her, not she on others, and where she need only see, enjoy, ride in fine carriages and be stylishly dressed, and, all the time, most carefully cared for and protected. It was a glowing picture, and so thought Harriot. But Madam was near losing her appropriate gravity, when the girl asked, naively— “The—er the gentleman?—the dark man you know, does he— does he mean—desire—want me—does he want to propose?” “It is revealed in the crystal that he means you—some real good—but—” here Madam's eyes were veiled, while again she studied the crystal ball. “I—yes, I think it very likely that a pro- posal from some one, would come from all this—later. And there is money very near it. This, my child, will, I trust, prove a lucky day for you.” And it did. As Harriot neared her home, in the early dusk that afternoon, she was addressed by a good looking man in a smart uniform. He held in his gloved hand a slip of paper bearing her name, and the number of the La Croix house, and he lifted his cap with an air which was very taking,—Larne rather enjoyed these bits of play acting. He called them his outings—and he asked the girl if she was not Miss Harriet Goodnow. He came from the office of Chase and Ketchum, he said, to confer with her upon very im- 108 A BLIND LEAD portant business; and, it being now late, he had been waiting, etc., etc., would she kindly let him talk with her in the little tea room just across on the next street? He was not a policeman, he told her with fine scorn. He was a private officer of the Protective Patrol, detailed especially to consult with her over a matter of importance. What he told her, besides, took a long half hour in the telling, for it was, to Larne's interest to know something of Harriot the woman, and his methods were adapted to his listener, as she de- veloped under his keenly observant eyes. This, shorn of his ornamental and digressive diction, was his story, and it serves well to illustrate how almost recklessly daring Larne could be, in his handling of facts, where it seemed that fact would serve even better than fiction, as—sometimes, it will. The P. P. P. Society were very secret and powerful, and learn- ing that there might be another effort made, by another band of outlaws, to again steal away her young mistress, they—the So- ciety, were taking prompt steps to thwart them, and to do it with- out alarming the family of Miss La Croix, or her friends, and servants, who were also friends. And because it was thought really unsafe for young women, delicate and sensitive, to be in the La Croix house while the trouble was in its present stage, the P. P. P. having learned of Miss Harriot's devotion and trustworthi- ness, wished to remove her, for a time, from the house, which must now be closely watched, and put her in a pleasant and safe family hotel, etc., etc., at the same time putting in her place an older woman, who was hardened to the work of watching and guarding, as well as informed in the duties of a maid. In the meantime Miss Harriot would be expected to serve her young mistress, in another way, by going to a neighboring city, and tak- ing rooms in a fine hotel much frequented by foreigners of high degree. She would be given the fullest latitude during much of the day, and only asked to remain in the hotel at such times as would be named to her later, when trains from certain cities were likely to bring passengers, who it has been learned, usually pat- ronized this down town hotel when in the city. Among these— here the Agent of the Protective Patrol became very impressive —among these was one, a woman, who, it was thought, might have been concerned in the kidnapping of Miss La Croix, and she, in particular, must be closely observed and even followed at need —but he would give Miss Harriot further particulars at a later meeting. 110 A BLIND LEAD “Oh yes! When I says, “why you've always wanted that, Miss,” she replies, ‘I don't now then! I’ve had too much of it; and too little of some other things, since I went abroad. The idea sir, of their supplying that expensive brand at that dark hole of a place, where they put the poor child! I think of the dark hole of Calcutta, whenever I hear them speak of it,” and Harriot shud- dered. >k >k >k sk >k >k x >k >k “I’d give something to know how Miss La Croix takes the news of her maid's sudden call to Chicago,” Larne mused, when, all being settled, he parted from Harriot. “But, first, and next, I must learn how Effingham's mission has prospered.” As a matter of fact Miss Iris La Croix took the news of her maid's sudden going very coolly; and made no remonstrance. Neither did she object to the new handmaiden whom Harriot vol- unteered to install before she left on her “pleasure toor.” “I’m really sorry to go, Miss,” she ventured. “But it's such a good chance, and I can have, maybe, a whole month with my cousin, and it only costs me my car fare. The lady my cousin's with is from my old home Miss, and she's seen me—long ago, and is glad to let my cousin have this chance for a good visit. Only think Miss, what a good chance I'll have to see some of the West. And it's through going to see my cousin, today, that I got to know about this other maid, who's just over, same's the others.” Harriot had reeled off her prepared story rather nervously, but it seemed to pass muster, and her mistress dismissed the matter, finally, when she said very kindly— “Well, you have been very good and patient with me since I came home, Harriot, and I don’t imagine I shall fare any better with this new importation. However, I dare say she'll do. Let her begin at once, so that I may not hinder your going, even before she comes if you wish it. Now—I would like you to bring me a rosebud, and some fairy ferns, from the conservatory—you need not hurry, if you want to chat a bit with the others.” When the door had closed behind the maid her mistress sprang up and began to pace the width of her room, a look of relief over- spreading her face. “What a piece of good fortune!” she ex- claimed, striking her palms together with vigor. “I can breathe more freely—already! Oh how I wish I could change them all. Yes all! servants and master—and—Aunt Randa—oh well, she, the good soul, won’t count for much—much force, at least, any- ME TOO 111 where!” And she laughed. “But—a new maid,” she added, “won't mind a new mistress. I wonder if—Harriot thinks I’m new? At least,” seating herself before her dressing table, “a new maid can be taught that I like to braid my own hair!” and she set herself to the chosen work. Things move swiftly when many minds are set at the task, and the evening of the day after Val's call upon Jerry La Croix, and Harriot's visit to the fortune teller, a new maid, small, trim and demure, soft spoken and deft handed, was installed in Iris La Croix department, and a new and “handy” man, was making his bow in the servant's hall. The man was not a giant; but Val Ef- fingham heaved a sigh of relief as he looked at him, and knew that he was to be a helper in the search, now fairly begun. For this slender man, of medium height, had cultivated his skill and muscle in the world of hard knocks; he had been a miner, a sailor, a herder on the plains, a fighter in the ring; and now, un- der the tutelage of Hillary Larne, he had, for four years, been, as he expressed it, “giving his mind and muscle to the good.” He was also giving to this same “good,” a quick eye, a keen intelli- gence, and a courage and loyalty all too rare, alas, in his kind. If Iris La Croix had aught to conceal, she must be swift and clever, to withhold her secrets from Jimmy Fair, who with his good humored, small, blue eyes, and close cropped red head, looked just a good natured Irishman; but was—several other things. CHAPTER XI. ME TOO. Iris La Croix was riding in the Park with “Jimmy Fair”—who had become James Phayer with Hillary Larne for his god-father, —a short distance behind her. It was an almost perfect morning, and, altho' early, numerous riders already dotted the bridle path, with the fair sex greatly in the majority, and James noted that nearly all of the girls, and women, who nodded, and to whom Miss La Croix bowed in re- sponse, turned in the saddle to look after her, and seemed to see something to surprise or interest them in the young woman's handsome riding suit. 112 A BLIND LEAD It puzzled the new groom, and troubled him a little, at first, for he knew that horse, saddle, and rider, were all in perfect “condi- tion,” and yet—yes, the men, too, looked and smiled, and when they were in company, spoke, still smiling, evidently, of the lady -or her mount. And because of this James grew yet more watch- ful, and drew a trifle closer to his new mistress. He had received strict orders from his lady to keep well in the rear, but, just then, she disappeared around a curve, and in spur- ring forward James passed a bunch of chatting, pony-riding, school girls, and caught this shrill query— “Who on earth ever saw her in a skirt habit, and side saddle, before! What does it mean—girls?” “So that's it,” muttered James. “Well she can’t be hung for that anyhow!” And then he saw that Miss La Croix had sud- denly found an escort. “Hello!” he grinned, “it’s Mr. Perry K. Loundes, E-square!” And he rode a trifle closer. “Don’t seem very glad to meet Mr. Loundes, she don't,” he continued to muse, and, presently– “but she's doing a lot of talk- in’ to him all right,” he added. And then, as Loundes half turned in the saddle, and he caught a glimpse of his face, “Don’t look very happy, seems to me,” he mused, “I wonder what's ailin’ him! and him ridin’ with a pretty girl, too!” He touched his mount and ventured a bit closer, for now they were nearing a point where the bridle paths crossed, and he saw, coming straight down upon them from a nearby entrance, a horse and rider whom he knew. They won’t meet, he thought, at a near crossing; and then he saw Miss La Croix turn upon her companion a face which ex- pressed coldness and impatience, if not positive anger. She ges- tured with her whip hand, and as it fell the whip must have flicked the horse which Loundes had drawn quite close to her own. The animal shied, and its rider almost toppled, and held it in with difficulty. That he was not a born, or trained, horseman, was evi- dent to James. And now they were all at the meeting of the bridle paths, and Miss La Croix pulled her mare to the right, and away from Loundes, whose horse was still side stepping, its heels well to the further border. “Good morning, Mr. Loundes,” the lady said, without turning; and as Loundes touched his hat she rode on down the nearby ME TOO 113 path, and he, taking the opposite one, rode away just as Bruce Abinger, splendidly mounted and riding at ease, reached the curve, tossed after Loundes a cherry “Morning Perry!” and rode on after Miss La Croix at a brisk canter. She was walking her horse now with her head bent, and, as Abinger reined in at her side, she glanced up with a look that was half pout, half smile, and that vanished in a little trill of laugh- ter as she said, “Good morning, Mr. Abinger! Don't expect me to be surprised at your sudden’ appearance; which I saw almost when you entered the park. But I do wonder that you dare accost me, you surely saw my crusty parting from Mr. Loundes?” and again the lips parted in a smile. “I dare say Perry deserved it,” Abinger ventured. “Well, perhaps; but I fear I’m getting nervous, for, more and more, as the days pass, I weary of the worn out subject of my ab- duction! I want to forget it! but people won’t let me.” bl “Is it curiosity, do you think—or—” he left the sentence a ank. “In the case of Perry Loundes I fancy it was simply bad taste, and—a lack of originality, perhaps; but—finally—” with sudden energy, “he was—impertinent! Fancy—well—yourself, Mr. Ab- inger, riding up to me, lifting your hat, and then, opening your mouth to criticise—my clothes!” “Mercy!” he laughed lightly. “I can’t stretch my fancy so far, Miss La Croix.” “Of course you can't! But he could. After just one opening remark, he asked me—” she paused, to look down at her natty serge habit skirt, and to utter a short laugh, “he really asked me if my assumption of the side-saddle and flowing habit was the re- sult of my prison musings.” “No p" “Yes!” And in almost those self-made words.” “Really! Loundes is not usually so tactless.” Again she laughed, but with averted face; and he saw that her cheeks were glowing ruddily. “I suppose I am a bit oversensitive upon this subject—both sub- jects—in fact. But you see, Aunt Randa and my maid, have both had their say about this change in my riding gear. But while it's as true as ever that the cross saddle, for women, is the saddle, –for health, for safety, and—for comfort—I want to be conspicuous less than ever, just now—and—the fact is,” suddenly facing about 114 A BLIND LEAD and throwing back her head, “I note, more and more as I ride here, that the cross saddle is being used too much by the—the wrong sort of people. Those who purposely make their habits, and hats, as outre and odd as possible. Really I should have made the change sooner; and—” with a final, reluctant half laugh, “I suppose I did choose the wrong moment for making such a change. But—oh well! how much talk about a very little mat- ter! Suppose we canter.” “If you will allow me, Miss La Croix, I would like to talk- more.” “Oh! Why certainly!” “Upon a serious matter, and—one you are rather weary of.” Again she faced him. “You mean—?” Drawing his big bay closer to her mount, and dropping his voice, he told her, briefly, what he had meant to say to her when first the opportunity offered. “It’s not quite by chance that I met you this morning,” he ad- mitted. “Val told me that you were again taking your morning rides out here; and—we agreed that this matter, if taken up, could not begin too soon, and that, if you gave it your sanction, you would, perhaps, also agree with us that your people need not be troubled with it.” “Thank you—for that.” A swift change of mood drove the smiles and laughter from her face and voice, as he unfolded his plans, and for a little while, she rode beside him in silence, her face very grave, and growing more and more troubled. He had expected opposition, at first. But not too much; it would hardly be the wise, or natural course. But the way in which, at last, she met his suggestions surprised him. “You tell me,” she said hesitatingly, yet looking at him directly —openly, “that this is Mr. Effingham's desire. Will you tell me, too, if there is anything—any new development, since my return —any fresh reason in short—for attempting this?” “Val has wished it from the first,” he replied, and quite truth- fully, “and—yes, Miss La Croix,—I think it is well that you should know this—since, or during, the past week, there has cer- tainly been a spy, a watcher, set upon your movements. Val has observed this, and—so have others.” “What others?” The question came swiftly, and Abinger smiled as he answered. ME TOO 115 “Young Fitzmaurice wrote Val at note of warning—only yes- terday.” “And you say—it began—you think—when? You don't think they have spied upon me always—from the time they first brought me—set me free?” “No. . From what Val has learned, we think it began—within the week.” “And—how shall you proceed, with no clue to work from?” “If we can trace one of these shadowers to his lair, or take him in the act, perhaps, we will have a clue. And—if you sanction this, and can help us ever so little—” She had put her last question with her face set straight before her, and her eyes looking between her horse's ears; but now, sud- denly, she looked up, and the fire and contempt in the look which met his, amazed him. Body, shoulders, and head, all seemed to share in her backward gesture as she flung her head back, tight- ening her reins in an involuntary clasp, firm and tense. “Mr. Abinger, I have thought, hoped, that I would, by degrees, be able to forget this wretched adventure! and, certainly, I did not expect that those people would find a reason to continue their pursuit. Since they have chosen to do so, however, this is my po- sition, today, and for all the days to come—let the end be what it will. If you can find my jailors, if you can discover their lair, and expose and punish them—do it! And, much as I shall hate it —all the renewed publicity, sensation—exposure, I will help you, will do all in my power to bring this crime home to them—when you have taken them! But you must understand this: In no way can I help you to find and identify them! Take me to their lair, and I will identify—my prison place! Confront me with the ne- gress, and I think I must know her. For the rest, because of the darkness, the voices, hoarsened and disguised by talking through the tubes, I would be of little help! Please tell Mr. Effingham that I shall not oppose him, farther. Only—Mr. Abinger, I will ask of you one thing. If you succeed—or when you succeed, will you tell me—yourself, I mean—at least a few hours before I must face them; or, as soon as you have found them, if possible?” She put out her hand to him, and her brown eyes were almost ap- pealing as they searched his face. • He was silent a moment; then- “Surely I may promise that—either for myself—or Val,” he said. 116 A BLIND LEAD “I am asking—you!” “Then you have my promise,” he assured her, and their hands met and clasped. “It is good of you!” she said gently, and sighed. They had turned out upon an almost deserted bridle path, far up; and she now pulled up her horse, and, turning, faced him as he reined his own mount close beside her. “This whole situation, as it stands at present, Mr. Abinger, is intensely hard—for me! It is changing everything! Sometimes I think that, for a time, at least, it would be best for one of us, Val or I, to go away. There is a constraint upon us—both. I per- ceive it in him, and feel it in myself. He is good, and kind, hon- orable, chivalrous. But—he is never at ease with me—any more! I—I wonder if he—if you both will understand me, and be just as much my friends, if I say that, if it will make Val's part easier, and if it will not burden you too much, it would be—it seems un- gracious to say it—but—it would be a relief to me—just now- if Val would not feel that the situation demands his daily visit; and if you will let me know such things regarding this search as I ought to know,-or as you are willing to tell me. If, in short, you will be a friend—to us both, wait! Please don’t answer me now, Mr. Abinger! It is right that Val be consulted, first, and that you have time to think. And now, I think I must turn back. I shall be glad to hear from you,-or Val, when you have talked with him about all this.” “I quite understand your feelings in this matter, Miss La Croix,” assured Abinger, “and can see all the difficulty of your position. Believe me, however things may turn out, I shall al- ways stand at your service, as a friend, at need; to you—and to Val.” She bowed silently, and they turned back toward the city. “You will permit me to ride with you as far as your gate of exit, whichever it may be?” he asked. “Surely,” she replied, and again they rode on in silence, with James Phayer still trailing after them, now a long way behind. “There's no need of my introodin there,” James mused, as he followed. “Abinger's a white man. But what did she do to that Mister Loundes?” Riding townward, a little later, Bruce Abinger was thoughtful and troubled. From first to last, as he reviewed it, his meeting and his talk with Iris La Croix, had been a surprise and a puzzle. All that she had said, and her very manner of saying it, was ME TOO 117 unexpected, and unlike the Iris La Croix of old. She had, from the moment of her return, declared her belief that to hunt for her abductors would be useless. Had discouraged it, always. Even now, at first, he had thought that she meant to oppose it, as Val had declared that she would. And then—the thought came to him with a shock—now—for he had not been impressed with this fact at the moment of its occurrence,—but it was true that, -until he had mentioned the spies, and the fact that her captors were still watching, still following her movements, she showed no feeling of interest in the suggested search. But her sudden change was most marked | Her surprise—and that it was genuine he felt sure—was the surprise of a person, at once startled and angered. It had seemed, too, that, just for an instant, he had seen the shadow of fear in her eyes, and heard its echo in her voice. And then had followed—in a flash, of what had looked like hot temper, quickly subdued, and then held firmly in leash—her swift change of atti- tude, amounting now, almost, to a desire that they should follow up those who had ventured to spy upon her. And then—his face softened, and his eyes grew kindly at this final thought, —she had seemed, in all that she said after, at once sincere and troubled. She was troubled ! Of that he now felt assured; and then he found himself thinking most, and most kindly, of the last moments of their interview; of his proffer of friendship, and her grate- ful acceptance. The look, rather than the words, lingered in his memory; and thus he found himself wandering, and harboring yet other strange thoughts about this girl, who was not Iris La Croix. Yes—he was sure of it—now, and he affirmed it, for the first time, and to himself; she was not Iris La Croix. And yet he had—this moment—almost–been pledging to her his help, his friendship; and, in utter sincerity. Ignoring—as he now realized—either the fact that she was, or was not, what she seemed. And all this because she was herself. A charming, and—for the moment he found himself fully believing it—a sincere woman. >k >k sk * :k :k * >k >k “How does it impress you?” It was Val Effingham who put the question to Larne, after they had heard the story of the meeting in the park, told, quite fully, and almost frankly, by Abinger. 118 A BLIND LEAD “Favorably, on the whole,” Larne smiled slightly, behind the smoke of his cigar. “I am neither surprised nor disappointed at the outcome. But there's one point,” turning toward Abinger, “which I wish you would glance back over. That is—her man- ner of receiving the story of the spying. You have thought it all over, no doubt?” “No doubt!” assented Abinger. “And perhaps you have asked yourself why she received this news as she did? As a lawyer you would,—I fancy.” “You want to know my conclusion? Is that it?” “Yes.” “It could hardly be called a conclusion; not as you would make it. I did ask myself if it were possible that this young woman— in playing her part-for whatever reason—had, perhaps, promised her confederates, dictators, or whatever they may be—something, which she has not yet fulfilled, or is carrying out so slowly that they are beginning to distrust her, and so have set a watch upon her.” “Jove!” ejaculated Val, “I wondered if you would think that.” “And why?” asked Larne. “Because,—it came into my mind at once!” declared Abinger. “Have I not told you that the girl is not enjoying this game, any more than the rest of us! She's gritty, but, for some reason, she's weakening! What can it mean?” “That, Abinger, is what we must learn—if possible. But we won’t waste our time in guessing. It appears that we all agree. And that you two chaps have arrived at your conclusion, as you have, does credit to your qualities as amateur sleuths. For you had nothing on which to base them, while I—I may as well tell you of this, here and now, although I held it back, at first, not wishing to disturb Effingham's well laid plans, and preferring not to go, or to let him go to old La Croix with a fact, when a well planned fiction would insure that he be kept out of mischief. If the young lady was disturbed at your mention of spies, it was with good cause; I have had the house, and all her footsteps, closely watched by some of my best trained lads; and—she has been spied upon, followed; and as closely as possible. There have been at least three different persons on her trail ever since I put my boys on theirs.”. His two listeners stared. But they had grown to know Hillary Larne's methods, and they gave him the lead, after expressing their wonder. * ME TOO 119 “It's useless to go into this, now,” Larne declared. “I have told you all I know—as yet. Abinger, have you finished your report?” “I have a message; at least it amounts to that,-for you, Val,” Abinger replied. “It concerns you—and herself, principally.” “Does it concern the case—as a whole?” asked Effingham. “Er—yes. I suppose it does.” “Then let's hear it. Larne is entitled to our fullest confidence.” “I quite agree with you;” declared his friend. And forthwith he told the girl’s request, or suggestion, that the two, supposedly affianced lovers, spare each other, as much as might be, the strain of the present situation. “By Jove!” exclaimed Val. “I must commend her direct ways! And—I shall not dare to say—openly—how much I like the idea.” “And I,” announced Larne. “It will leave you free for work, which may come to hand at any time. As soon as we stumble £," real scent, Effingham, I mean to send you out on the trail. “A thousand thanks,” exclaimed Val. “Until this matter is settled,—for me—I shall find idleness harder than labor. So keep me busy, if it's only in opening gates.” - Larne for a time was silent, and seemed to be studying some- thing serious. “I am thinking,” he said, when at last he noted their waiting attitude, “Of the beginning of your park adventure. I want to place Perry Loundes, and—the new habit and saddle. It was a rather queer break for Loundes, and—I’m a little surprised, too at the lady's manner of taking it.” “The manner,” said Val, “was right enough. That is, it was about what Iris—the real Iris—would have done in the cir- cumstances. Only—Iris would never have adopted the—old style of saddle and—riding frock. She was too thoroughly wedded to the newer, more sensible mode of get up for women. I'll tell you what I have been thinking, Larne, and you may take it for what it is worth. As you know, I’ve spent some time, off and on, in the South; my mother's people are in the Carolinas, both, and the more I see of this Iris the more I believe she's had her training, in part at least, in the Southern States.” “Effingham,” spoke Larne, “that's worth remembering! and— I'll act on it, too! I really think, gentlemen, that, at least, we’ve made a beginning; and that today's work, and Abinger's little dis- 120 A BLIND LEAD coveries, may help in the final count.” He got up and glanced at the clock on Abinger's mantle. “I think I'll say adieu to you now, gentlemen, I've just remembered that I have an old friend in Raleigh, whom I'd really like to hear from. He's a rising young criminal lawyer, and he stands well with the police and State officials. I think I'll waste some ink and paper, and a little of my valuable time on Jo Harkness.” “Queer chap that,” commented Val, as the door closed behind Hillary Larne. “I’m just getting the hang of him.” “Well, you may be sure he got the hang of you the first time you met—and talked a bit. M'—yes, he has a way of jumping at things rather swiftly,–sometimes.” “Oh, well!” and Effingham sighed. “I only hope his “valuable' time won't be altogether lost; for I think I know what he's up to !” “Me, too,” quoted his friend. CHAPTER XII. BORNE ON THE WIND. Mrs. Carrington Leach and her sporting husband were riding together along a wood bordered road so far beyond the city limits—that—as the lady had just assured her husband, “it really smelled like the country.” “The trees,” she chatted on, “are actually woodsy, and I have not seen, heard, or even thought of a street car for hours.” Leach twisted about in his saddle and grinned. “If you're trying to be as woodsy, and as rustic, as the rus- tics, Missus, you might begin to look about for another soft door-step where we may get some more milk and doughbags— I mean doughnuts. My word, I think you ate seven l’’ “Then you as certainly devoured eleven, sir! Well, I'll ad- mit it, I did lower the pan a bit; but that poor puppy made it so evident that he had not had his dinner; and the good soul— I mean the woman, of course—did actually think I ate them— all seven.” And she laughed, gayly. BORNE ON THE WIND 121 They had been riding as Tony declared for hours, and the roads, in places, were not city smooth. She had seemed bent upon seeing the “off country,” as she described it, as in opposi- tion to the well made, and much traveled, roads which she avoided, because, as she declared, she wanted to get into the “truly natural” roads and lanes, where they would not hear the honk of the auto, nor the whiz of the trolley cars. “And, being in the country, it will be only kind and thoughtful of me to keep an eye open for that cottage Irene wants to find,” she finished. “Poof! As if I swallowed that cottage. Catch Irene squan- dering her little bunch of quarterly coupons for a cottage, when she can worry along with one roof, and the roofs of her neigh- bors, very well—or as well as usual, at least! It ain't even a good fish story, Missus. My word! where now?”. She had drawn her horse from the road, and into a very faint bridle path leading down a shelving bank to a stream, which, in some places, would have passed for a small river; and which, just there, was a very pretty and picturesque creek. They had lately passed through a little hamlet, crossed a rail- way track, and so down its gently graded bank to this road beside the stream; and Leach now observed that the path, if it could be called such, here led away from the stream just beyond them, and that it became more open, and less attractive; while, on the opposite bank, which rose up steeply in places, ran a roadway, quite smooth and well traveled. Beyond it a belt of trees climbed a bluff, which followed the stream as far as the eye could see its winding course, and shut out whatever might lie beyond. A boy upon a shaggy pony had forded the stream, a moment before, and was now trotting gayly along this tree shaded oppo- site bank; and Mrs. Leach now turned from the less attractive, and more open, road, to follow him with her eyes. “Looks to me,” the man grumbled, as if in anticipation, “as if we might take that real pretty, woodsy, tree'y, viney road; and run, just beyond that curve, into a cow pasture—or some- body's barnyard! but of course—” “Of course, then, we can turn about, and see where the oppo- site way will lead,” she laughed, promptly splashing into the clear water, and bending to look down into its sunlit shallows. “Ooo-oo!” she cooed. “Don’t I wish we could just keep 122 A BLIND LEAD on-riding along in this shiny, clear, pebbly, water! Ooo!” as her horse lurched, the water flew up, and her riding crop fell into the creek. “Topsy Toodles, what do you mean?” And then her laughter pealed out, clear, musical, and real, at sight of her spouse; who, coming too close behind, had received the largest share of the splashing drops in his face and eyes, and on his person. But the day was fair, the new road still looked attractive, and he was enjoying, in his own way, this unusual outing with his pretty, freakish irresponsible wife; so they took the southwest curve, laughing together, and cantered down it, between the creek on the right, and the climbing belt of green on the left. Sometimes clusters of trees vine hung and bent, drooped over the water; and there were fragrant groups of willows between the road and the stream, which, winding gently, grew more and more attractive as they rode on. “Really,” declared Leach, when, after a brisk canter, they had drawn down to a walk at a point where a succession of little culverts crossed some tiny rills, which came down, at right angles with the creek, and made a narrow footway; “we have cantered, here, a mile or more and, as far as I can see, either way, there's not a house, barn, or corn shed, in sight; and yet- this is NOO Yawk.” “Have no fear, small boy—” he tipped the beam at about two hundred, “this won’t last; it's too good! Too altogether lovely and lonely! But you're right, Mr. Man, as you usually are, in such matters. Why have not some sensible people bought this lovely strip and built something, fine and homelike, upon this splendid series of natural terraces! I do wonder what's beyond them! Really, they shut out that half of the world!” “More trees, I suppose; some houses, I dare say, and—pos- sibly—some people. Though from here it don't look it. Come, Tony, let's hop along!” And for a time they did, slacking their speed once more as they approached a curve, around which the stream swept noisily, over a rough bed, and through sunkissed shallows. The road narrowed here, sloping slightly toward the creek; and Leach reined in behind his wife. As she rounded the curve she uttered a little cry, and called back, over her shoulder. “Here it is, Carry! after all we are not the only sensible people on earth! I see a chimney.” BORNE ON THE WIND 123 “Only one?” “Yes—no! Oh, no! there are several all in a bunch. Look, look!” laughing again; “I feel like—Christopher Columbus.” Three or four chimneys were visible now, high up, and tall; and when they had fully rounded the curve they saw, through the trees, a road curving upward from a rustic gateway, and, on the summit of the slope, a house, modern and handsome, and seeming hardly more than finished. The grounds about it being still littered with the last signs of the workmen’s occu- pancy, and with only a carriage road winding up, and seeming to sweep around the buildings in a circle. The trees, felled to make way for this road, still lay as they had fallen or been dragged aside; and, seeing the finished look of the house, they were surprised at this. For the house, evi- dently, was built almost regardless of expense, and such build- ings were usually rushed to a finish. “It's lovely!—or will be when complete!” the little lady de- cided. “But it is certainly lonely; and it looks as if it had been closed.” “Before it was opened? All the same, Missus, do you ob- serve those wagon tracks? No, by the powers, they’re the wheels of a ‘Tommy, and a big one, I should say, not very good roads these for speeding, at the best of times, I should think.” “Some people will drive a car anywhere; and I notice that it's as likely to be the people who keep to the decent roads, that break down, or blow up, or turn turtle, at some perfectly visible ob- struction, a straight corner, as those who travel roads like these,” said Tony, sagely. “Straight corner, is good,” he grinned. “Oh well—let's go on; I want to meet somebody who can tell me who built that house, and why it's not being finished.” A little beyond, the slope became less steep, and high, and more roofs and chimneys were visible over its top; and, just where the woods ended, and they saw open meadows ahead on either side the stream, they came upon a negro, riding a small, fat, and lazy mule; and Mrs. Carrington Leach reined up in his path, signaling him to halt, and began to pour out a flood of questions, the answers to which came with readiness from a wide and grinning mouth. He was a stalwart fellow, middle aged, intelligent, and lo- 124 A BLIND LEAD quacious. He had seen Leach slip his hand into his pocket, and noted the indulgent smile with which he reined in his horse, silently waiting his wife's pleasure; and they soon had the his- tory of the house, in brief. “Yassum!” the fellow said, his mouth widening, “Ah kin tell yo'. Ah ain't been heah much oveh six months but ever body heah—'bouts knows that house. Ain't yo' all hearn erbout them Shipmens?—Yassum, that's them. An of co’se yo' hearn erbout how they waz buildin’ er fine country home coz they're son what was er great painteh, he liked to live 'mong'st ther trees, in a quiet place, yassum!—that's so. That's ther place, and w'en that young man he got drownded, an he camed home in his caufin, his pa he jis lef’ that house jis like you see hit, an’ went orf somers Souf with all ther fam’ly. What's that. Yassum, it's rented, I hearn say. Some sick ole lady wit a son what's a stooden er'goin’ tu some er thu Noo Yawk sch'ols. I reckon she's done moved in, and 's goin' tu git ther place fixed up when she's made up er mine ter buy hit. Mr. Shipman' he's goin’ ter sell it right cheap, so I hearn.” “So much for your romance, Missus;” laughed Leach, as they rode on. “‘A sick ole lady, with a stoodent son.’” He was a capital mimic, and she laughed in spite of herself, and put her horse to a brisker speed. They were almost at the edge of the last wooded bit, and now they began to look about them. They had ridden out early in the day, with intent to make a full day's outing, and, upon their return, to leave their mounts at the coun- try Club, which would lie in their most direct route homeward. A stiff breeze had sprung up, as the afternoon grew toward evening, and the young boughs began to sway, and loose leaves, and drifting bits to flutter about them. “Look!” Tony cried, coming to a small opening through the very last of the woodland growth; “at last, there are roofs again and more roofs over there! suppose we find a path over this ridge—or make one. My steed—” but, at the word, her “steed” sprang up, and would have unhorsed a less skillful rider. She drew him up sharply, as her husband reached her side. “It's nothing,” she scoffed, “the pony wants brisker footing, that's all. It was just something bright colored,—a bird, I sup- pose. It flapped right between his ears. Look—there it goes!” pointing ahead at something just lodged in a thicket of vines, BORNE ON THE WIND 125 clinging to some young trees grouped close together at the water's edge. Carry, you really must get me a whip; I won't go on without one.” “Take mine;” he said, “I’ll cut one for myself. Look, there's your bird, if it is a bird, he's got tangled in that vine.” He slipped from the saddle. “Shall I catch him for you?” “You may set the poor thing free, if it is a bird—and if you think you can reach it. Toss me your rein,” she called. “There —now go on!” - Whistling softly, as he searched, boy fashion, for the neces- sary knife, he went down the little slope to the water's edge, where, a little above his head, a flash of scarlet could be seen fluttering among the leaves. He sprang and caught at the branch, and then his shout of laughter caused her to exclaim, petulently —“Well, what now—lost it?” “Lost nothing! Your bird in the bush is just a-a piece of red rag—no—ribbon.” “Red—ribbon l’’ “Yep!” He was cutting a switch now, and he turned about with it in his hands. “Get me the ribbon.” “Pshaw! it's only a scrap, and all twisted and soiled.” “Get the ribbon 1 and be careful with it.” There was a look of excited pleasure in her eyes. “Why Missus—” “Carry, I want that ribbon | Must I dismount? and—” But he was again striding down to the water's edge, and was back, after a moment's struggle with the branches, a scrap of much abused red ribbon in his hand. It was weather worn and rain spotted, and he eyed it with marked disfavor. “Looks like some kid's doll rag,” he scoffed. “Here's the treasure. Now, I'll just trim my new crop and then we would better strike out.” “All right, Boss;” she jested, as she caught the scarlet frag- ment from his hand. “Here—take your old nag!” He caught the leather as she tossed it toward him, and drawing it over his arm, began to cut and to whistle, leaning against the shoulder of his horse. And thus, for a moment they stood, each quietly intent; he upon his stick, she upon the bit of ribbon. 126 A BLIND LEAD She smoothed out the ribbon across her knee, looked at it, and—suddenly—looked closer. Then she cut short a sharp ex- clamation, just ready to break from her lips, cast toward him a furtive glance, again turning over the bit of ribbon, smoothed it again, and again scanned the reverse side. “My—soul!” she ejaculated. “What's up, Missus?” “You, should be!” she shot him another quick glance, but he was still cutting at his stick, his face creekward, and she bent again over the scrap upon her knee. “Well?” he snapped shut the knife, and turning sprang into the saddle, as if he were not a heavy-weight. “All ready, Missus?” “All—ready,” absently. He glanced across, as he drew in his curb. She was putting the piece of dingy weather beaten red ribbon into the bosom of her gown; carefully, with an absorbed countenance. “That's right!” he scoffed. “Don’t let that pretty bird get away. It's mighty valuable, I reckon.” “It is that! If I lost it I would never let you leave this bank alive—without it. Come, let's race.” “Oh ho! so you're ready for home at last! Good! So am I; and I haven't got a nice red ribbon, either.” “I’ll give you a blue one if you’re good. And–oh, I’ve an en- gagement—this evening! I’d almost forgotten it.” All the way to the Clubhouse she was silent, and seemed pre- occupied, and, as Leach never led in a conversation,—unless it was about dogs and horses, he rode swiftly and said little. Even at the Clubhouse, where Leach was very willing to lin- ger, she was quiet, pleading fatigue, and urging him to make haste home. She was brimming over with inward excitement, and found it very hard to suppress the fact. For the thing they had found, which the wind had blown across their path,-after tossing it about on the vagrant breezes, she could not guess how long, nor from how far—was a bit of vivid scarlet ribbon, rich, heavy, and possibly two inches in width by six in length. On one side were what looked like a medly of crisscross stitches, done in pale blue silk thread; but when one reversed the ribbon, the criss-cross of the opposite side became even lines, and short UNDER THE SKYLIGHT 127 curves, then forming a series of rustic letters. They were all alike, in size, and were disconnected between even spaces, and they looked, at the first glance, much like this- *** * ov'A LF########so NER ~ * R 1 s H)A S T E N- CHAPTER XIII. luNDER THE SKYLIGHT. “How discouraging! If this continues I shall lose my forti- tude! If it were only paper!—if I only dared send out paper— oh, dear!” with this feminine last phrase the girl, very slowly and carefully, let herself down to a sitting posture, and threw out two fully occupied hands to steady herself. And small wonder! Was ever a pretty, daintily attired, girl seen, or even imagined, in such a position? She was poised, rather she had been poised—she was bunched at this moment,-crouching, and balancing—at the top of a singular pyramid. It had been a brass bedstead, draped fluffily in white and rose, and billowy lace; the billows looking almost tempestuous now, because, in the center stood, vibrating slightly, a roomy Boston rocker, broad seated, broad armed, and with much cushiony draping, to match that of the bed. Its base be- ing buried deep in the soft bed fittings, and the seat filled with cushions and pillows—all that the pretty suite afforded—not placed there for additional cushion comfort, but as a more or less secure anchorage for an ottoman, or low turkish stool. Upon the upholstered top of this stool had been piled as many curtains, table covers, and miscellaneous articles as could be secured, folded, and laid flat upon it. And finally, atop of all this, crouched—as has been described, and dangerously vibrating —the girl. A £er brass curtain pole was grasped tightly in one hand, and the other slowly relaxed its hold upon something white, 128 A BLIND LEAD and queerly knotted; a rope of towels, in fact, one end being secured at her waist, and the other fastened to the highest point of the bed's head, serving thus, when she grasped it, and drew it taut, to support and aid her in keeping balanced atop of her uncertain pedestal. And this, as well as the brazen rod, was certainly needed. She sat for a little time in a huddled heap, looking up at the ceiling above her, or rather at the place where, ordinarily, a ceil- ing would have been. But this was not an ordinary place. Above her head was a broad skylight, composed of several large, thick, panes of glass, firmly leaded, and, just now open outward. For the day was Soft and sunny, and the breezes most welcome. But open though it was—this queer skylight, with no visible means of reaching it—the room below was no less a prison; for, between it and the window—when the glass was shut down—was a grating composed of heavy iron wire, woven into square meshes not more than four inches apart, too strong to break through, and too frail to bear one's weight, even if they had not been too high to be reached even from the queer pedestal which upheld the golden-haired girl, who was now slowly lifting her- self, toppling and balancing, until, at length, she stood erect. And then—first drawing the towel-rope taut with her left hand—she slowly raised the brass rod, with the right, until it projected beyond the opening, through a mesh of the woven wire; and, had one been present, he might have seen, attached to the end of the rod by a loose single twist, something which waived and fluttered, and which she made haste to detach, by drawing the rod across the wires on either side, watching breath- lessly until it fluttered upward, wavered, then floated away and was lost from sight. For a weary hour the girl had been working, having made her- self fairly secure from interruption, at that hour by claiming, many days since, that an afternoon nap was essential to her com- fort, and that her jailers, if it seemed to them good, might furnish a watch upon her slumbers. But the slumber she must have, if she was to keep her health. She had been a haughty prisoner from the first, and a daring one, and if her courage and high spirit ever failed her, in her moments of solitude, her jailers had not been the wiser. As she stood, now, balanced and swaying, with the pole turn- UNDER THE SKYLIGHT 129 ing and twisting in her hand, her eyes were brilliant, her cheeks were carmine red, and her lips, close pressed together, made a small ruby cupid's bow, above her firmly rounded chin. Ah—h—h!. At last her little message, aided by a strong gust of summer wind, had fluttered out and away. She was sure of it this time. She had plainly seen it detach itself from the rod, and it was gone—at last. For just an instant the girl's face glowed warmly, her breast heaved tumultuously, and then—her little messenger was blown back, by a counter current, and floated up and again across the skylight; and she saw, just at its edge, a hand—big, black, and uncouth—catch it, and crush it within the grasp of a clenched fist. With blanched face, and hands tightly clutching each other, the girl flung herself down upon the bed and lay there face downward, motionless, and still, for many long moments. Once, as she lay thus, she caught a slight sound, as of a soft foot-fall outside her door, and, after a moment, the almost soundless turning of the door knob. But the door was bolted from within, and she only lifted her head, and let it fall again, wearily, as before. Presently there came the metallic sound of the opening of the speaking tube, and a hollow call, from below. “Miss Iris,” she did not reply and again for a moment there was silence. - “Miss Irist” silence still. “Oh, Miss Iris!” The girl stirred impatiently, and in a moment, and louder, came the call, “Miss La Croix /’’ Very deliberately now, with a scornful half smile upon her still pallid lips, she arose, and went to the speaking tube. Its presence in a city building had puzzled her, from the first- and she detested the tinny, hollow, sound of the voices passing through it. As she now paused before it the voice began speak- ing once more; but at once she cut it off, by calling back, per- emptorily— “Stop! Understand me distinctly!, I will not reply to any thing from any person addressing me by that name! and I will not respond, again, to such a call!” • “Very good—Miss Lay Croix,” she had grown to recognize, by the voice, and manner of speech, the three, or perhaps four, separate persons engaged in the task of guarding her; and she UNDER THE SKYLIGHT 133 “There must be no more attempts to send out messages from your roof ! It's a waste of time; it's useless! We don’t take needless risks in our business. If you could see the roof you would know that. And—the sooner you decide to sign those checks the better—for you! You're only forcing us to harsh measures, and it must be done in the end. A young woman of your cleverness should know that there's no turning back, no weakening, in these games. As things are, now, we couldn't spare you anything if we would; and—excuse me if I add that, # £ don’t feel like being very lenient you have yourself to thank.” “Oh! you stand excused, sir! pray say no more. As to your threats, I have this to say, I am not quite friendless, and if you have succeeded in keeping my hiding place concealed, thus far, there is so much the more reason to feel—to know that it can- not last! With all your skill and daring—if you call this busi- ness courageous—you cannot conceal my hiding place for al- ways, for my friends will spare nothing in their search for me. And, should they fail, or give up, there is one person who will not. As for my messages’ let that prove to you that I have not given up my own efforts. And let me warn you—should you succeed in driving me quite to dispair, I can still baffle you! I have found a way; and, at need,—I shall use it!” There was silence for a moment. They were whispering in the room below. And then the voice replied. “If you contemplate suicide, your suggestion is really most considerate—and—we will bear it in mind. It might simplify matters and—in that case—we could get along without your signature upon those checks.” She had paled again, and her eyes now were pools of horror, but the voice, in which she replied to this, was silken smooth. “I’m sorry, really, to disappoint you, Sir Knight; but I do not contemplate suicide—yet. I am learning that there are circum- stances which might induce me to kill, and even to wish to kill! But—never myself! I am leaving this room now; you may consider this audience at an end.” And she walked into the inner room with her head in the air, and threw herself upon the low couch, after one disgusted glance at the strangely burdened bed, in the center of the sleeping room. She was one of those fortunately constituted beings whose spirits invariably rise at the call to arms. 134 A BLIND LEAD When she saw the ugly black hand clutch her messenger, for which she had prepared the way with so much effort, she had felt, for the moment, ready to sink down, as she did, in despair. But the tilt with the man whom, she felt sure, was one, if not the one, of the jailors who had been responsible for her wretched imprisonment, had revived her fighting spirit, and with it her courage, and she now turned her thoughts to the captured message. It was not the first she had succeeded in slipping through the wires of her prison window. Two others she had loosed from her rod, and had seen, borne away from her sight upon a brisk breeze; traveling, as she thought, westward. These had been sent out almost a week since, and both with- in the same hour. When she had found herself isolated from all save the negress, and deprived of paper, pens, and pencils, she was, at first, at a loss. Then she began to complain to the woman. At least they might let her have some occupation! for she couldn’t read books all the time, and newspapers were tabooed. If she might have some sewing now, and an embroidery needle and frame, she could at least keep her fingers busy. And these innocent time killers were soon abundantly supplied. And then, when the woman came again, she found the prisoner busy over roses; leaves and buds all growing in beauty upon a round of silk; and soon she had reported— “That pore chile's a tryin’ new stitches ovah an agin and just enjoyin’ hit.” But she made no further discoveries. Meanwhile the girl waited and wondered. Had all her mes- sages failed her? How could they? Surely some one must have guessed their meaning, if found ! And how could her captors feel so safe, so secure, here in New York, or very near it? Certainly she had been missed- and was being hunted. And yet her jailers laughed at the suggestion. What could it mean:! Oh, if only she could see the newspapers—some of them. “Why,” she now asked herself, had she not been more frank with that other girl, who, as she now realized, must have been, like herself, a prisoner. Why had she doubted and half sus- pected her? If she could only have seen her face! Was that the face of Iris La Croix? More and more, as the days passed by, she grew to believe UNDER THE SKYLIGHT 135 herself in a mad-house. Private, of course, and silent, and close guarded. For what else was that padded room, in which, for a day, she had been kept? Padded ! yes, and windowless; and, oh, how gloomy. And why did they so persistently disbelieve, or assume to disbelieve her declarations that she was not Iris La Croix? And why did they desire her signature, when she had showed them how little it was likely to resemble that of Miss La Croix. She was young, strong, and optismistic. She had read and heard of abductions for ransom; and, at first, seeing herself com- fortably housed, well served, well fed, and treated with utmost, if silent respect, she had felt little fear, and confidently looked forward to a speedy rescue, or release. The singular arrangement of her prison place, and the security of it, had impressed her from the first, and had assured her that she was not in the hands of amateurs in the business of out- lawry and imprisonment. From the beginning, she had treated the situation, and her captors, with a lofty and fearless indifference, amounting—in the case of the men, when—after a silence of three full days— they began to converse with her through the speaking tube—to absolute scorn and contempt. To the colored woman she had been, from the first, uni- formly kind; and, as the days passed, almost friendly. “I has to tell yo’, Miss Lady,” the woman had said, when the girl began to question her, “that ah've got mah awdehs an I mus'n tell yo nuffin' erbout dese folks'es ner dis place were yo's at. Ef I should they'd tek me erway f’om yo' an let yo' lone to jis tek caer o' you's own se’f, an git you'ah meals out’er dis heah!” and she showed her the cunningly contrived window- like opening into the little ante-room. I wants to do for yo' the bes I kin, en if yo' was tu mek me tell you things hit'ud be a lot de wus fer me! So please—” Here the girl had checked her speech, with a smile which be- gan the subjugation of the woman; who, as the days wore on, grew, more and more, the friend of the lonely prisoner, while still maintaining the strictest silence where the personal interests of the girl and the woman’s employers were concerned. “You need not fear, my good woman, that I shall tempt you to break a promise, or cause you to suffer harm through me,” she had said. I have no quarrel with you; and I shall be grateful * 136 A BLIND LEAD - to you for any attention, and service you are permitted to render me. So now we shall understand each other, and be comfort- able together.” Very soon the prisoner was made to understand one strong reason why it would be unsafe for her dusky attendant to give information had she wished. At her first opportunity she showed the girl the mechanism of the speaking tube, and made her understand, by signs and whispered words, that the cap, which should have closed the end of the tube opening into her room, had been removed; and that conversation carried on there in ordinary tones could always be heard, in the room below, by any one who cared to listen. Also she was soon made to understand that there were other means of overhearing confidances, and always a close kept es- pionage from without, at such times as the colored woman was in her apartment. And then, one day, as the girl lay upon her couch in a mood of gloom, the woman had waxed briefly confidential— “Missy Lady, I wish I could do somethin’ to mek yo' feel moah cheerful. But heah's de troof! My man he got inter de chain gang down Souf; an wen he got a chanst ter run erway, dese folkes hulped im ter git Norf; an' day svent fer me, an’ ef I wuz ter diserbey he'd git svent back, suah, an’ me too, I specip” And the girl had whispered back—“I understand, Mammy, and I thank you, and am sorry for you.” It was very lonely. The solitude and the confinement were horribly irksome, but the girl had not yet lost her courage—at least not for long—and often, as she lay alone in the growing dusk, she thought of those first messages, and longed to know their fate. Again and again she recalled the girl with the soft voice, who came to her, during those first days of her imprisonment, a few times only and always in the dark, and whom she had doubted, when she talked, so gently, but so cautiously, and a winning hand pressure. She was a prisoner, like herself, she had said so, and, like herself, was ignorant of her surrounding. “But I am promised a ransom soon;” she had said one day. “I am not considered a valuable prisoner,” and she had laughed bitterly. “And if I get out, I will try to help you—if I can f" and then she had sighed. THE NEW POINT OF VIEW 137 Nearly a month had passed since the girl's last visit, and the prisoner hoped that she was now in safety. But—had she tried to help her? And who was she? She had not told her name, nor given a hint of her own story. Where was she, now?” The girl decided that she would risk something and ask Mammy; and when the chance came, she did. Mammy looked at once troubled and confused. “Why—her? Miss Lady I doan’ rightly know. Dat young Missy was heah wen—we all camed heah, least wise, me! An’ she wus a sort o' pris’ner, too, like yo'self, but I guess she'd took her oaf, like dey keeps askin' yo’all, for dey gived her mo' libutty than yo'all gits. But she's been gone dese free weeks an’ mo'. No'm I don’ know wheah she's from, nor wheah she's went, nor who she been. No'm.” The prisoner sighed. CHAPTER XIV. THE NEW POINT OF VIEW. Mrs. Carrington Leach, upon reaching the Club house, went at once to the writing room, and penned a line to Hillary Larne. She longed to use the telephone, and to hear Larne's quick note of surprise when she announced her business. But this same “business” as she very well knew, must not be announced, in the set terms which, as she also knew, she could not resist, once she found Hillary Larne at the opposite end of the wire. Besides, there was ample time by the safer route. So she put temptation behind her and sat down to write her message. “My Dear Larry,” thus she wrote, in a big boyish hand, and as briefly as though she were sending a telegram—“Tomorrow, 9:30 A. M., Mounted—near Obelisk—Great find. T. C. L. “I’ll bet that will bring him!” she assured herself gleefully, “and give him something to guess at too; “just to think of silly little Tony winning the first lap! M—m!” The last mail cityward would be collected within the hour, and, slipping the letter into the bag, she found her spirits rising, and for this reason and to kill time, she teased her big husband un- mercifully all the way home. >k •k :k sk >k sk >k sk >k 138 A BLIND LEAD At nine o'clock next morning, Hillary Larne, astride a dappled grey nag tall, shapely, and fleet, was circling about in Central Park near the point, on the West drive, where stands the Obe- lisk, quarried by the great Thothmes the III, floated down the Nile for hundreds of miles, and erected at Heliopolis, fifteen centuries before the star marked the path in the desert for the camels of the three wise men, and brought at last through much adventure by sea and land to its latest, and most incongruous, resting place in modern Central Park. Small wonder that hansoms, carriages, equestrians and pedes- trians, all cultured New York, find this spot in the park unique in interest, and that Larne should,—at last—draw near, and lose himself for the time, in its contemplation! It had seen so much of change, itself unchanging. Always, this proof of man's superior knowledge, and skill, while yet the world was young, was a thing of fascination to Larne. It set him dreaming, and seeing visions; and, sitting his horse, a little space away, he had let his wonder as to the nature of Tony’s “great find,” drop from his mind, while the moments passed and the sight of Cleopatra's royal plaything—so strange a toy for a beautiful woman to covet—set him dreaming of an- cient Egypt, and her wonders and mysteries. He had lost all thought of time, this man of varied tastes and abilities, and had ceased to see the moving panorama all about him, when a voice near him spoke lightly— “Hypnotized, as of old?” She knew his tastes, and his liking for this great pointing finger. “Come away, Larry. The man is about the place somewhere, and I have something in the way of hieroglyphics to display, my own little self. Come over to the row; and, mind, we must be in evidence every moment! This is just a chance meeting. And she laughed lightly, as they trotted away side by side silent until, passing one of the smaller lagoons— “Oh, the swan birds,” she cried, “let’s stop, Larry, and see them fed!” They pulled their horses out near the lakelet, and, for a moment, seemed interested in the graceful white water fowl, then she laughed again as she caught his inquiring eye— f £ry. you have not noticed my badge,” she said, reproach- t1lly. “I have! and I have wondered what new society you have joined.” Laughing still she unpinned the bit of red ribbon she had WOrn twisted into a scant rosette, and held it out to him. THE NEW POINT OF VIEW 139 For a moment his look was just one of inquiry. Then, as she had done on the previous day, he reversed the ribbon and studied it again, and then, for a moment, he looked away toward the water, and the swans. A passerby would have said that he was admiring the big white birds, while she seemed lightly convers- ing. In reality she was humming the refrain of a ragtime tune. Presently he drew in his curb. “Come!” he said, and they rode slowly away side by side. “This path will be quiet,” he said, turning soon. “Now—tell me about it. It's a lead—at last—or seems to be.” “I was sure you would think so,” she declared. “Or—you don’t suppose—” “That it's a hoax? Hardly—now. Miss La Croix is at home, remember. Come,—tell me!” And she did. >k >k >k >k >k >k >k sk >k “I must see the place,” he said, the moment she had finished. “How far is it—from the Clubhouse?” “Quite five miles, I should think. It's rather a crooked route that we took.” “Yes? Well, I must go there—today,” he was thinking, plan- ning, while he spoke, as she well knew. “Do you want—Carry—or myself?” she hesitated. “Would you care to go—again—so soon? Would it be— Wise?” “You mean because of the people at the Club? I think I shall have to go back there. I left my new vanity bag in the writing room.” She did not add that she had also left a torn and blotted envelope near it, addressed to Miss Irene Smedley. “You see I thought—I rather hoped—” “Tony, you are a regular trump!” he broke in. “You’ve beaten us all. We must lose no time now in going over this ground. Shall I meet you at the Club with my new Lim', and take you in, you and Leach? Is there—” . “Wait. Carry won't want to go out there again, I'm sure. But I'll call up Irene, tell her I must run out there, and ask her to go. We'll take her ponies, and Billy. You can then take us in, to try your new car, and—if you like—Billy can drive the ponies back—Irene too, if she gets too much of the auto.” “Good! And you think the nearest houses—” “The nearest houses were over the ridge. We could only see their roofs. The Shipman place, as I told you, was the only 140 A BLIND LEAD house we really saw. But the others were nearer the spot where we found the message—shall you tell—” “Shall I tell the others? Not until you have shown me the ground. And now let's get back, time's flying. May I keep the —trophy?” “Why, it's yours—captain! I'm just a forager,” she laughed. “And a jolly good one,” he declared heartily. They separated at the children's gate, Larne giving her gloved hand a firm pressure, and again uttering a sincere word of thanks. “If I had more foragers like you,” he finished, “we would get on faster. Unluckily we haven't enough of your sort, in our business! Till we meet again—then!” He touched his hat, and sat still a moment to see her gallop away. She headed straight across the park and homeward; but Larne turned back toward the Obelisk, dismounting, and seating him- self in full view of that great “needle.” It was one of his peculiarities that a thing like this—a great thing, be it picture, statue, lofty mountain, or rich landscape— influenced him strangely; and he sought such, when possible, in times of anxiety—in uncertainty, perplexity, or strong mental perturbation. As he sat, now, gazing up at this age old mystery in its calm unchanging guard over the whirling, flitting, straining, and un- certain pygmy life going on all about its feet, he felt drawn by its strength and stillness; then, soothed; and, presently, able to think clearly. For, when shaken by doubt, or shocked by the sud- denness or rapidity of events, he never allowed himself to think, as he desired to think now, calmly, decisively, and to the final issue. For now, as it seemed to him, the time for such thinking had arrived. Up to that moment he had been hampered—working slowly, thinking and planning tentatively, while making deductions, and preparations; for, in his present light—which was more like shadow, so vague was it, and so uncertain—he could see but a step ahead, and this step dimly. But this! He looked again at the bit of scarlet ribbon, and smiled up at the Obelisk. Already his feelers had gone out, and the life story of Jerry La Croix was being woven for him, step by step. Already, quite unknown even to his nearest friends and help- ers, he had formed a beginning, a light, upon the early pathway THE NEW POINT OF VIEW 141 followed by the feet of the millionaire, and this might soon open up; might show the reason why his daughter had been taken from him. Already returns were coming in—as they often do—so many and so unsure—when there should be but one, and that one definite, and the beautiful face of Iris—the second Iris—was being almost recognized in half a dozen places. Already, too, a dozen strangely shut and guarded houses were being marked for “attention” and “closer inquiry,” while upon Larne's desk lay three heaps of “reports,” typewritten, penciled, ink scrawled. The largest heap bore, upon the outer flap of each envelope, in Larne's most distinct hand, “no good.” The next, and lesser, were indorsed in like manner, “Look further.” And the last, the latest and least—a mere quartette of thin documents, were labeled, “Drop it and look further,” which, being interpreted by Larne's sleuths would read, “I’ll finish this job, do you hunt a new one.” And, up to the moment of receiving and comprehending Mrs. Carrington Leach's “message,” Larne had meant to take up, in person, the thorough examination, within and without, of the four houses mamed in these last described reports. In truth, this had seemed to him his only forward course. That it was an unsure advance he knew well, for Iris La Croix, by now, might be half way around the world, just as easily and as probably, as here, in New York, or any of its suburbs. In truth he had held in mind, from the first, the possibility of her being taken at once aboard a private yacht or some lesser boat, and he had lost no time in setting afoot a close inquiry as to all the water craft within easy reach on the night of her disap- pearance, just as he had sent out an inquiry and established a watch, through and over all the city railway routes, and stations, all the trolley lines, and subways, the elevated cars, the cabs, and taxicabs. Larne’s “new case,”—it was never known by any other name among the long roster of “sleuths” and private enquirers—it had suddenly set in active motion—was “a big thing,” in more than one sense, to all concerned. To Larne himself, up to this moment, it had been his “case without a clue.” “No thoroughfare” had stared him in the face when he looked for a route, and yet he must go on, and he meant to go on. THE CLAXTON CASE 143 boy, when, as the game ‘wearies, some one cries out, ‘Hot, Johnny, hot!’ And this game has been confoundedly cool, up to now. Hike Rex, old man, the way's clear. Let us hope it's a good omen!” But Larne was still busy with his thoughts, and, almost at once he drew in his horse. “After all, old fellow,” he mused, “we need not hurry! there's too much time just to spend in waiting, and too little to attempt anything useful—very—before the mid- day start. So jog along, and we'll meditate.” He had, in truth, almost three hours before the time set for his afternoon start, and he had, always, of things to do, enough and to spare. CHAPTER XV. THE CLAXTON CASE. Hillary Larne's proposed invisible circle about the city, was drawn—in reality—after his journey out into the suburbs beyond the Country Club with Mrs. Leach. It was drawn with a thick blue pencil, upon a series of pocket maps of New York city and its environments, and these were handed out to group after group of searchers. - - Day after day as the first, or outer circle had been, or seemed, exhausted, the next was taken up; and, in the two weeks which followed, many men, under various pretexts, explored the re- gions about Washington Heights, Kingsbridge, and Spuyten Duyvil, and far up into Westchester County. But at the end of the first week of this newly extended search, there were still no results. And then, one day, the mail brought to Jerry La Croix a thing, which, fortunately, he did not under- stand, and so handed it over to Val Effingham, seeking him at his Club for that purpose. “I won't show the thing to Iris,” La Croix said, by way of explanation, “she so hates to hear the business spoken of—and I can’t blame the girl! It may not mean anything, but I remem- bered our talk, and my promise to let you know of anything that might turn up. Looks to me like some kid's joke. There's cer- tainly no sense to it!” - 144 A BLIND LEAD That of which he spoke was contained in a soiled and common yellow envelope, which also held a letter written upon a half sheet of foolscap paper, in what seemed to be the labored efforts of a child; half ink printed, half in a crooked ill-formed copy- book hand. The second of the two enclosures was a scrap of ribbon; red like that which now reposed in a little silken case in a pocket wherein nothing else was allowed to rest, smallest of its kind, and nearest to the heart of Val Effingham, its possessor. Like the first, too, this one bore the appeal for help, and the names of “Val” and “Iris.” And it was even more faded, and more weather worn, than the other; and soiled, as from the contact of small and grimy fingers. The letter, which accompanied it ran as follows: “Dear Mr. Lekroy i rite this leter to send yo this heer ribbon wich I found in the woods. It's got your girl's name on it, and the name ov her bow. isene that erbout her bein lost in a neospaper i found blown round in the rode an i ain’t herd ov her bein’ found We liv by the Pel- lums ba shoar whar its offul lonesum so if this helps find yeer girl please send me sume pitcher books an a dolar. i'm IX yers old. Janey pike.” Effingham started at sight of the faded duplicate of the mes- senger he carried close to his heart. Then, controlling his fea- tures, he read the quaint letter. “Really !” he commented, as he put it down after giving it, first a swift, and then a slower, more critical, perusal. “It’s evi- dently the work of some child living the life of the poor white,’ in some little backwater—where newspapers are not seen, except by chance. Or, it's the scheme of a practical joker.” “Probably the latter,” said La Croix, grimly. • “Yes! still—I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind; and—smoke over it.” “Better light your pipe with it,” the elder man advised. What- ever it is, Iris is safe at home; and it's of no account now. By the way, things seem very quiet since we put in the new man. Another case of needless gooseflesh, I fancy! However, since I’ve got him, I'll keep him. He's a good man, and, now and then, he's quite useful.” And the complacent man of money went THE CLAXTON CASE 145 his satisfied way, after which Effngham promptly sought Hillary Larne, and placed before him this second bit of red ribbon with its silken lettering. Larne studied it closely. “If the first of these is a genuine message, and we have de- cided that it is—this is also genuine,” he declared, “and—this,” touching the foolscap sheet, “has the real ring. It seems odd to think there's a place within reach of this big city, where a newspaper is a rare thing, but there are some queer places—and people—along the water fronts, some of them; and we can find people, within the city's very heart, who do not buy or read the papers. This letter was posted—yes—at Pelham station. Well —young man—we will even go West again—as far as Pelham Bay. They had “combed” the lesser portions of Westchester County, with small success, however thoroughly; and now Larne himself led the hunt Southward; Westward, into New Rochelle, and up and down it. Through Pelham proper they searched, as Larne afterwards declared, “almost with a microscope;” and then they circled around it, in all directions, widening out and out, until the bay itself was reached, and its shores beaten, up and down; and so on to Schuylerville. Then, one day, a report from “Brooklyn way,” telling of two big, shut up, and mysteriously illuminated houses in the out- skirts, took them “across the styx,” and busily hunting, for two long days, upon its further shore. Both Larne and Effingham, as it chanced, were of this party, for both were by now warmed to the work, and the clues had seemed worth while. They came in, on the second night, to their unassuming little hotel in the Brooklyn suburbs, the one tired, and frankly cross; the other, seemingly, quite fresh, and certainly good humored, and a bit amused at the other’s “tragics.” “It's useless to tarry here beyond the morning, Effingham, un- less our beaters' unearth another brick barn, or hidden cave,” Larne commented, as he lighted his bed time pipe and looked across at his room mate. We’ve unearthed the haunt of a bad nest of tramps, and, I hope have driven them out; and we have seen, and investigated, a real haunted house! Ugh! It looked a fit home for ghosts! And now—that is tomorrow—I shall take up my Ariadne's thread, where I dropped it to join you in this wild goose chase.” 146 A BLIND LEAD “And—if I'm allowed to ask—where will your ‘Ariadne's thread take you?” “You’re to ask what you will, and I'll answer, as I can, my friend. I thought we had settled that question! This is your hunt, if it belongs to anyone. But—I am going back to the “banks of the Wabash as Tonie Leach calls that little stream near which she found your first red message. I’ve a pricklin' o' my thumbs whenever my thoughts turn to that locality. You will observe that both of those red ribbon telegrams came into our hands—from Eastward.” “And miles apart!” “Well, things do travel miles, and then more miles, on some of these inshore gales we have had of late. Of course they might have blown in from sea.” “I’ve thought of that.” “And I also. But I don't quite accept it—even as a possibil- ity. The fact is, I want to see further into that Sanitarium,' that shut its doors so coolly in Doctor Flack's face when he called. Oh, these rival M. D.'s And then I want to take a personal look at the tops of some of those houses along that creek. Especially the one with the big dormers, and also that house with the little, tightly latticed, hanging balcony at the top of the roof. And—I’ve a thought, too, for the cottage that was taken three weeks ago, for a family with an invisible invalid; and that's still waiting for the inmates. Nobody seems able to give any account of them.” Effingham was studying Larne's face curiously as he uttered these last words. “I thought,” he said negligently withdrawing his gaze, “that you had called them all off, from that neck of woods out beyond the new Club House.” “Right! And so I have.” “And given it up?” “Right again! To tell the truth, Effingham, while you were out on the Spuyten Duyvil circuit, I took a run down there. I saw, in the Sunday Times, that the little brick church in the hamlet just below that ridge, was hunting for a nice young man to occupy the pulpit; and I got a little, old, out of date car, that looks as if she were just fitted to carry a dominie safely while he evolved his Sunday sermon, but which can go a good gait when properly urged, and I put in the whole day pottering about the country, with the easiest of the Church deacons, whom I hunted up without much trouble.” THE CLAXTON CASE 147 “Jove!” grinned Val, “I’d like to have seen you in clerical attire !” “There was none, except the white neckcloth.” “And—did you find a trail that the others had overlooked?” “By no means! But I found that they had been spotted! I suppose there was never an “Insane Hospital' with a country setting, so to speak, that did not soon have a fine crop of horror stories going the rounds, and a lot of Peeping Toms nosing about the place. There have been some pretty noisy patients out there, of late, and there's the report of a ‘cruelly treated, and, of course perfectly sane man, being held there. Also, of course, there's the belief in a secret and fast filling graveyard, on the premises. Besides—and—I fancy there's some truth in this last —they have there, at present, a really dangerous maniac, with a perfect genius for breaking out, and frightening all hands, out- side the place and in. He's an avenger, commissioned to kill, and he goes into tantrums, it seems, at sight or sound of a stranger about the place. I happened there on visitor's day, and the good Deacon, of course, took me in. But we did not meet with a warm welcome. They had just been all upset with one of their frequent struggles with the man—who had broken away from his guard, and went running amuck all over the shop. He had upset all and sundry, from the doctor to the man in the stables. Effingham!” with one of his sudden changes of manner, from careless ease to swift decisiveness, “I mean to see the whole in- side of that Sanitarium, by some means, if I have to let you put me in there as another maniac!” “Why not put me there?” Val suggested, “and give me the chance to tear loose—” he broke off sharply, at the little hail of knocks upon their door— “’Z Mr. Lee in here,” demanded a small boy in a dingy uni- form, “’f ’e is he's wanted in ther telerfome booth, right quick!” There was no private service in this third rate hostelry, and Larne—registered as Lee—hastened below. “Hello!” “Larry,” as the clear voice sounded across the wire Larne's face lighted up. “Una!” he whispered, and then, “Hello, girl! what’s the word?” “Larry, do come in at once! You're needed!” The rattle, faint but distinct, of a hung-up receiver told him that he would hear no more. And, in truth, he did not expect further words. It THE CLAXTON CASE 149 “Good! That is—I prefer to put the whole thing before you myself. Day before yesterday, at about noon, Mark Claxton's people missed young Ellery, nine years old, small of his age, and very unruly and venturesome. Of course they began by looking about in all his favorite haunts, and telephoning here and there among his friends. They lost an hour or two in that way, and then sent for the boy's father—who came at once to me. Of course we set about the usual inquiry, the usual search; and threw out the same old drag net. There were no clues; no one had seen the boy leave the house—there was nothing to go on. Then, this noon—I mean yesterday—came the letter—of course we had expected it.” “Of course,” Larne assented. “Claxton brought it to me at once. It called for one hundred thou’—and no questions asked,—the usual thing! Now I had of course, watched the La Croix affair pretty closely, and the letter reminded me, by its wording, of the first one sent to Jerry La Croix—the one that was published—and so I took it straight way to La Croix's office. He took me, at once, to his house, in his new car, and there we compared the letters. It was the same handwriting.” Here Larne came to acute attention, like a steel spring, sud- denly snapped. “Are you sure?” he questioned. “Sure! And I want you to be I’ve brought the letters.” For a moment there was no sound save the rustling of paper; then- “You are right!” declared Larne, pushing aside the two letters. “What next?” Rohan's eyes snapped. “Of course it was a case where a big reward was certain to the winner, and all the fools were out in full cry the moment the thing became known. One of them, a cub reporter, turned in such a safe looking story, of a flying automobile with a boy sitting low down in the tonneau, between two men, etc., etc., that the office took it up. They were seen out by Morris Park, and away we went. The thing kept looking better, and we kept after it, until we ran the machine, men, and boy, to earth out on 141st Street. Men, boy, auto and driver, all belonged to some theatrical troupe, stopping out there while rehearsing for a big summer show to go out soon. Then we came back, nothing done, and time lost. “Claxton and I came to the same conclusion at the same mo- THE CLAXTON CASE 151 ets, a look of gratification in the face, which, in the presence of the other man, had been as a mask. He took up a cigar, and after slowly lighting it, seated himself in his easiest chair and called cheerfully— “Come out, Effingham!” His face wore the look of a well satisfied man who has earned a bit of comfort and means to have it, when Val Effingham, looking puzzled and dissatisfied, entered, and stood before him. “Sit down,” said Larne genially, indicating a seat and the ci- gars. “Light up, and let's smoke—and talk—a little. Rohan's voice carries well—you must have heard—something?” Effingham seated himself bolt upright, like one who has much upon his mind and is bound to rid himself of it. But he waved away the cigars. “Since you must have expected me to hear I need not, and I do not, regret that I did hear—enough to convince me that, with our case, my case, hardly begun, you are promising yourself- and a portion at least, of the time I thought was entirely ours— to another matter! I did not expect this of you, Larne.” “My friend,” Larne snuggled down in his luxurious chair as if bent on taking comfort, “either you have not heard, or, hear- ing, have not understood. Unless I am greatly mistaken, young Master Claxton, and Miss La Croix, are under the same roof at this moment. She was taken at night; a fact much against us in tracing her course. But young Ellery Claxton was taken away by day, and the chances to trace him are much greater. Be- sides—I intend to put at least one very level head in charge of young Claxton's case; a head worth, in its way, more than mine —and yours, and—several others. A woman's head.” “And why not a woman’s head, before?” Larne laughed. “My perplexed friend, there has been, not one, but several, of these same fair heads, upon the case. Heads wise, and patient, clever, tactful and quick; able to go where you and I may not, and to do what we can not. They have worked upon the case of Miss La Croix from the first; and one of these same clever little heads will soon be—I trust—letting some light in upon this new case, which will mean new light for the old one, as well.” “Oh—that—is different,” sighed Effingham. “It is another thing, altogether!” And the sigh, and the look which was relax- ing his perplexed features, were both of relief. *k :k sk sk *k sk *k >k *k 152: IND LEA I r1 #'', '**ing "ours wh Il o1 CH- £ were, 1, t *S La Croix a. a ''': house. h Ir II Larne lur JW, Sunk e - b1 e 1211"> kin. "tting °Ppos it €D in Hi 1 Pešpeaking in th e aract rat lift of i. I- 1121- re 111S S0ft re O it." Small fi Fe, al p0Se II * fine I' O Sure, a S We aS fi><-- #. and se Sy pos £ - * and the Ca * a rene *sonali' full : ue, 'ong and C at oppos'. m, ainty, Ira- e S D Site - 8. S H. 11 era long narr arne , and s tidied his face h c1 is the #: 9W stri - as he held to- *###ere is t e list {t is £of paper Sayin W * - H. o select, and # is 'preff' £ - vv t ear-the fill: 'ere to begin. It # £" Will "derstand ''': y 111ay sur £g in of th: list as been the work of th £es a goo'ise *Qu-at first £d while some of £ 1nal1 r£1...e to b 'eason for e r Slance, th re 1S to e, Of £ #, 'in, no: When '' thereon." shall n tsug- *#H#Her £ Don't ex "'t know . /” He d # y. to rise to that ps And she lat:#":13, th : 'only £y this i I - an Conclusi £e two ' £ £ # Out believe £re in this City—an e —I # he Spoke : ànnes ill be £ ' ' €y are wn: ich at leas' had n "inning here d: - upon V #nd wh entyn S were Writt WI1 the slip, free # the &: he 'ased, s e did no '' # 1e - S. Th intil she ad 111 en sh #: £: & 4 11 s le decl - * • A e at ths foot of £d, with Cecision, her. £es fixed a On a nam 1east,” she ss' lis in," then sh miled D h 'a' 1need. W at '' '" '' W to reach them, Ophilos g it ave a the £ : '. Of Society Ou h '': unt t ": # list, Lar''. 'y aristo- Ass are so s the sort and who t. O the dead line, : #. shed villai below hem, if S prey. I will n catching f man', 'y there be in this busines isn try at “MOdest She mocked. *d again turn #yself. the list. Viewed from the #andpoin list indeed, and "night have THE CLAXTON CASE 153 about the street, for a lost memoranda of eligible dancing men, or candidates for a large week end country gathering. There was the son of a sugar magnate, notable in society for his very correct social deportment, and his total-known-lack of bad habits. There were three brothers, all prime social favorites, with a known liking for the turf; and two young Englishmen, cousins, well vouched for, but with no known income. There was a young lawyer, who held his social place because of the prominence of his family, and two or three Club men, with ex- travagant wives, who ruffled it with the best, and richest, and about whose source of income society was reticent, and Brad- street and Dunn, silent. Also there was a man who held his social position because he was a reputed author; and a doctor, who had made a brilliant beginning, and was the nephew of a scientist, than whom none stood higher. The remainder figured —socially—among the “also ran.” With her finger upon a name, the clear eyed young woman looked up. “This name?” she mused—“what have I heard, or read, about the mice blonde doctor, quite recently—Ah—I have it. Through his uncle's influence—no doubt—he has just been put in the line of promotion as possible head of—of—m—an in- sane hospital, is it not?” “M—ah—my dear young lady, you should not always call a one handled implement of agriculture a spade, and the blonde doctor's aim is a sanitarium, no less. And, by the way, I meant to cut that name out.” “And why?” she demanded. “Because—I intend to investigate him—and his possibilities, myself.” “Oh, Larry!” she cried. “Is it possible—that chance?” And as he nodded silently, she added: “Of course, there’s a reason for putting any of these names upon this list; and yet—how cor- rect they all look—and seem !” Hillary Larne's face became very serious, and his tone full of regret. “Una,” he said slowly, “I am glad to know that you do credit me with a good reason for a thing like this! Believe me, if I had not that ‘reason I should be more, and worse, than a cad, to put any man's name upon a doubtful list; or his person under suspicion, and surveillance. Every name upon that list, except the one just mentioned, has, by some act—one, or more —put himself upon the ‘doubtful’ list kept by the Chief of Po- lice.” 154 A BLIND LEAD The girl's eyes gloomed, “And yet,” she said sombrely, “all of them have been, or are, the guests of my lady aunt. Truly, our ‘Smart society’ is chiefly veneer! and money—or its counterfeit, does outweigh character in the eyes of—the world.” “Of the ignorant world,” Larne amended. CHAPTER XVI. THE “SANITARIUM.” The asylum for the unfortunate insane, which was situated in what Mrs. Carrington Leach flippantly called, Larne's “zone of suspicion,” was giving that young man, and his friends, some un- expected annoyance. To begin, Doctor Flack had made a pilgrimage thither upon pretext of seeking, there, for some useful data which he wished to apply in his practice; and also declaring himself interested in certain, so-called, vagaries of the insane, which he had wished to verify, or disprove, with the kind assistance of Doctor Len- neke, the big, brusque, opinionated head of the establishment. They were of different schools, and almost strangers; and it chanced that, some time since, Doctor Flack had written a little brochure about the handling of Mania-Tempore, commonly called hysterics; a brochure, which, to Doctor Lenneke, was anathema. Doctor Flack, entering upon his harmless errand, felt oppo- sition in the very atmosphere of the outer vestibule. He seemed to read it in the fishy eyes of the old man at the entrance, and it spoke in the voice, and manner, if not in the words, of the big doctor's greeting, which was not a welcome. He felt the tem- perature, already cool, drop to zero when he made himself known; and he felt, then, what was confirmed an hour later; viz., that his mission would not succeed. “Mind you,” he had admonished, in telling his experience to Larne, on the same evening, “as they had no inkling of what lay behind my ostensible business, they could not have been hold- ing me aloof for that reason; and yet—they were holding me aloof, and in no uncertain manner! They could not have been O11 # guard against me, especially, but—they were on their guara. THE “SANITARIUM.” - 155 “I—see!” murmured Larne. “Of course I had only to look at that Dutch master of the situation, to recognize his antagonism! There are the Dutch– a plain good sort of folk—and the wooden Dutch. Lennecke's of the wooden Dutch! He couldn't help letting me know that he considered my last little medical squib a ‘scandal and an outrage upon the orthodox medical practice, and he grew more and more wooden, and things got colder and colder, until I longed for a top coat! The man took me through the place,—at a gallop. He ignored my questions—closed the door in my very face, and I came away as wise as I went. I know—none bet- ter—how the dear people love to hop upon a public or private institution—of this sort—and they're wrong, oftener than they're right! In this case, it may be just a mixture of natural Dutch obstinacy, and personal antagonism. At any rate, I've failed— this time. Better send a pretty lady.” And the Doctor grinned. “I will !” declared Larne. And he did. >k *k >k >k >k < >k >k >k On the next visitor's day a tall and stately lady, bearing a general resemblance to Madam Lorraine Dalmeney, sent in her card to Doctor Lenneke, asking a private interview; which, of course, was granted. The lady described the pathetic case of a niece, who was also her ward. An unfortunate love affair had seriously unbalanced her mind, but she had been quite harmless, and, when she began to have seasons of almost complete sanity her physician had advised travel, with, of course, a sufficient escort of trained nurses. This they had tried, going abroad, and avoiding the great cities, as quiet seemed best for the patient. About this time the case of a kidnapped missionary was be- ing talked of, much excitement was stirred up over the case, and the invalid—from seeming simply interested, and sympathetic —grew sad, and then fearful; and it ended in a return of her malady in a much worse form. She imagined herself a captive in the hands of mountain bandits, and that she, too, was a mis- sionary. She had now passed quite beyond their control, and she prayed, hourly, and always, for deliverance from “Raisul, the outlaw.” The lady was most impressive; and Doctor Lenneke was an admirer of “fine women.” Her ward, she said, must have the best of care; and she : 156 A BLIND LEAD feared it was a hopeless case. She trusted that their methods here were of the gentlest, and the rooms modern, sanitary—and very comfortable. Poor Anabel was accustomed to luxury, and delicate living. Of course the expense was not in question. The good Doctor brightened visibly, and assured her that his government was most humane—and of the very gentlest. As for his establishment—he reassured her by taking her all about the big building, and, always, a “guard” all unseen, went over their route—in advance; while two women attendants followed in his wake, and midway between himself and the closely at- tended visitor. Of course the lady was pleased. She said so, sadly smiling, adding that she must now consult her family—one must be so careful about these things. She would write to Doctor Len- neke—within the week, and she was almost sure that all of her people would approve—and—would he mind if her brother, and —perhaps—their family physician, called, and looked over the establishment—too? She was sure they must also approve; and it would make her feel more at ease, and less singly re- sponsible! And then she thanked the good doctor for his kindness, his courtesy, and took her way back to the city. “That for which you are looking, my dear Larry, may not be there,” Madam Lorraine assured Larne, late that evening. “But, I assure you, there are things, and, I fancy, people, too, within those walls, whom the dear public never sees, never hears of; and, I'm not surprised to hear that Doctor Flack is persona non grata there! Dr. Lenneke is very big, very impressive, and im- posing; but—I don't think I will send down my family doctor. It will be better to send my brother and my—pastor.” Here Larne clasped his hands, like a beseeching little boy. “Please!” he besought her, “let me!” “You very, very small boy!” she laughed. “Dear lady, it's humor, not variety, that is the spice of life, and how else, in the sort of game we are playing, shall I get my share of this spice?” “True, true!” she murmured. “You shall go, and you shall also choose a brother for me.” “Abinger," he decided promptly. “It's an ideal part for Bruce.” >k >k >k sk >k >k >k >k >k Brother and pastor paid their visit duly, and the Sanitarium THE "SANITARIUM" 157 was soon after besieged by telephone inspectors, electric light repairers, furnace men, agents, male and female. And still the last state of Doctor Lenneke, and the place over which he kept guard, was as the first. There was no “open sesame,” no knowl- edge gained, of its work, and its ways. Larne pondered long, his eyes narrowed and his lips straightened into a firm line. “I think,” he said, “we must send them a patient! Some one quite meek and gentle, and not yet worthy of a straight jacket—or the padded cell.” >k >k >k >k >k >k >k >k >k The district around about the “Sanitarium,” and along what Larne usually described as “Tony's creek,”—meaning the stream near which Mrs. Leach had found the red ribbon,—was crossed and recrossed with trolley poles, telephone poles, telegraph poles; and never, since their installation, had these been in such constant need of repairs. It would seem that, whenever a tall pole, and a roof, or window, of the Sanitarium, or a nearby building, were in juxtaposition, there the need of much climbing, and tapping, and reaching and squinting, was greatest. Down from one of these poles—near a cottage in the hospital enclosure—a man, clad in tough jeans, high boots, grapplers, and dangling belt, scrambled one morning, dropping to the ground beside a waiting companion, who, beneath his slouching hat brim, had been eyeing, closely, the lower windows of the two story brick; those of the upper floor seeming tightly boarded up. “You were right,” declared the man just descended. “There is a skylight, back there; its almost hidden behind the two gables!” “I was sure of it. I could almost make it out from that ridge. Wait—I’ll take a look!” He adjusted his belt and “climbers,” and scurried up the pole, where, without pretense of labor, he adjusted a glass to his eyes and scanned the nearby roof narrowly—from point to point. Descending, “There's been no one on that roof for a long time,” he announced, “although there are some cleats, and a couple of heavy hooks, high up. Looks as if, at sometime, the roof has been “visited” from the outside. Probably climbed to that porch roof and then up by the cleats; helped, perhaps, by a rope thrown over the hooks. But those windows have not been opened for weeks—possibly months.” . Then turning his back upon them, “the glass shows that plainly. Dust is every- 158 A BLIND LEAD where, up stairs, and down, in all the nooks and crannies. You may still watch the place, Snooksy. But, unless you discover something more than this, I shall not pay another visit here. I wish—” But he did not put his wish into words. Turning away ab- ruptly instead, and sauntering villageward. “If that ain’t Larne all over!” grumbled the man addressed as Snooksy. “Talks a lot, but don’t let you hear much !” And he grinned, as he gathered up his “traps,” and followed his leader. >k >k :k -k >k >k sk >k sk At early twilight of that same evening Iris La Croix gave to her efficient new maid permission to go out for a time, “to call upon a friend who had just returned from a journey,” and whom she much wished to see. It was surprising how dexterously this new hand-maiden could make the word of truth serve a purpose quite other than that which it had seemed to suggest. Miss La Croix pictured her maid as dropping in upon, and chatting cosily with, some other ladies'-maid, probably about the summer frocks, the newest hair- dressing, and their “nicest” young man. What this particular maid did, was quite different. Leaving Fifth Avenue for a convenient cross street she caught a downtown car, and, leaving it at 51st street, tripped toward Broadway, but pausing, when within half a block from it, seem- ingly to read the numbers, and hesitate over the many entrances; really, to glance swiftly up and down the street before darting in at the lesser entrance to the great new Tyler Block, shooting upward in the nearest elevator, and getting out at a floor high up. Here she traversed half the breadth of the great building. Not forgetting to maintain the brisk, tripping, and somewhat stiffly dignified gait of a smart ladies’ maid, who knows her value, and with her primly demure gaze fixed straight before her, she paused again, near a wide stairway, and made pretence to scrutinize the door numbers on either side. Then, darting down- ward, she took her way through a narrow passage, and tapped at a door at its lower end, the door which Madam Lorraine Dal- meney, some three weeks earlier,—had opened to give Hillary Larne quiet exit from her apartment of luxurious mystery. This door was promptly opened by the dusky quadroon in # uniform, and the two smiled in mutual, if silent, greeting. il hen- THE “SANITARIUM” 159 “Madam?” questioned the maid. “She's alone, Miss Una. You can go right in.” “Una !” Madam, the seeress, lifted herself smilingly from a low many cushioned couch, and drew the girl down, to kiss her, and look her over with a slow, amused, glance. “Really, child !” she laughed, “one would hardly recognize you—at first glance. Who would think that a few artistic touches would so alter a face? Those, and a little manipulation of the facial muscles, at need. It's quite perfect—” “It's been pretty thoroughly tested, less than two hours ago,” the girl declared soberly. “I’m in haste, seeress. Is Larry in his den?” “We were chatting, just a moment ago.” Madam nodded to- ward the telephone upon a tabourette near her hand. “He ex- pects you.” She looked an inquiry which she did not speak. “I have not much time, now, dear,” the girl said gently, in reply to this look. “Tell me—are you getting on with the— biography?” Madam in her turn grew suddenly mysterious. “I have learned some things which, to be of use, must be fol- lowed up. It may end in my going away also, for a time—to the mountains, of course.” They smiled in mutual understanding, and the girl, turned away, saying, “I wish I might have a whole long hour with you, Seeress! There are things I so much want to say to you. To tell you! But time flies, and so, for a bit, Russel, the maid, must be wiped out.” At which, for some rea- son, Madam smiled, and kept on smiling for moments after the inner door, opening upon Madam's own snug dressing room, had closed behind “Miss Russel,” most capable of maids. It was another person who, ten minutes later, emerged from this same dressing room. The same, to be sure, in height, weight, and general outlines, but in all else how different. This small person, who crossed Madam's boudoir silently, and only paused to toss a kiss toward that lady as she stood in the half open outer doorway, was garbed in the pink of the mode, but daintily, simply, and, above all, most becomingly. In the ease and grace of her smooth free gait, the poise of her head, her whole manner, she was not the lady's maid who had entered Madam’s presence so lately. The one was dignified and plain, the other was dainty and more than pretty. The one had been prim, the other was quite at her ease as she traversed a long cor- 160 A BLIND LEAD ridor, slipped into an elevator and rode down to the next floor; where, passing down a second long corridor, and crossing a third, she tapped lightly at Hillary Larne's office door, which opened, and shut her in, almost instantly. “Uma,” declared Larne, across their frankly clasped hands, “it’s good to see you, if it is but an angel's visit for briefness.” She laughed, and became sober, almost in the same breath. “It must be like them, in briefness,” she replied. “I can’t afford to be away from my lady for long—now. Hillary, I must give you back this list of names, for the present at least, and it may be well to put some one else upon the job, as you’re fond of say- ing. You see I’ve decided not to leave Miss La Croix, for the present—wait, as he was about to speak, “before I say more I want you to tell me something.” She had opened the little gunmetal bag at her wrist, while she was speaking, and she now took from it the list of names he had given her on the previous day, and, opening it again, put her finger upon the name at the foot of the page. “I want you to tell me, briefly, why and when this name was put upon this list. I mean, what reason, beyond the general one given for placing all these other names with his. These other names, I take it, have been entered upon that fearsome book of yours for a long time—more or less. Certainly you had found good reasons for giving them a place in your doubtful book before the kidnapping of Iris La Croix occurred?” “Certainly.” “All Of them?” “Every one.” “Of course, I have no right to demand an answer to my ques- tions. But—I have a reason for asking them. May I go on?” “Go on,” he nodded soberly. “Larry, since these two abductions, or—either of them, has any one upon this list given you an added reason to doubt him?” “An added reason?” repeated Larne. “By Jove!” suddenly he checked his speech, and bent as if to take the list from her hand. Then again he paused, and drew himself erect, simply looking his admiration and approval of her cleverness. “Well?” she urged crisply, and Larne became at once serious and explanatory. “First, then, as you must know, he has no visible—or invisible means of support; and—as nearly as I can discover-” THE “SANITARIUM.” 161 “Don’t be so modest, Hillary,” she muttered. “Come, tell me the zworst !” For a moment their eyes met, and seemed to challenge. Then Larne smiled, and there was both wonder and approval in the glance which swept her slim, upright figure from head to foot. “Upon my word, Una,” he cried, “you are too keen, too far sighted for a mere woman, and such a little woman! I had to be educated up to my present exalted position, but it's intuition with you! Now—I'll give you one guess.” “Umph! Of course I know one of your reasons—knowing the man! You believe he is capable of it, that he has the wit, the skill, to manoeuvre a plot of this kind; and that, morally, he— is not above it.” “True! We are creatures of circumstance, Una. Given an income of—say ten thousand a year, and the fellow might, I be- lieve, would, be an average ‘honest man. But—wait! you may as well hear it all, without driving me yet closer to the ragged edge.” “Poor thing!” she mocked. “Well?” “For the past two years, so it has come to my knowledge, our friend is pretty sure to be in funds soon after a successful abduc- tion or hold up. I could name half a dozen such, at least, within this year.” “Ah! And this last? The La Croix case?” He paused, and was silent a moment. Then—“I happen to know that he paid for a dark, blue, Manton—four-cylinder car, two days after that fifty thousand was paid in.” “But, Larry—he does not own a car, surely.” “Oh no,” frowning again. “But—there are others. And now —tell me, girl, why this quick change of front?” “Because—I've a feeling—a strong feeling, that I can do better for all concerned by staying here—at least for the present. As for ‘Number Nineteen, nodding toward the list, “I met him, this morning, when I was taking my half mile, out toward the park—I insisted on a half hour walk night and morning for my health’s sake, and my young mistress willingly granted the time —Number Nineteen has doubtless discovered my habit.” Smil- ing sagely. “Doubtless! The habits of Miss La Croix' maid.” “Of course. He accosted me very nicely, very respectfully. Declared himself a friend of Miss La Croix; expressed his belief 162 A BLIND LEAD that I was loyal to her, and a fear that she might still be in dan- ger. He could not give me his reason—of course—but he begged me to promise him that I would watch over my young mistress very closely, and, if I saw any signs, any suspicious movements, or persons, anything that might seem like spying, or following her, any stealthy or seemingly doubtful stranger about, would I let him know? Would I help him, for my mistress' sake, to watch over her? Her family had been already too much dis- turbed, he declared, and her friends were now trying to guard against any further harm or danger. He was but one of a little group of these friends, and if I would aid him—them—if ever so little, etc., etc.,—in short, Hillary, he was very pathetic and re- spectful and frank, seeming; and—what could I do, but promise? And, mind you, he may, in this case, have meant just what he said. At all events, I stand committed.” While she spoke Larne's face had been growing grave, and graver. He nodded, still pondering, as she uttered her last words, and she looked into his unseeing, intent face, keenly, and long; and then stood—quietly waiting. Presently—“Pardon me Una!” he exclaimed, “I’m at my old tricks you see. I think—yes I'm sure you have, as usual, acted with great good sense; with actual wisdom. And—I almost be- lieve you have placed before us—a new issue. I must see Abin- ger at once, and—I must talk with Madam. Did she tell you-” “We did not talk five minutes. She merely hinted that she might go away—soon. And now, I must go.” “And I also, as far as Abinger's door. Little woman, I really think things are beginning to move.” “And I am one of the moving objects. Good evening Larry—” she turned in the half open doorway, “shall you be here tomor- row afternoon?” she asked. “I'm afraid not. There's an auto party on foot for tomorrow. I'm going into the country with some friends.” He was grin- ning at her now, like a mischievous boy; and she smiled in her turn. “I know what that means. And I’ll wager Tony Leach is in the party.” “You win, then,” he laughed, and she flashed back a smile of understanding, as the door closed behind her. Ten minutes later the demure maid who had entered Madam Dalmeney's apartment, not long before, came demurely out, by way of the visitor's entrance, and went back to Fifth Avenue, THE “SANITARIUM” 163 “It seems,” she assured herself, as she went her way, “that I'm to be a lady's maid a little longer! Well, at all events, it's grow- ing more and more interesting.” Meantime Hillary Larne, with the discarded list upon the desk before him, sat and eyed it with much disfavor, and drummed with his finger tips upon the blotting pad before him, forgetting, for the moment, Abinger and his errand. He had absolute faith in the alert, clear-eyed, keen witted girl who had been his friend and comrade for three very pleasant and profitable years. In fact the singular freak of Fate which had thrown together, himself, Madam Dalmeney, and Una Frenaye- for the name upon Una's cards, and her door—the door, that is, of the luxurious suite of “Beauty Parlors,” one floor higher still than the suite of Madam—was chosen to fit a purpose close to the heart of this creature of dainty physique and big, strong, fearless soul. And while these wonder working parlors bore her name, and owed to her clear, strong mind, and splendid administrative abilities, its splendid success, her many and fashionable patrons seldom saw her face, and then only for the passing moment, when she floated through her luxurious parlors and snug private receiv- ing rooms, to bestow a gracious word; which was also, and al- ways, the word of the law giver, neither to be changed or broken. The name, Frenaye, might also have stood upon the door plate of the snug uptown apartment which bore, instead, the name of Una’s “lady Aunt,” as the girl loved to call her, a small, plump, luxury loving person, well fitted to her rôle of home mistress, and delightful hostess, and who, while playing the fine lady as one born to the purple, was still the wholly devoted, admiring, and grateful, doer of Una's will, which was that she reign in, and be actual mistress of the luxurious home the girl had made for her; and, while to do Una's will was her chiefest pleasure, Mrs. Ul- mer Lurton—the “Aunt Grace” before whom Una mischievously delighted to pose as a-girl-much-in-awe-of-her-Aunt,-was cheer- fully content. - Una had little real love for the purely social game, as generally played, and she was happiest when busy, either using mind and hand in the administering of her growing business, which all the world might see; or in the more absorbing and entirely private exercise of her keen intuition and invention, in the work, which, with Hillary Larne as leader, she counted her real occupation, with its sometimes very real labor, which she—which they both—be- 164 A BLIND LEAD lieved well worth the doing, let the risk and the effort be what it would,—and must. And labor and danger were often close attendants of the “in- quiries” which—because of their strangeness, their unique mys- tery, their appeal to their sympathies, or their sense of justice outraged—were chosen by these two, and their helpers. For Larne worked only as he would, and Una only worked, with him, when she would, and he permitted. She had been deeply interested in the case of Iris La Croix, and had prepared for her rôle of new ladies' maid with an energy amounting almost to enthusiasm. And when he had given her that list—and asked her to turn social butterfly, with her aunt's help, she had been quite willing. She had found little to report, as yet, in the La Croix house- hold, and she knew, too, that her place there could be adequately filled, and Larne had supposed the new work would be a welcome change. “One would think, too,” he mused, “that her encounter with number 19 would have given new zest to the gayer, more active rôle. And already, she had given her mistress notice, and was only now serving out the required month's end.” What had made this change? It had never occurred to Larne to insist upon carrying out their previous plan. He smiled as he thought of it. But that she had declared for the continued maid- ship, without explaining her reason, was not like Una. Still he trusted her wholly, and here he smiled again. Had she, perhaps, been simply paying him off for his silence about the list? If so, she would tell him so—some day. At all events it was Una, and Una was usually wise and right. And so he picked up his pen and wrote a note to Tony Leach. Thank goodness there was Tony. And she could do this work well, and with a greater zest in the doing than Una could possibly feel. Flirtation for Tony, was a thing of second nature. If only her husband would not come in the way. For Larne knew well—though big Carry Leach did not —that little, frisky, Tony would see all male New York in the Hudson, rather than really hurt, or grieve, her big “boy man.” SKIRMISHERS 165 CHAPTER XVII. SKIRMISHERS. The picturesque mansion built by the unfortunate Shipmans, was shut in, on three sides, by a thick grove of tall trees and un- trimmed undergrowth, and looked down upon the little stream at its foot from a steep hillside which bore traces of an incipient terrace, marked out, and, in places, cut down a sheer foot or two; while what was to have been a well made winding drive was now little more than a cart track, partially graveled and showing some attempt at smoothing and leveling. Numerous tall and low branched trees, plainly marked for felling, stood in all their un- trimmed wilderness, and even the boulders that dotted the hillside, above and below the drive, still lay as Nature had placed them. The only footpath visible led around the lower and rear corner and disappeared among the trees at the back of the house, and the occupants of the big black touring car, which was wheeling slowly past the place, surveyed it with interest and some surprise. “Looks as if there was not much exercise taken from this side of the place, and it looks like the front,” drawled the rather dud- ish young man in goggles and a much plaided motor coat, “the only foot path seems to go straight to the servant's quarters, and even the porte cochère, appears to have forgotten itself and lost the road. What a queerly interestin place!” “Looks closed up,” hazarded one of the two ladies in the ton- neau. “Or—no—there's some one sitting in that shut in balcony on the second floor; a-woman—I think.” “Right Rene; well, she's in a ‘secure and safe place, as the penny dreadfuls say. She can’t get out and we can’t get in. Sup- pose we call! Got your visiting cards, girls? My, my! Charlie, honk that flock of geese off the road, or you'll kill the whole family.” “Geese!” a shout of laughter caused the occupant of the eyrie on the second floor balcony to glance up, and lean forward to watch the big shining car as it honked, halted, honked again, and, finally, and very slowly, glided out of sight beyond the curve in the high bank to the Southward. “That's the first car I’ve seen on the road since I’ve been in this lonesome place,” muttered the woman, letting her book fall upon her lap. “How did they happen this way, I should like to know?” 166 A BLIND LEAD She watched the shining monster out of sight, and slowly returned to her book. Half an hour later the sound of the horn, and of voices lifted in the lilt of a song, and an outburst of merriment, came down the breeze, before the big machine wheeled into sight, and again the woman bent to look. “It's the same car,” she declared to herself, petulantly. “What has possessed any one to come over this road, with a fine car like that? My! how they are going! I should think—oh—my—soul!” The flying car had lurched, and suddenly there was the sound of a crash, a crackling, and a flash, as of fire, mingling with the shrieks of the women, the shouts of the men, and a whirring and buzzing as of machinery running amuck. The big touring car, and its passengers, were stranded. The woman sitting alone in her eyrie watched the restless, mov- ing, exclaiming figures below her with acute interest. She could hear their voices, but could not distinguish their words. She saw the driver shake his head, plunge beneath the low body of the big car, and come out again, presently, shaking his head and gesticu- lating with much vigor; and then, she was sure of it, the other 111a1n S700/e. “They’re stuck!” said the watcher to herself, with the comfort- able half smile with which safety and ease so often views the un- lucky, from its place of restful vantage. “And they're miles away from—anywhere—I should think!” And then, suddenly, she frowned and picked up her book, only to lower it soon, for she heard the voices much nearer now, and looking down saw that the two ladies and their escort were advancing slowly up the steep slope, which, by no stretch of courtesy, could be called a lawn, and was surely not yet a terrace. The smaller of the two women was leading the way, chatting lightly as she came, the other following slowly, with more of dignity evident in her manner; while the man, in his long flapping auto coat and hideous cap with its upthrust goggles, dragged after them with what seemed like languid and bored reluctance. The woman in the balcony caught together the sweeping folds of her long house gown, and, with a little wrinkle gathering be- tween her eyes, hurried down to receive this unlooked for delega- tion. She did not wait for them to reach the broad veranda, but came out upon it while they were still some paces down the slope, and, SKIRMISHERS I67 seating herself in one of the half dozen chairs which occupied the railed in and broadly sheltered platform at the top of the wide and numerous steps, she awaited their nearer approach. At the foot of the steps they halted, and she arose and came to the top of the flight, her kimonolike house gown billowing about her feet as she stood. “Good evening,” spoke Mrs. Tony Leach, with her brightest, most inconsequent smile. “Would you mind our camping down upon your doorsteps for a short time while our stupid man tinkers at the car? He has let something get overheated, or strained, or broken—he does not seem to know which, and he thinks it may take him half an hour to put it right again. Your porch looked so very tempting, and—the sun down there,” nodding toward the road below, “is rather unpleasant.” “By all means!” the woman above them was smiling now. Her quick and practiced eye had noted the dress and manner of the three, and it was not difficult to recognize their place, among those who seldom needed to ask a favor, and never fear a refusal. “By all means,” repeated their chance hostess. “Come up ladies, and be seated. The portico, I think, is rather pleasanter—at this hour, than indoors, and I am quite alone here, just now.” She was bending toward them, with one hand at her ear, while she listened, and when she spoke; and, as Mrs. Leach was about to reply, she made a slight gesture; “I am, unfortunately, rather deaf,” she added, “and were it not that I always hear best in the open air, I could not have caught your words—pray come up and be seated. Meanwhile I will get my ear trumpet.” She waved a much beringed hand toward a group of willow and hickory porch rockers, and disappeared within, closing the door as she went, with evident care. Mrs. Leach and her friend dropped listlessly down in two of the most inviting of the grouped chairs, so placing themselves that their hostess, on her return, must seat herself between them or choose a place too much aloof for easy or hospitable converse; and the young man, who bore some general resemblance to Hillary Larne, ascending half way, stopped, at the next upper step, and let himself slowly down upon it, hunching up his shoulders, and rest- ing his elbows, and almost his chin, upon his knees. He had caught up a crooked stick, on his upward climb, and with this he tapped feebly now and then, upon his highly varnished boot toes. He looked the personification of disgusted and uninterested wait- 168 A BLIND LEAD ing, and he did not change his position when the lady of the manor came bustling back, except to twist himself about a trifle so that he did not quite present his back to the group above him. As for the other chance guests, they were not listless, and they were quietly courteous; but they, too, seemed more annoyed than interested in their seemingly unsought refuge, and they allowed their entertainer to guide the talk whither she would, and to mo- nopolize it, almost, until, presently, the gentleman unfolded him- self, as slowly as he had doubled up, and, suppressing a yawn, said in a slow drawl: “Ladies, I think I'll go down and see how our man is—aw— progressin'. Looks slow to me, and I'll just indulge in a cigar, - while waitin’—as it were.” And with a languid lift of his cap he sauntered back to the roadside, from whence they could hear, from time to time, the tinkle of metal, and the whiz of the gearing as it was tested, and tinkered anew. “Don’t go to sleep, mine brother,” called Mrs. Leach after him, and then, turning to her hostess, as in sudden contrition, “It’s really too bad,” she said, “to tax your hospitality, and then bore you by our dullness; and we have not even presented our cre- dentials. “How do you know that we're not a band of high-way robbers!” and then, in her prettiest, most taking manner, she presented her friend, and named herself, adding graciously, “Of course, we know that this is the Shipman home, and that you are more or less a stranger in the vicinity. For, naturally, the mis- fortunes of the Shipmans are well known in New York, where they were old residents, and, at one time, quite prominent socially.” Whereupon the lady of the manor, settling back smilingly in her chair, assured them that the name of Leach was “of course” very well known to all who read the society columns of the daily papers, and that she was quite sure she had also heard of Miss Smedley, and her rare family portraits by some world famous artists, and then they learned that their hostess was Mrs. Welford Tomlinson, a widow, and a native of Virginia. Because of her unfortunate deafness she had been almost obliged to live a quiet life; and if it had not been for the illness of her only son, and the seeming need for a change of climate, a more bracing, and cooler, atmosphere, she could never have brought herself to the point of venturing north, among utter strangers, and compelled, as she was, to live very quietly, both on her own, and her son's ac- COL1nt. 170 A BLIND LEAD and knowing of him I was, of course, greatly interested in the things I heard about the country home they were preparing for him. That attic studio, now. Oh, how they must have enjoyed its fitting up! It was all described in the papers as something really fine; so artistic and unique.—I wonder—” she stopped, smiling, and looking charmingly wistful. “Well?—” Mrs. Tomlinson smiled back. “I was wondering—wishing—if it would be wise, if those upper rooms—or the room—were not quite dismantled—if it would be possible to see them—just for a peep!” Their hostess arose swiftly, looked toward the door, and dropped back into her seat, saying, “How impulsive I still am, in spite of my years, and gray hairs! I have so often regretted the closing up of those rooms!” She leaned toward the door which she had left slightly ajar, and called “Henry—Oh Henry,” then rising she put her head through the aperture, as footsteps were heard approaching, “Henry, see that those trunks and boxes are removed from the mansard stairway, so that I may show the ladies the view from the upper floor.” Then, turning back toward her guests, “I almost feel like ordering him to draw the nails and staples from those boarded up doors,” she laughed, “but that would be tresspass I suppose; and, really,” her voice falling, “when one thinks how those poor people must have felt when they ordered those doors closed, and made fast. It is saddening! I'm told that all is there, even to the vases of flowers, just as they were —prepared for the son's coming—when they heard the news of his sudden death. It's pitiful, really! Oh, yes,” as the two began to protest, “I want you to come up! There really is a charming view, from both the front and rear windows.” They followed their hostess up the broad first stairway, down a handsome open landing, and up to the next. “You see this was a double door,” Mrs. Tomlinson explained, lowering her voice, “and I always feel thankful that, at least, they made their fasten- ings look a little bit finished, and door-like! But how tight! As if any one would ever venture. And see, there is a really fine sweep of wood and waters, from here.” As she led the way toward the front window, Mrs. Leach, lingering behind, passed her hand over the smooth, closely-fitted boarded-up doors with their thick set screws and staples; and, later, when they repassed the spot, she leaned against the wall, just beside the closed up doors, panting heavily. “Don't—mind—me—Rene,” she said to her friend. “It’s —just—one of those queer flashes of dizziness—and—” SKIRMISHERS 171 “Oh!” murmured Miss Smedley to her hostess, “it’s her poor eyes, they say! It's only a momentary weakness, luckily. Are you better, dear?” Her friend nodded, and slowly drew away from the wall, keep- ing, for a moment, one supporting hand against the boarded door; and then, declaring herself quite restored, they went on down the hall to the wide window at the rear. Looking out toward the wooded belt, across the sloping meadow, and the road beyond, they saw the languid “brother” slowly wan- dering around near the rear entrance. “Buddy!” called Mrs. Leach, “what are you doing down there?” “Aw,” he drawled back disgustedly, “that idiot wants a round stick, an inch thick and no less; and I'm hanged if there's one in the whole confounded—aw—woods. I'm goin’ to let him hunt his own war-clubs.” But when they had reached the piazza once more he was picking his way down the slope, a handful of assorted sticks under his a1 in. He turned, at their call, to inform them that if he had found anything that would do they might hope to get away soon. And then once more they seated themselves upon the broad piazza and Miss Smedley began to discuss and praise this especial bit of more or less improved upon nature. “The one thing I object to in this neighborhood,” sighed Mrs. Tomlinson, “is the sanitarium, over beyond the hill,” pointing to the southeast. “If half they say is true it's a terrible place, and whenever I get the blues—and I sometimes do—I can’t get my mind off it, and the thought of its nearness, and the chance of its tales of horrors getting to the ears of my sick boy—he's very nervous since his hurt—I declare at times I’m tempted to tear up everything, and go back home!” And then, in response to the #fied inquiries of Tony Leach, Mrs. Tomlinson went into de- tallS. “It's surprising how much servants will pick up in going about in a place like this. We send to the little hamlet, about three miles eastward, for most of our smaller household supplies, and they're sure to come back full of new horrors at every trip! Of course, the things can’t all be true. They’re too awful. They must be greatly exaggerated !” and thus the tale ran on. “There was,” they said, “a very dangerous lunatic confined there, and his skill and ingenuity in devising traps, and tricks, by 172 A BLIND LEAD which to escape his keepers, was something uncanny. He had ac- tually escaped, and was at large, one whole day since Mrs. Tom- linson and her household had been there! And his mania, it seemed, was homicidal. He was strong, too, very strong, in his frequent fits of rage, and horribly cunning and cruel. And—did they–could it be true, that perfectly sane people had been re- ceived and hidden there—and ill treated? It was whispered, in the town, that some of those kidnapped children—and others— might have been traced to this closely guarded place, if it were not so cleverly managed; and the nurses, and keepers—so very close mouthed—and grim.” “Why ladies,” here the speaker leaned forward, speaking ear- nestly, “we were warned, only a week ago, by one of the uni- formed keepers, who called at my door, and told us that while this man was under their care they had thought it best, for the ‘safety and security of the neighborhood, to warn all the nearest resi- dents, and to tell them, that, should this man again succeed in escaping—you see they must give him air and exercise—but should he again escape, a blue flag upon the north tower, would be shown, until he was again captured; and women, and especially children, were warned against going about the woods and fields at such t1meS. Just here a shout from the roadside informed them that the car was at last fit for duty, and with many last words, and voluble ex- change of courtesies, the ladies arose, and, standing upon the top- most step, awaited the slow ascent of the “brother.” “Aw—I hope you'll pardon my man there, madam,” he drawled, laying upon the piazza floor a hammer and a small iron wrench. “I sent him to borrow some tools at your stables, and, finding no one about, he helped himself to these.” “At the stable?” the lady started, and then laughed uneasily. “I suspect my man has gone a fishing,” she said. “You found—all that you needed, I hope?” “Quite all, and thanks. All ready now Tony?” He lifted his hat, and led the way down the slope. He was humming softly, contentedly, and he continued to hum as they sped cityward, while the two ladies in the tonneau chatted of their little adventure, of the Shipmans' house, of Mrs. Tomlinson and her hospitality, and, most, of the Sanitarium, its reputed mysteries, and possible dan- gers. As they journeyed on, the languid young man upon the front SKIRMISHERS 173 seat seemed to let fall his mantle of indolence, and, presently, he turned, almost alertly, toward the two ladies. “Do you think that Mrs. Tomlinson is really fearful of this possible escaping lunatic,” he asked. - “I do!” declared his pro tem sister, with conviction. “She's a nervous person; and, I don’t think she is very courageous. Um! Look Larry who comes here?” It was Perry Loundes who came cantering towards them, and he started slightly, as he came abreast, and, drawing in his steed, caught off his cap. “Hello Perry!” they saluted him, almost in unison, and Mrs. Leach added, “Whither away?” “Good day to you all!” he returned lightly. “I’m out on a call of duty. More shame to me for saying it! I'm calling on a lady who once did me a good turn, down in the sunny South. She's moved north now; and I’m ashamed to say it, —I’ve delayed my call of welcome most shabbily—especially as I am, in part, at least, the means of her coming into this vicinity.” “How's that?” questioned Mr. Tony. “Helped her to find a home! Whoa there! No use my friends, my nag won't foregather with that devil wagon, so let her out, and —good bye.” “He’s going to see Mrs. Tomlinson,” declared Miss Smedley, as if she had made a discovery of value. “Sure thing!” affirmed Larne. “I only hope he won’t tell the lady what a bad lot we will turn out when she comes to know us! Speed up, old man, or dark will catch us.” “My P’ ejaculated Mrs. Leach, a moment later, “we can’t talk in this whirl!” and she settled back, into what seemed like full content, with the conditions—and her own thoughts. But pres- ently with her eyes slowly withdrawing from Miss Smedley's face, she spoke again. “Penny for your thoughts, Rene; two, if they're worth it.” “I was thinking,” said her friend slowly, as if still a little sur- prised, “That Perry Loundes did not try very hard to hold in that colt of his ! A city horse, and to be afraid of an auto !” - Mrs. Leach laughed wholeheartedly. Then, demurely, “He was en route to visit a lady, my dear, and possibly was a bit late. Bad taste in Perry, I think, not to hasten his call upon Mrs. Tomlin- son. She's a genial hostess, even to the hapless stranger; and— only think, child, how much we have learned about this part of 174 ~.- A BLIND LEAD ~~ ‘little old “Nee Yawk!” and, Larry, wasn't that queer about—” there was just a perceptible flicker of an eyelid, as Larne turned at the sound of his name, and as she paused for an instant he ended her sentence for her, in a tone of careless inquiry that did not accord with the flickering signal of the eye—“about the sani- tarium? yes—mum?—I suppose—so.” And then he laughed, and began to hum again softly, while with his fingers he kept up a slow monotonous tap tap upon the leather arm of the driver's seat; observing which, Tony Leach pulled closer her motor veil, and, be- hind it, smiled contentedly. CHAPTER XVIII. A REVERSED JUDGMENT. The day after the accidental call at the Shipman Place came to be remembered, when Larne looked back upon it, as his “at home” day. He was seated at his desk, shortly after his “early” breakfast— early, that is, for a city man, and partaken of, at the same hour, almost the year round—when his first caller appeared. It was the new man from the La Croix house, and he seemed in haste. “’Scuse me, but I’ve got to hike soon,” he declared in response to Larne's signal toward a chair. I got off just to go for my laundry, and all the little items, observed, since the last report, are set down in the memorandum;”—here he dropped a folded paper upon Larne's desk, the usual report, to be delivered in person, according to orders. “There's just this one thing,” he resumed, “that's not on that paper, because I thought, when it happened, that I could give it to you quickest, best and fullest by word of mouth. This morning I was bringing Miss La Croix—Miss Iris, and her aunt, home from an early trip out Riverside way—we called at the Leach place, but the lady was out—” “Yes?” nodded Larne. “Well, we happened to be held up for a minute at a street corner just off Broadway, when we were almost home. There was a letter box beside us, and, before I could stir Miss Iris was out of the car with a letter in her hand. “How lucky,” she says A REVERSED JUDGMENT 175 to her aunt, “Now, I can post this letter,” and she shot it into the box. “I write to Mollie Hartwell so seldom,” she went on, as she waved me back, “and I want her to get this at once,—that is as soon as possible—for I’ve neglected her so long.” The man straightened up and drew back. “That's all, sir—I don’t know any more than I have told you, but—” “Hold hard, Rogers! It's not quite all—from my point of view ! What did her aunt say?” The man grinned. It was as if he had said, “I thought it might mean something,” and continued his story. “When Miss Iris had got back into the car, the old lady said, in her sort of com- plainin’ way. “Well, I declare child! I haven’t heard you speak of Mollie Hartwell before since you came back from—since that last visit of hers, and I concluded you had fallen out—after all your chumming.” And the young lady answers, “Mollie's been away all winter, aunt,—and she never writes much when she's visiting, and then she laughs, she thinks I owe her a visit, she says.” And again he paused, expectantly. “Go on!” urged Larne. “‘A visit!’ says the aunt—‘Oh, my! you won’t go away—any- where—just yet Iris, surely. And the young lady says back, sort o’ even like—‘Oh, I suppose its best not to; at least for a while.” And then she sort o' takes it out on me sayin', 'Do get us home can’t you, we're just creeping. Well, we didn't creep any more, an’ they didn’t talk no more, either, and—that's all.” “Very well,” Larne nodded, absently; “You know your orders, Rogers.” When the man had gone Larne pondered his “verbal report,” with the fine little line growing deeper between his eyes; a sign which meant, always, that something was puzzling or annoying him; and then he read the written report; at which he laughed. “Friend Rogers is nothing if he's not literal,” he murmured, putting down the paper to take up his desk telephone and call for number 1009. “Hello,” came the prompt answer, “You Larry?” “If it's you, yes madam,” he replied, and then, hastily, “can you give me a moment?—ah—thanks!—can you tell me anything about a Miss Mollie Hartwell—living in Chicago I think, at present—you can!—good! Oh, I’ll wait,” and he dropped back in his chair with the receiver at his ear. But not for long, Madam’s voice was soon saying, “Here you are, boy; listening? 176 A BLIND LEAD —all right. Mollie Hartwell lives in Chicago, but visits here every winter, and, usually, about horse-show time. Has an aunt here —Mrs. Van Vreeden, and a lot of chums among the girls of the gay set. She used to be much with Iris La Croix, but spent last winter—” “Yes—I know the rest, at least—about that. When was Miss Hartwell here last?” “Wait,” came madam's voice, and Larne could almost see her bending over a large book of closely written notes, intermixed with pasted clippings from the society journals. “To know some- thing about everybody,” was a part of Madam's lucrative busi- 11eSS. “Here it is,” she called. “Miss Hartwell was here last in Sep- tember. Came for the Prince Henri functions, and went home quite suddenly—anything more?” “Thank you. No more—at present; I’ll see you pretty soon.” He could hear her laugh, at this last. “If not I'll see you,” she retorted. “I’ve a little business of my own to discuss, with you—some time today, and—I'm rather busy now—myself!” Larne heard the click of the receiver, thrust back into its place, and smiled, as one smiles,—indulgently and with full under- standing—at the whimsies of a friend, and, whirling about in his revolving chair he faced his desk, took up a pen, and drew to- ward him one of his own useful notebooks. He opened this, slowly and, then, for a moment, pondered. “Evidently,” he murmured, “I shall have to relegate Miss Mol- lie Hartwell, to the shelf where things are doomed to that wait' more convenient season, sometime.” He did not know then— that Miss Hartwell, and her kin, are of the sort—who do not need to wait,-for most things. And now he took up again the report left him by the man Fair he had nicknamed Rogers. But it dropped from his hand before he had inked his ready pen; for here came a quick knock, and then an impatient rattle at his door latch. It was Bruce Abinger whom he now admitted; and this usually mannered, poised and restful man of the law seemed, in fact— £ somewhat ruffled, somewhat anxious, and very much in aSte. A glance around assured him that his friend was alone; and A REVERSED JUDGMENT 177 a quick movement made him sure that, for a little time at least, there should be no fresh intrusions. He promptly snapped fast the lock of the outer door, and began to speak while turning away from it. “Larne, answer me one question without asking an explana- tion—will you?” It was characteristic of Hillary Larne that, knowing his man he was quick to adapt himself to his mood. He knew Bruce Abinger and seeing the look in his eye he arose, and standing thus, face to face, replied. “It's safe to say yes to you, Abinger. Put the question.” “If you were asked, to-night, to drop this La Croix search, what would you say?” “Explain!” “But Larne”—impatiently, “you said—” “Wait—I would say, explain.” “And if the explanation was, that we had all been mistaken; that the supposed imposter was, in deed and in truth, Iris La Croix, and no other—what then?” “I would say then, ‘Prove it'—and now, my friend, will you explain?” “It's what I came here to do, and, Larne, there's no time to lose, for Val Effingham is coming to you—he may come at any moment—to tell you that we must stop this search ! That he finds himself mistaken! That he has become convinced that Iris La Croix is at home, and that she has been playing upon him—not with intent to deceive him as to her personality—but with the wish to cause him to break off their engagement. And it is this—her manner of going about it—So he declares with conviction,—that has so puzzled him, and led him to doubt her identity.” “Great Caesar! Any more?” “He has almost made himself believe that the abduction— after the fact, if not before—has caused this change; because somehow, somewhere, he believes there is—another man!” “Umph! The abductor perhaps.” “Perhaps!” “Well, get on man! Where's his proof?” “He finds that in her actions of late;—and in things she has recently spoken of, that a stranger could not know! Oh! he has no other proof. It's just that—lately—within the past few days, —her words, her manner, have convinced him that he has made a great mistake, and led us all into—a muddle!” 178 A BLIND LEAD “And he did not convince you?” Larne's face was inscrutable, and his eyes were averted; but a smile lurked in their depths. “Did not, and could not! He told me his story in fullest de- tail, as, doubtless, he will tell it to you—and, if I had not seen both of the young women I might have thought him right; but —this one is not—Iris La Croix! ... I am sure of it! And yet— that—that absurd, befuddled, noodle means to ask, to insist, that you—that we all, give up the game.” “The game!” murmured Larne. “You have said it Abinger! And—candidly—I don't feel inclined to give it up just yet! It's getting to be a very interesting game.’” “And—if he draws out? Honestly Larne I fear you can't con- Vince him of his error!” “I shall not attempt it, my dear man. But you—and our friend Val; must consider! As matters now stand the game'—or the case has grown complicated ! There is another issue—now !” “Really—I—” “There is—the Claxton end, you must remember. Yes,” here Larne seated himself, “if our friend Effingham insists upon dropping the La Croix end, we will—I think we must—make him see—understand is the better word—that we feel in duty bound to use such clues as we have found, and to continue the search— for young Claxton. Ah! I think he's coming.” And he came. CHAPTER XIX. A CHANGE OF HEART. Effingham entered the room and glanced about him, doubt- fully, apprehensively almost, before greeting either Larne or his friend; and his greeting, when it came, was only a slow hesitating nod as he advanced. He looked pale and dispirited, like a man worn and exhausted by a strong shock, or some long fought fear that had at last forced him to acquiesce, to accept the thing he dreaded, to face it, and admit its truth. But if he was less alert, more subdued, and almost stupidly quiet,-he was, none the less, firm. He had fought his fight alone, and he came, now, not to argue, but to state his present belief; A CHANGE OF HEART 179 to affirm his final acceptance of it, and to declare his regret that he had drawn his friends so far into a helpless, a useless, search. He seemed glad to find the two together, and as he plunged at once into his theme it was clear that his splendid nerve had, for the time, broken, with his hopeless determination to cease fight- ing, and face the worst. He had fought long against it, -so he assured them. But, day by day, for some time past, he had been growing into the belief that what he had at first thought a change in the person, was, in reality, only a change in the mind, and feel- ings of the girl he had loved, and whom, in spite of this, his new belief, he still loved. “It has been growing upon me,” Effingham declared. “And I have fought against it. The thought that Iris—my Iris—could, in a few short weeks, become so changed seemed incredible; I could not harbor it, at first. But I am convinced—now ! Things have happened of late—little things, too small and—intimate —to describe—but which a stranger, any one else, could not know, and recall! And—I have accepted the inevitable! Iris, in a way is another Iris! Something, in the brief period of her enforced absence, has worked the change. Her strange manner—at our first meeting, and since, meant, and means, simply, that, having ceased to care for me she has been trying to make me under- stand, and to force upon me the first move toward—a rupture.” He looked anxiously from one listener to the other, and sighed heavily. “This—this new situation—is even worse than the first —to me! So long as I believed Iris lost, but still loyal, I could search and hope! Now—” he drew himself together, and spoke with sudden decision—“Larne, Bruce, I am sorry! I am more than sorry, to have led you into this useless hunt; this hopeless blind lead! But we must drop it now. You must both see that Iris La Croix has something—some secret—which she is trying to conceal from all of us; and—I am convinced—now,-that, for some mysterious reason, she does not want her strange imprison- ment investigated. She avoids the subject; she evades—she parries—she ignores,—” he bit his lip, and clenched his hands, as at some bitterly painful thought. “She has flatly refused to answer my questions; and—finally, she's forbade me to speak again upon the hateful subject. Looking back now I can see that—from the very first moment of her home coming she has been intent upon a rupture between us two! I have been a fool! A blind, infatuated, fool!” 180 A BLIND LEAD He was speaking, still, with face half *Verted, and eyes down st, and his two listeners exchanged Wondering and Sympathetic £ while Larne Shook his head, as a S E • ignal for silence. In a morment Effingham 'esumed his slow restrained Speaking. “We cannot 'tinue a sea': for her captors at the risk of doing her an i ' for I believe—now £ there's another man in the Case'. Some one has £9me between us. I must end the present £ and when I hear that you both agree with me I shall know how to # 'self right, aná ir' liberty. And- under:a::1 me, gentlemen, i shall stand her friend, whatever h' by that you mean—what?” asked this question. “I mean, first to ask for an *planation, and—to give her her freedom 1 # : 'ing to do-now.” He let # droop ard up. S. £. his bowed back, Larne shot a second glance, and a ick signal to Bruce Abin' Then I k in; mildl quick signal, S ger. * he spoke again; mí y, but with firmness. It was Larne who quietly to all of us. Are we to understand that will make no further effort—are you fully convinced?” “I am fully convinced: Effingham replied, dully. “Then there is only this to be Said. • Abinger also, upon these conditions; case of the Claxton boy, • two cases might have a Connectin should, of course, as matters are right, the Very facts that you have stated make it more than possible that the young lady is in trouble, rather than in love. Remember, too, her father is a wealthy '"; and such men have many enemies! Recall the manner of Mi • - • £pted, . May she not be guarding a secret? or some serious tr - family—her home *—I have a reason for saying this, Effingham- a reason of which,-at P£esent-I am not free to Speak—further. Let me make a *ggestion. We will jet the inqui course;—but, instead of Pressing Miss La Croi: for an explana. A CHANGE OF HEART 181 tion, now, wait a little. Wait at least two or three weeks. Do not see her too often, and leave her free to act, in the meantime, as she will. Believe me, it will be your wisest course. The young lady, just now, is sensitive, sore, because of the ill-natured cri- ticism, which she knows to have fallen from uncharitable lips. And she may take the most delicate and kindly meant advance you may make, now, as embodying, or masking, a wish, or a hope. Suppose we let things take their course, quietly and unhindered, at least where she is concerned; and—” once more he flashed a signal across to Abinger, “Suppose, instead of remaining in town, idle, you stay in with us, and help us in our hunt for little Ellery Claxton. It will be better than too much thinking, just now believe me!” “He is right, Val!” Bruce Abinger interrupted. “Honestly, it seems to me the right, the natural, course and—” but here his speech was halted by a brisk tattoo upon Larne's door, and a hurried rattling of the latch. “It's Captain Rohan,” whispered Larne, who had recognized the summons. The Captain came in like a March breeze. “Don’t go! Don’t move, anybody,” he cried. “How are ye, gentlemen? I'm only here for a word, and,” with a amiable grin, evenly distributed, “I guess you're both safe witnesses! Larne—read that.” “That,” was a note, small and finger worn. “It came by the early mail,” the Captain added, as Hillary Larne, after a hasty glance at it, looked up. “I’d like to read this aloud, Captain,” he said. “My friends, here, are in this.” “Go ahead,” assented the officer. And Larne without further question, or explanation, read the following: “Captain Rohan: This is private and I can't sine no name but its facks. Last nite a young woman and a small boy was took away from the Brookdale Asylum very secretly, and probly was drugged. Its up to you now.” from A frend. Larne looked up with the last word. “Well?” he queried. “Well?” repeated the captain. “Do you want that thing? tak- ing it for what it's worth?” Z\ CHANGE OF HEART 183 ‘good form, but my appetite's ready. Let's lunch together, some- where where we can talk.” With his hand upon the door Larne turned back at the buzz of the telephone. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll cut this short.” But in reply to his call he got this crisp answer. “Larry—are you alone?—oh, turn them out then, for just a moment.” It was Una's voice, and Larne called to his friends, bidding them close his outer door and wait for him below. “I’ll join you at the main entrance,” he added. “I won’t be long!” And then, as the door shut upon them, “Now, girl, where are you?” he called. “In my lady's chamber, and quite alone for the moment. The two ladies have just gone out to luncheon, at the McLaine's; and in one hour I must meet you at your office! I’ve something you must see. No, we must not talk this over the wire! Shall I find you soon? and alone of course?” He gave the expected answer quite meekly, and hurried out to join his friends. But their talk was brief, and his share of the luncheon was soon dispatched, after which he hastened back to his apartment. Hillary Larne might keep others waiting, at need; and was not given to overmuch haste when going about his business. But he never kept this clear eyed, keen witted Una waiting, long, and he welcomed any and every occasion for a meeting, be it ever so business-like and brief; and they seldom met otherwise. Iris La Croix was an indulgent mistress; and so her new maid had been telling Hillary Larne, at some length, sitting opposite him at his office desk. “But she is very keen and clever,” the girl finished. “And I'm not at all sure that she does not suspect me. But, if so its only as a lady's maid—too fond of—or ready to accept, a fat bribe,—and she guards only against the most obvious spying—like listening at doors, etc., and, Larry, I begin to dislike my spying, because—I begin to like her! and—like Mr. Effingham—” he had told her briefly, about Val Effingham's change of base. “I sometimes, wonder if, after all, she may not be the real Iris!” “You, too!” he ejaculated, “and why, pray?” “Simply because she has all the air and manner; and, I believe, the feelings, of a lady! Watch as I will I can’t see the first hint 184 A BLIND LEAD of the adventuress in her; for, be they ever so cultured, the life, somehow, leaves upon them all, somewhere, its taint of hard- ness. There's bound to be some spot that don't ring true!” “And you have not found it?” “I do not believe it is there to be found! But enough—and to business. I came to bring you this; and, before you look at it, I want to tell you how it was obtained. It's a thing I'm not likely to succeed in, twice.” She put upon the table beside him a folded paper, but she still held it beneath her hand, and looked at it as if in doubt. “I am lending my ears,” he murmured, smiling, “and—I am not in haste.” “While I am!'” she drew herself erect, and smiled back at him across the table. My lady uses rather large sheets of paper, except for the briefest of notes, and she likes to have me leave her desk discreetly alone,—which I do.” “Of course,” soberly. “Don’t be sarcastic, sir! Last evening she was at home, and in her room, soon after dinner—her father had some dirner guests, of great business importance, and she had seemed eager to please him, and them, by her brightness and her pretty toilet- but I could see that she was glad, even eager, to leave them at their wine; and, once in her room, she went straight to her desk and getting out her pretty satin-like note paper, she prepared to write. But once seated she seemed undecided, and almost lost herself in some serious reverie that made her frown and wrinkle her brows;—and then, before she had made much more than a beginning, her aunt came in and reminded her that she should be in the drawing room, for a few moments, at least, when the guests came in from the dining room. ‘For I simply can't talk to four men, and serious men, too!’ the good soul urged. And of course my lady laughed and went down. But before going she told me I could put out the ‘things in her dressing room; and if she wanted me—later,-she would ring.” “I—see l” “Do you? Well, I was on my way from the inner room to the outer, before she had closed her door, and I slipped a sheet of carbon under her writing pad.” “Oh, ho!” “Don’t stop me, Larry, even by an exclamation!” she urged, still half smiling. “Of course it was a risk, but the carbon was A CHANGE OF HEART 185 smaller than the sheet—a little—so I took a chance as I have heard you say, sir.” “And it worked ?” “It did. I was still busy in the inner room when she came back and at once began to write. She was still writing when her aunt's maid came to the door with a message; Miss Smedley, the Foote- Halls, and Mr. Loundes were in the drawing room. They were planning an auto-party by moonlight, and she must come down. To my surprise she sprang up, hastily thrust the unfinished letter into the desk, and went below. I really think, that, for the mo- ment,-she had forgotten me—and her usual excessive cautions. But she would soon recall both, I was sure of that, and I flew out, and seeing the page written full, almost, I lifted it, secured car- bon and copy, and fled. She must have turned back when almost at the drawing room door, -she was back again so quickly— But —I had the letter,-or nearly all of it—I fancy, and here it is.” Even the accustomed Larne almost exclaimed, when, taking up the folded paper, and shaking it deftly open, he saw, at the first glance, that it was addressed to the Chicago City Prison, and its jailer John Wharton. And then, rapidly, and without further comment, he read this letter. “Mr. John Wharton, Chicago, Ill. My Dear Sir: I am told that you have a prisoner, called Arthur Snelling, who is awaiting trial—already twice postponed—upon the charge of burglary, or being accessory to the act. It is also reported to me that he is in failing, or feeble, health, which is further jeop- ardized by his close confinement and great mental anxiety. Will you, in kindness to an anxious and unhappy woman, write me the truth as to these reports? Tell me if his health is really endangered, and if so, if I may be permitted to visit him—of course under your rules—when I come to your city, which will be very soon after hearing from you. I wish to be assured that he has, or will have, the best legal aid, and shall come prepared to supply this, and all else that he may lack, or need, and that is 'permitted him. The unhappy prisoner is a near friend, and you, who have befriended so ma—” Here the writing ceased abruptly, and Larne, having read to the end, turned back and reread the letter, slowly, and without 186 A BLIND LEAD once raising his eyes. When finally he laid it down, he sat silently looking into space, until the girl spoke. “How, think you, will this affect Mr. Valentine Effingham, and his change of opinion?” “I think”—the words came from Larne's lips slowly, but with decision,—“that it will have no present effect; since I see no reason for taking him into our confidence—just yet. He might act unwisely. Is this all, lady?” “All except this; my mistress has been, for several days, accu- mulating Chicago time tables, mostly from the La Croix office or study, and—they seem to interest her.” She scanned his face for a moment, with keen eyes, then “Do you think—I ask for instruction—will Miss La Croix be likely to pay this visit to Chicago?” “Why it would appear so. Miss Iris La Croix is noted for doing what she will—I hear. I suppose her family would hardly object?” “But they do!” crisply. “Ah! Really? Seriously?” Again, for a moment—their eyes met, hers inquiringly, his seemingly indifferent, and half smiling. “I have observed,” she remarked as she withdrew her gaze, “that when you look most idiotically unconcerned—and stupid, your mind is—usually—quite made up! Much obliged, sir, and —good day.” “Good day—Witch! But wait! What little I can say, at the moment, you are entitled to hear. So far as I can see, and speak for her, your mistress will go to the Lakeside City when she wills it.” As the door closed behind her Larne's quiet gave place to swift action. He sprang to the telephone, and called, insistently, for Bruce Abinger. And when he heard Abinger's voice, at last, he called sharply: “Abinger, come down at once. Get rid of Effingham. I must see you before—before any—thing— It's about—Chicago.” “All right,” came the answer. “Chicago's an interesting city.” He heard Abinger's quick intake of breath, and sharp exclama- tory syllable; and he smiled grimly as he snapped the receiver back upon its hook. “Things seem getting warmer;” he assured himself—“and”— the smile vanishing—“This sudden movement should, somehow, A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION 187 give us the clue we need ! It must help us!” Then suddenly, “Dolt,” he gritted, and again sprang at the telephone—calling im- peratively for Abinger once more. “Hello,” he cried, when Abinger's voice came again cross the wire. “Bruce have you shaken Effingham yet?” “No. It don’t seem easy.” “Good! Then—but first-does he know it was I who just called you?” “No.” “Then don’t enlighten him. Find some pretext for keeping him in your shop, for—say half an hour, while you run out for a moment. Ask him to receive an expected client,-anything! Only keep him there; and you come up here, at once! We may need Effingham here, too, presently—and we may want him— elsewhere. Anyhow—” he stopped to consider, and now Abinger grew impatient. - “Anyhow—what?—what ails you, Larne?” “’Fraid I'm getting hysterical,” Larne's grimness was relaxing and becoming a grin. “But we don’t want him yet, you know— if at all. So shake him, quick, and hurry down.” And again Larne hung up the receiver and sat down to wait. “I must talk this thing over with the doctor, too,” he mused as he reached for a cigar, “and again with—the ladies. But not until I have consulted Abinger! I wonder—” here he paused, his face expressing the uncertainty of his mental attitude, as Abinger appeared in the doorway. CHAPTER XX. A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION. Larne's conference with Bruce Abinger was long and serious, and upon one or two points the harmony was not entire. When at last they had reached an agreement Abinger drew a long sighing breath, as, of not complete relief, and Larne whistled softly, a few bars of a favorite melody, as he looked at his watch, and then cast a side-long glance at his vis-a-vis, the ghost of whose sigh still hovered on the air. “My friend, I’ve a feeling that there's a point, where you and I differ—still.” Larne spoke slowly, almost with hesitation. 188 A BLIND LEAD “As how?” questioned Abinger,- “in intent or in mere opin- iOn P” “Not in intent—or so I trust—” “But, surely in opinion—eh?” The smile upon the speaker's face was rather grim; Val Effingham—and none knew Abinger better—would have called the set of his mouth stubborn. “I wish,” declared Larne, still in the manner of one feeling his way over delicate ground, “I really wish I could read your mind, Abinger.” “As to—” Abinger paused. “As to your exact and full opinion of the young woman we have been calling, of late, Iris La Croix number two.” “Larne, I'm afraid you underrate your own acumen, you read faces,—yes and minds, rather well—usually.” Abinger's tone was non-committal. “Some minds, I grant you. Not always the trained legal mind, I fear, when it's considerably above the average, and is guarded, always, by a countenance that can be sphinx-like at will.” The sphinx-like face relaxed into a smile. “Larne that was worthy of the first Irishman who ever kissed the blarney stone; and it deserves this, at least. That I do not agree with Val Effing- ham in his last idea of Miss La Croix the second I admit. Also I do not, -perhaps,—quite agree with yours.” “What is mine?” “Honestly—I don’t know.” Larne sat silently tapping the table for a moment, and looking moodily across it at his friend; then, very quietly. “Neither do I,” he said. “Frankly—I am puzzled.” “And I also. But, I imagine, in a different way. Be frank with me, Larne, are you in any manner of doubt about this busi- ness that I am about to undertake? or of my motive,—my sin- cerity that is—” “Your sincerity!—I don’t question for a moment, man. Otherwise—well—” “I understand,” nodded Abinger. “As to your motive, where it concerns our case, I’m sure of that, too, still—do you want to know what I think?” “Very much.” “I was not mistaken in assigning to you the part you are to play in the game we are about to begin—was I? You want to make this journey?” A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION 189 “I certainly do! And—I mean to make it. If not as your agent then as my own man!” Larne leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and smiled. “I thought as much,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Explain—please?” “It is what I meant to do. To begin, then—you intend to learn, if possible, the full meaning of this sudden visit to the Chicago jail; in the interest of this case, of the Iris La Croix abduction? Yes—I know you do! but you choose to be the one who does this so that you may be sure that the young woman most concerned gets fair play, complete courtesy, in the handling; also, that she may find a friend at hand at need, and you believe that she may need that friend, and may be more worthy of him than we now guess. Am I wrong?” “You are right—in the main. And now,—do you think me mistaken?” “Gad! I wish I knew ! Candidly, Abinger, I was never more puzzled about a woman! But of this I am sure; she is no cats- paw of the common sort. She's a strong personality! and—she's either the very cleverest of clever adventuresses, or she's a wo- man whose character and purpose neither of us has rightly under- stood.” “Which means, that she's either the clever adventuress you describe, or—she’s Iris La Croix?” Larne nodded, and for some moments there was silence be- tween them. It was Abinger who first spoke. “Larne our talk brings us to the point where I feel justified in putting to you a question, over which I have felt a bit in doubt since first we talked of this new “campaign of aggression,” as you very aptly call it. You have asked me, it is true, to make this journey; but—I have felt—somehow—as if it were not all together a matter of choice. In our group—leaving out the ladies—for they, all three, are already at their posts,—and they're surely doing good work—and important,—I seem to be the only man available, now that Effingham's out of the game—almost. Candidly—am I the man you would have chosen for this work if there were others both available and—fit?” “Ease your mind of that thought, my friend. You are the right man, the desired man, for the place; and I have full confidence in you. You will do your work; and whatever you may do be- yond that will be governed by what you may discover. If it is 190 A BLIND LEAD in the interest of the young woman whose movements are caus- ing us these various and rapid changes of base, it will be because ou have found her worthy of said interest, and effort;—in which £"they will be right of course. We are seekers after the truth, not persecutors of women, my dear man! And now— until we meet again, for the last council of war—we shall both find enough to do.” Again he consulted his watch, and with a final hand clasp, the seal of mutual trust and good feeling, if £ of fullest understanding, they separated. Abinger-like Larne—being a Person whose time, by day, and often late into the night, was fully occupied. A lawyer by vocation, Abinger had chosen, like the good American he was, to lead “the busy life,” and so enjoy to the full, the social amenities which were his when he would. He was not only good looking and socially inclined,—with an amiable and courteous manner and a ready—if quiet—wit, but he was also, aside from the emoluments of a healthy growing practice, the possessor of an income which, alone, would have placed him high in the ranks of Society's eligibles. For, was he not an Abinger of the Abingers? descendants of the fighting Abingers who had fought manfully in the early days, and had wrested from the new land the first Abinger fortune; which was passed on, and on; always conservatively handled and never growing less, nor earning for its holders the taint of “Robber's gold.” It was from these early Abingers, so it was said, that Bruce Abinger got his slim well knit frame, and the mature look that always gave a hint of dignity to the spare young face, which was strong and firm rather than handsome; bespeaking for its owner, character and strength. These latter qualities, as well as a look of firm, almost stern, energy, all spoke in his face, as, striding away from Larne's apartment-Abinger dropped down to his own floor, and, enter- ing his office, with a word to the boy in the outer room, he paused for a moment—midway between the “wall,” or long dis- tance, telephone, and his desk, and seemed to hesitate. “It won’t do!” he murmured. “There's a risk—possible. But —why sure—” exclaiming thus he sprang to the wall telephone, and: ringing briskly, called: “Hello, Central—f want Chicago—yes—that's it. It's my num- ber, all O. K.—ah, thanks—Give me Dearborn, 1896—yes, 96– oh, very good.” A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION 191 He waited a little in characteristic movelessness, then— “Ah—hello!— Is that you Frayne? Good! This is Abinger —Frayne are you likely to be in town—your town, and free to do two or three things for me right away? I'll wire the details, its safest and I'll use the old code.” He meant the code of their college days—“that won't take much time. Nor will my wants I trust—what's that?—oh, yes;—all right! And I’m likely to follow my wire, soon—No–Can't tell what day—depends upon some one else— And—Preston, do you chance to know Wharton, the man in charge of the city jail. Do? Good! Then I'll wire the rest—good-bye, and thanks, many of them.” He “hung up” and went with quick strides to the chair before his desk. The big elevator, which had whizzed down from Larne's floor carrying Bruce Abinger, continued its downward course; and when it again shot upward little keen-eyed Doctor Flack stood among the passengers, his face reflecting—as it so often did when he was not strictly on guard—his changing thoughts, and shift- ing from a look of anxiety and uneasiness, to one of gratifica- tion. For, while he had just been summoned to come at once to confer with Hillary Larne, he would have paid this visit all the same, and just as promptly, without this call to council; for had he not a bit of rare news to impart, a bit of news that would, he felt sure, be as welcome to Larne as to himself. Still—he did wonder if this sudden call meant—as he feared it might—a fresh complication. And with this thought his countenance would grow grimly anxious again. But his step was brisk and bouyant as he slipped from the elevator cage, and, a moment after, en- tered Larne's presence; and something in his face caused the latter to ask, half smiling: “Have you a bit of good news, Doctor? Your face seems to say so.” 'A' then, for the moment, the doctor's anxiety was forgotten, and the “bit of news,” came tumbling out. “I believe I have Mr. Larne—sir! I really do! I'm sure you can’t have heard it—yet, and it's not in the papers, I'm sure! I really think—there—I always begin upside down.” “What is it, man? Sit down, and out with it.” “Why, it's the Asylum, Larne! It's that vain-glorious Doctor. Or rather, it isn't him any longer. He's down and out.” “Out of the Asylum?” “That's it! It seems he's been a little too high handed in the 192 A BLIND LEAD wrong place; and he's been ousted, which is good; but what's still better is that the new man can be reasoned with, I think. And if not he can be bullied. And while I don’t believe in the method—for general use—I stand ready to use it in this case— if needs must.” “Um l’ Larne's face was serious, “who's the new man?” It's Howson. Ah, I see you recall the name. He figured in the Martin-Coles affair, and it was my vote that cleared him, at the last ditch, as it were. Oh, there are tricks in all trades, son; and I let the man off easy because he was just being used as a buffer and to take the punishment which belonged, by rights, to the man higher up. You don't want the details of that story—eh?” “Indeed, not! I just want to know if you're sure of your premises?” “Sure as taxes! Doc Howson will never say the direct word— unless he must ! He will side step, and ‘haw and hem, but he won't say No! And, if he won't receive our little fairy tale as if he believed it—by the way—am I going too fast? Would you still like the chance to get inside that swell sanitarium, to see the wheels go round, and run the show, for a day or two?” “By all means! and now—today—more than ever!” Larne's eyes began to glow, and his mouth to harden. “Then it's got to happen! If you must, you shall! Steal, bor- row, or buy a medical sheep skin; read up a few bits from Fowler on anatomy, and arrive from Germany by the next ship. By the way, can you parley voo' in Dutch?” Larne laughed and nodded. “Good! Then it will be your best game to enter—under my wing of course—as a young ignoramus in search of wisdom of the American brand, and I’ll see if we can’t let a few maniacs loose on that Castle Creek community, and all about the Bronx, if doing that will add to your store of useful knowledge.” “I believe it will. At least—I would be glad to make the ven- ture; and I find there's a stronger reason why it should be at- tempted than we have suspected, up to the present time. It was to give you the latest developments, and try to plan how best to meet this fresh emergency, that I called you up to-day. And— first—you are sure of your premises, of course? Sure that your ‘right man’ is a fixture—for a time at least—in the right place which is, of course, the asylum?” “I’m sure he's there, and that I can prevail upon him—some- how—to open his doors to us—to you. The rest will be as you can make it. I’ll see Howson whenever you like. And now—” A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION 193 “Now,” said Larne, “listen to this.” The little doctor's eyes widened at the story of the day's devel- opments—of the Claxton case, the visit of Captain Rohan, and the new departure of Val Effingham; and he fumed and grew ex- clamatory when the change in Effingham's point of view was reached. But Larne would allow him no room to interrupt, and the doc- tor grew grave, and more silent as, bit by bit, the changes that were necessary, and Larne's new and startlingly aggressive plans of search and attack were placed before him. “My soul and body!” he ejaculated, when, the end being reached, Larne fixed him with a keen glance and the crisp inquiring syllable “well?” - The syllable masked a question, but at first the little doctor could only stare and mutter feebly. Then—“My Stars!” he burst out. “Why, man, it's beyond belief But its so daring, its very boldness should make it safe. And what a queer double game! To throw your strength, openly, almost, into this Claxton case— the poor little kid—and thus, while helping them, to mask your main object! It's mighty clever! But—I can’t quite see how you intend to proceed once you are within the sanitarium walls, and have got your game afoot.” “And I can’t tell you—yet, for I don’t quite know. When we are once on the ground we shall work rapidly,—if the one we seek is a prisoner anywhere within reach—” “That’s it Larne!” the doctor, broke in. “Tell me at least this much. Are you still actually basing your movements, your plans, upon that single clue, that bit of red ribbon?” “We are almost—yes.” “But it seems—it could so easily be—a—trick, a lure.” “It could, true. But I have great confidence in Mrs. Leach, and she has recognized a certain stitch in that bit of needlework, as one much used and favored by Miss La Croix, and not likely to be found, in the same combination, elsewhere. She believes that this odd school girl blend of stitch and color was purposely used in the hope that some friend might see and recognize it; herself possibly. You will observe that the same queer stitches appear on both the bits of ribbon now in our possession. Doctor, I have an appointment with a lady in half an hour, and I want to see you again soon—I can’t quite fix the date but it will be at night, and you will come to Abinger's rooms. It's best to fore- 196 A BLIND LEAD straight before him. Then he brought his open palm forcibly down upon book and map. “It’s unthinkable!” he ejaculated. “It’s monstrous, that a man should do what I am undertaking—blindly, almost! I must end it—and that soon!” Of one thing he was assured. The search in and nearest the city had been close and thorough. Many men, aided and in- structed, and their work constantly overlooked by himself, had scoured the city, its highways and byways. They had unearthed various things for which the police had been at once grateful—and jealous. But not one clue had indicated the right mystery, the possible hiding place of the girl for whom they sought. It was only when they turned their faces eastward, and north, that they found the first clue to guide their search toward her possible prison. And here again arose uncertainty. Was this clue—the clue of the red ribbon—a message from the imprisoned daughter of Jerry La Croix, or was it a hoax? Either way, -to Larne,— it seemed their strongest proof that Iris La Croix was a prisoner; for if a hoax, it could only mean that, in some way, the plot- ters knew, or guessed, that the change of identity was suspected, and that they had sent out these signals hoping to mislead. In this case, the girl they sought was not in or near the Bronx. But they must make the test; they must know! Here he set against this possibility of a cheat, Tony Leach, with her assurance that the work was from the hand of Iris La Croix. That it was a stitch old-fashioned and almost out of use, a stitch picked up in their school days from the elderly wife of a German professor. And Larne believed in Tony Leach. In her shrewdness, her keen- ness, her clear memory, and her woman's intuition; and Tony who knew Iris La Croix, did not—and could not—accept the present incumbent of the La Croix home as a true daughter, and this in face of the fact, that both the father and aunt had ac- cepted her; and, living beside her day by day, had never doubted; saw nothing to doubt. But there, again, came Tony's argument. Jerry La Croix like many another father, had seen less of his daughter than had some of her school-girl friends. For years they had lived apart, first during her school days, and later during her long season of travel, and life abroad, with her mother. As for the aunt,—until she came, not so long since, to make her home with her widowed brother, she had scarcely seen her brother's daughter. WEIGHING THE EVIDENCE 197 There, too, was the scarred arm. A scar which the family doctor had declared could not be removed—that is obliterated— by any means known to him, and to orthodox medical science. That such a scar could be removed,—and show no trace of its re- moval within a few weeks, was, he believed, humanly impossible. And yet—if this girl of the unscarred arm was Miss La Croix —the impossible had happened. What a situation! Larne smiled cynically. After all, the ab- sence of the scar gave added weight to Effingham's original theory. And now—he turned to what Una called his “scraps of evi- dence.” First of all,—and from the first,—came “aunt Randa's” asser- tions,—growing in frequency as the days passed—that Iris was “different” and “queer” in many ways. Her manner with the servants, her odd refusals, at table, of the dishes she had most liked of old, and which, on one or more occasions, had been espe- cially prepared for her by the cook. It had been noted, however—and for this item, or a series of them, he had to thank Tony Leach—that these “queernesses,” once observed, and commented on, by Aunt Randa, were never repeated. And then,-soon after her reappearance at the table following her brief illness—Iris had asked the new doctor, who had diagnosed for her “a possibly delicate stomach,” to make out for her a suitable invalid's dietary; and this she had religiously followed ever since. In truth Larne had to thank Tony Leach for numerous “un- usual” and “different” acts and sayings, not noted by Aunt Randa. For Tony, having the “run” of the home, had been a frequent caller, her calls increasing in frequency after a certain interview with Hillary Larne. And while she took care not to ask for Iris oftener than had been her custom, she had, during the girl's ill- ness, made an almost daily appearance in Aunt Randa's private sitting room; and, being a decided favorite with that somewhat prim but light loving spinster, she was made more than welcome, and found an easy way into the good lady's confidence; her calls however growing less frequent after the coming of the new maid. And Tony herself admitted that she valued the “Aunt Randa clues,” as least in weight of any of the list. Tony highly valued the word “clues,” and she used it, in her talks with Larne, upon all occasions; much to his tolerant amuse- 1ment. 198 A BLIND LEAD Over the matter of the changed riding habit, Larne wrinkled his brows. Here all the evidence agreed. Father and aunt, her friends, her maid, Effingham, Tony, even Abinger, all were of one mind. For Iris had worn the bifurcated garment, with bloomer or long coat, and had used only the cross saddle since her school days, declaring that fluttering skirts were an insult to a good horse! In this matter the new Iris had not changed; she still wore the flowing skirts, and rode the side saddle—but she rode less often. Another point, or departure, in matters of dress, Tony had been quick to report,-having heard the whisper and had it veri- fied by the thrifty-minded aunt. Iris, coming home empty handed after her enforced absence, had, as a matter of course, made prompt use of the abundant wardrobe stored in her nu- merous boxes, racks, drawers and “presses.” But no sooner had she risen from her two weeks' illness than she began a quiet round of shopping; and never, as it developed, after the change became possible, had she worn the least and simplest garment that had been owned, or worn, before the abduction. She called upon Jerry La Croix for “pin money,” with the laughing assur- ance of the accustomed money spender, and it had been given in the same free spirit. But even here Aunt Randa had discerned a difference. “Iris,” she exclaimed one day, as the girl, returning with her maid from a little shopping tour, entered the elder lady's pres- ence to find Tony Leach airily waving a fan, and wagging her tongue, by an open window. “You are really getting queerer and queerer! Been shopping again have you? And pray what is it now P Positively, Mrs. Leach, that child has not worn a single gown or hat, or even a pair of shoes, I do believe, that she had before—a—” hesitating, “I mean since her illness; and they're so pretty—some of them!” Whereupon the girl had dropped smilingly into a low Roman chair opposite Tony, and, looking confidingly straight into her eyes, explained. “You see, my dear, this poor aunty just dotes on explanations. And seriously, here is mine. I am still horribly sensitive; and I find that the rather distinctive style of dress, that has actually become known—to some—as the ‘La Croix style, is making me too conspicuous-now. When one loves to wear a favorite gown again and yet again one must pay for the fancy. And nearly all of those early bought Vienna frocks have been worn—more or WEIGHING THE EVIDENCE 199 less,—and as a consequence they identify me, on the street; not to acquaintances and friends only—one need not mind that so much —but strangers recognize the gowns, and—point me out to others” —and the girl shuddered. “But not often, Iris?” This from Tony. “Oftener than I like! It's like this; all these dear people in- sist upon my going out just as usual, and so I insist upon going in a less conspicuous and pretty garb, than those Vienna frocks; for, truly, they are dreams; especially the skirts and carriage gowns.” “You see,” Tony had said, when she ended this little story, “How clever and plausible she is, and so artless in the way she ex- plains things! You know she explained her change of riding habit in the same way,—but she stuck to the change.” Larne smiled and frowned, as he recalled these things. “Plausible! Clever!” he grumbled; “I should think so!” And then he caught up the lesser note book. Ah, yes—there, too, were those, at first, frequent lapses of memory. They had not been so frequent of late, to be sure, but might not this in part at least,- be explained by the new maid's statement, that Iris gave some portion of each day to reading old letters, and diaries, in what she thought to be the seclusion of her locked sitting room. Had she perchance been studying her part? A little longer Larne turned the pages of the small note book. There was the episode of the olive toilet soap, such a sudden change of taste, and the fact that while Iris the first had been a luxury loving creature, where her toilet was concerned, and had submitted herself to the hand of her maid with utmost enjoy- ment,—Iris the second had assured her maids, both the old and the new, that during her late absence she had been her own lady's maid, and having learned to like this personal service, she pre- ferred to continue it. She had missed her hair dresser, however, and was glad to submit her soft tresses to the maid's deft hands. After all, in the summing up, how could one—how could he— decide, weigh, all this strangeness, these changes in taste, and manner,—and person? A long time Larne sat thinking, and absently ruffling the leaves of the little note book; and then, suddenly, he brought the palm of his hand down upon his blotter, exclaiming “That other girl! confound it—she’s too elusive!” From the first moment he had steadily kept this 4 & other girl,” 200 A BLIND LEAD out of their discussions. In fact she had not entered into any of Val Effingham's many and varied, possible, explanations of his sweetheart's disappearance. And while he must have seen the mention of “that double disappearance from an up town woman's club,” as some of the yellowest of all the yellow journals had put it next morning, it is doubtful if it had left the least im- pression upon the gray matter above his handsome eyes. Even Bruce Abinger had only spoken of it once, and then as “a rather odd coincidence, don't you think?” Whereupon Larne had grin- ned and nodded, saying negligently, “Um—yes!” and resumed the reading of another journal, only a shade less yellow than that which had chronicled so luridly the “double disappearance.” As for the Doctor, who only read the morning papers when time hung heavy on his hands, and at other times permitted his wife to “feed” him the chief items of interest; that is, the market quo- tations, and political headlines; and, if there still remained to him an unappropriated moment he would sometimes say suggestively, “Any one we know been born, died, married, or murdered, my dear?” For the odd little doctor declared that, being wholly uninterested in the affairs of people he did not know, it was a needless waste of time to read of them, good, bad, or otherwise. This being the case it was more than likely that he had never heard, or, having heard had not remembered, the name and the misadventure of Miss Bertha Helmuth. Certainly he had never mentioned the young woman to Hillary Larne; and that young man was now congratulating himself be- cause of the fact, —“For,” he assured himself, “the case of Miss La Croix is already sufficiently mixed, complicated and mys- sterious, without the addition of this last uncanny feature. “All the same—” here he produced from a small and inconspicuous card file, a final bit,-all that he had been able to gather concern- ing this same Miss Helmuth,-which was precisely all that the newspapers had chronicled, and little more. It was this “little,” however, upon which Larne's attention now fixed itself. The one fact in the brief history of Miss Helmuth's appearance in the city, and her disappearance so soon after, which had struck Larne as most peculiar, was, that a week after the first startling account of her disappearance from before the club house ap- peared, the newspaper had faithfully reported the story, as it was known, guessed at-or pieced-together, from day to day. But WEIGHING THE EVIDENCE 201 when these accounts, reviews, and comments, ceased in one quar- ter—and this they did promptly at the week's end—they ceased in all, suddenly and entirely. And as the name ceased to appear the wonder and interest also ceased, and by the time Miss La Croix was again established in her brown stone home, newer mysteries and wonders had almost crowded this one event, which gave Miss Helmuth a place in the public interest, from the public memory. And when Larne had fully assured himself that the disappearance of Miss Helmuth had never yet been connected with this other disappearance, in the minds of those interested in the present search, he had been careful not to suggest such a possibility, by even the briefest mention. None the less he had made his own careful, private, and per- sonal inquiry into the Helmuth matter; and while he had un- earthed no new development he had been able to add somewhat to the detail, of the old; and now, with his notes of these same details before him, he was able to form a fairly clear mental pic- ture of Miss Helmuth; her looks, her manner, her dress. Also he had obtained a very clear description of the machine and the men that carried her away. And, lastly, following up the clues and hints found in the various newspapers, he had been able to secure a fairly accurate account of the route taken from the club- house, and of the two halts, at the café and the theater, as well as of what occurred at these places. It was this precise, concise, and carefully tabulated array of minutia, which Larne kept for his own private use and reference, that gave to him, in the working out of all his cases, that clear grasp and insight, that command of small—but often essential- detail, which went so far, and was so helpful toward the summing up, the final arrangement of the finishing stroke; and many of these details now passing under his eye would have surprised his friends, Effingham, Abinger, and the little doctor; for they many of them had passed before their own eyes, quite unnoted. And now, having gone over all the evidence, pro and con, re- lating to Miss La Croix or her impersonator, he reviewed, detail for detail, the items of the dual disappearance; once more fol- lowing in his imagination, Iris La Croix as she left her father's door to drive to the fashionable up town club house; and Miss Bertha Helmuth, as she drove away from the door of her hotel en route for the same destination. And then, as was his habit when quite alone, he began to rum- 202 A BLIND LEAD inate, half aloud, punctuating here and there with a quick nod, or swift gesture of flexible wrist and finger tips: “M, m-m! Really how much these brisk, astute, vividly de- scriptive, gentlemen of the press do miss, in their frantic endeavor to tell it all, with a few guesses thrown in for good measure. And how, for just a few days, they did lavish words upon those two young women, and their mysterious flittings! And yet—not one of them,-it would seem,-discovered the fact—and it must have been a fact, that the account of the first flitting, and of the first young woman,—“young, graceful, richly dressed,” and of the first auto, and first pair of attendants, was almost exactly para- phrased by the description of the second going away a little later! They are as like as would be the same event, written by two per- sons! And I wonder how it was that all could agree, all be so sure, that it was Miss La Croix who departed in the first auto? Both girls came out alone, they say,—and that, too, seems a little bit queer; especially in the case of Miss La Croix. And both wore gowns of blue cloth—and “evening wraps of some light color.” Both costumes are described as elaborate, rich, and so on. In short—both descriptions might stand for the same girl. I'm a believer in coincidences, up to a certain point, —and if Miss Hel- muth had been found, or even heard from, I might accept this as a plain coincidence. But—the fact that she has never been re- ported as found, dead or alive, and the sudden way in which her anonymous friends dropped the inquiry, and, seemingly, lost all interest in it, makes me want to find Miss Helmuth ! And that's why I am going, now, straightway to consult with Rufe Carnes.” \ CHAPTER XXII. INTRODUCING CARNES. There are, in New York, more than in most cities perhaps, a large number of resorts, known as cafés, lunch rooms, club kit- chens, and by a score of other names, all different; but different only as one household, one family, differs from another,—in size, in dignity, in social traits, and habits. These are the places where the average New Yorker, the retail tradesman, the bookkeeper, the bank clerk, the rank and file of | . | | | | ||| | / - --~~ 2× * * /* * / 1 £. ' ^ f/ % / | | % --> %. 2% ū % &%, 47% Z/// - Ż// M// £y/#// / *// I - / | | ///||||I|| ///|| | t | || || | % ||| | % /// | * | |||| | | w// | | | | t | HE KNEW HIS MAN AND LIKED HIS OFF-HAND WAY. INTRODUCING CARNES 203 the lesser professions—the man of modest earnings and large hopes,—finds his noon day luncheon, and his evening's rest and relaxation, over his beer and oysters, or a “frapped” drink, and other light refreshments, according to the season. They are quiet, these lesser resorts, respectable, and comfort- able! many of them are almost fine;—places where a man may take his wife, his daughter, or his sweetheart, for a Sunday after- noon’s treat, or a little blow out after the theater, and they will be safe, and neither rudely stared at nor subjected to half heard comment, coarse criticism, or audible impertinences, which can- not always be said of the more brilliant, showy, and grossly ex- pensive places, a “plane” higher up, or of the smaller, noisier and more crowded resorts on the plane below. For the dude, the masher, the cheap man about town and his gay companions, find little attraction in strict respectability; and they pass it by, on one side or the other, according as their purses are heavy or light, their laces, furs, and jewels real, or sham. Something like this was passing through Larne's mind as he entered one of these orderly and quiet places, and made his way to the rear of the long low-ceiled room;—and to a corner, a win- dow, and a table, which he knew of old,—and dropped into a chair opposite a square shouldered gray-haired man who nodded him a silent welcome. There was no ceremony of hand clasp and formal greeting. Larne knew his man, and liked his quiet off-hand humor. “Same old shop, same old corner,” he commented, promptly feeling for his cigar case; “Carnes order something, and then we'll talk. A man could plot to dynamite Tammany and all the tigers here, and do it in perfect safety. I vow the cleanliness and quiet of this Dutch kitchen, is really restful! So you're going to help me out old man?” “What's the game?” “’Member the La Croix abduction?” “Huh ! she lost again? Hold up Larne, here comes my friend Otto to get our orders. And for Satan's sake put away that cigar case ! You don’t want to stuff yourself at this hour, I hope! It's drinks, and a little smoke for mine, and they keep a good brand in both lines here, I want you to know.” When the order had been given and quietly served, Rufus Carnes slowly lighted his cigar and, lifting his glass to his lips, looked across it, saying. “Now, my friend draw a little closer, 204 A BLIND LEAD that's it, and fire away; we sha'n't be bothered here,” whereupon Larne presented his case, sipping at his glass now and then, while Carnes now asked a question, now uttered a comment. When he had finished, Larne lifted and drained the glass—which Carnes had just refilled—at a draught. “Great Scott!” Carnes ejaculated, as he put it down, “What a 'mellerdrammer!' . Have another sip do; you sure must need it!” Larne held out his glass in silence, “And,” pursued Carnes, “I should say it was likely to turn out a roaring farce comedy on your hands, or else—a tragedy.” “You’ve got it!” Larne's face was gloomy. “There'll be no middle ground, I fancy. It's bound to be white or black. Be plain, old chap; I've tried to make all clear to you. How does it look? I’ve studied it till I don’t see straight.” “Um!. Of course the evidence, thus far, is mostly circum- stantial?” “Of course!” “And—there's a deal of—coincidence? or what looks like it.” “True.” Rufus Carnes was in his forties, and a bachelor by nature and by grace. He professed himself ignorant of woman, and her ways, and would never, in his busy days, accept a case where his em- ployer was a woman! or where his work must throw him too much among the gentler sex; but he now put his two elbows upon the table before him, and, leaning forward said gravely: “Larne, the thing that goes farthest toward convincing me that this Miss La Croix is not Miss La Croix, is her attitude, since the first moment of her return, toward young Effingham.” “My—word! Yes?” “It may be that you’ve colored it a thought too much—although you're a pretty good artist in words; but—if not—then you've given me the living likeness of a girl who finds herself too real a woman to play this part of the game. It's the picture of a girl who can’t or won’t play at love, with the wrong man, because—there's—somewhere—a right one.” “Upon my soul, Carnes, I believe you're right! I'm sure of it—almost! And you—are a bachelor—who don't—know— women?” Larne's eyes were mirthful. “My friend,” Carnes put out his right hand and rested two lean fingers upon his neighbor's arm; “No man who has had a real mother can be wholly ignorant of the best thoughts in 206 A BLIND LEAD “As if there was any need. Oh, well—the point is, will she go at once to the Hartwell place—if at all?” “I think she will,” said Carnes. “So do I—almost. In that case you simply must not lose her for a minute; for, somehow, I have a feeling that Abinger will.” “Me, too,” Carnes was a man of few words. “Do I under- stand that La Croix is altogether out of this?” “Yes. Of course if it turns out that she don’t come back— and somehow I have a feeling that she's running away; then of course we must tell him.” “I’ve a fancy”—Carnes spoke slowly, as if thinking, “that be- fore the end you may need his help.” - “M—yes?” Their eyes met—and challanged for a moment— and then, as by mutual consent—they left the subject. “I suppose the game is—to follow her, or run the chance of losing her trail? What then?” “Then, you must be the judge. Of course, you'll carry a war- rant—for a Miss Helmuth.” “Charge?” “Conspiracy. And we must go over that ground thoroughly, before you set out.” “Of course!” Carnes gave one of his short chuckling laughs. “Larne, I’ve a fancy that I shan’t come back from the Windy City as I went—along—with Miss La Croix and your friend, after a pleasant car ride and a night at some good hotel—I'll have a rather enjoyable time, I fancy. And yet?” he looked across at his friend and laughed again. “Larne, its no part of my busi- ness, what you mean to do, down around the Bronx and the rest of the woods—but—I’d like to know.” “I wish I knew Carnes! I believe—if we have not been hoaxed in some manner—that we may find two prisoners,—after good- ness knows how long a hunt—if we find any. They may be in that sanitarium, or they may be in one of about a dozen other likely places scattered over miles of that stretch of woods and open. We intend to try the asylum first; and, if it seems best, there will be a very crazy but harmless patient centered there— soon.” “Um! I see! Hope you’ll enjoy yourself, old man.” “Thanks. On the other hand, we may decide just to turn loose a lunatic or two, and then hunt until we find—what we’re after.” INTRODUCING CARNES 207 “And that’s—?” “Well—Rohan has pretty good reason for believing the Clax- ton kid is somewhere in that neck of the woods, and I hope to find —well—Miss La Croix, possibly, and—possibly—Miss Helmuth, instead. Oh, yes,” at sight of his friend's broad grin. “You may well laugh! I'll admit that I'm a bit mixed in my mind; and now—I must be moving.” They arose together, slowly, and each lighted his weed. One would not have taken them to be men who were busy, or in haste. “There's one thing more,” said Carnes, with a touch of hesi- tancy, Larne, if I’m going to make a sure thing of my job I ought to see your friend Abinger, whom I hardly know by sight, at closer range. To know his face might save complications, later—especially as I don't know the lady, and pictures—” “Ah, pictures,” Larne waved this thought aside. “Of course! And I had almost overlooked that point. Let's see—there is not too much time; suppose you come with me now. Abinger's a grind, and often sits late at his desk. There's a chance that we'll find him there, and its the quietest time of the whole day, in that beehive.” - “All right!” agreed Carnes. “Mind, I only want a look at him. We must not meet, yet.” And they took their way uptown. At the broad entrance to the office building where Larne was quartered, he put a warning hand upon his companion's arm, as the elevator just opposite them slid silently down, and the door opened. “Hush!” he whispered, “look ahead, and then drop behind me. There's Abinger now, just stepping from the cage— the one in the gray coat.” - In another moment Larne had met and greeted Abinger; hold- ing him for a moment's converse, while Carnes, keeping discreetly in the background, studied, and approved, his countenance. “Madam Dalmeney has been seeking a word with you,” Abin- ger told his friend. “She’s just got in, and—I think she has something to impart—” and he smiled. “I’ll go up at once!” declared Larne, and he hastened into the ascending cage, followed closely by Carnes. In Larne's outer office, or receiving room, his well trained office boy, arose from behind his small desk, and a man, loung- ing near the corner window, looked up quickly, as the two en- tered. 208 A BLIND LEAD The boy, after a swift glance, silently withdrew, while the man by the window, who held a brown parcel upon his knees, arose, and held it up, saying in the regular delivery boy man- ner,—“Bro’t you the book—” but Larne waved his hand, closed the outer door, and, moving toward the inner one, said. “Never mind the patter, Jimmie, you ought to know Carnes. There, come inside, both of you.” And he led the way, to the inner office again, closing the door behind them. When his two guests had exchanged greetings, Larne said briskly: “Now, then—Carnes is with us, Jimmie, and as you are here I take it you have something to report—eh?” “I have—I think, sir.” “Well, out with it. But, first—sit down both of you. Now then, Jimmie?” “You see,” began the man, Jimmie Daw, who was small, wiry, keen of eye, and quite young. “Your advice—to tie to a tele- phone gang if I got the chance,—worked all right; and, because I'm a climber they was glad of my company, for they were Stringing Some new wires where there’d been a breakdown, and one of their men had weakened when it got to a stiff climb, and a little balancin'! The last break was clost to a house standin’ about a mile from that big asylum, you know—” d which way?” Larne's sudden increase of interest was evi- ent. “East.” "Ah! Go on, Jimmie” It was in the woods; and it seemed that some darkies had been tryin' to rig up a lookout for themselves in a couple of trees, and when their riggin' broke, and a big limb with it, down came a lot of live wire, lookout, and all—” 'A lookout for what?” ‘Bird shootin' they said, though its out of season; but what does a nigger care for that?” 'What indeed? Well—go on.” The £on£d it—I wish I could remember the feller's iname ' ...' *nds right between the main road and the creek that *:: "...little bridges. It's quite big, and—” £ ! We can find the place when we want it, James.” her just San It stands up as high as the asylum, and on '#' *ch a rise of ground. A person could almost stand £ £e t£3' one place and wig-wag to the other, right over INTRODUCING CARNES 209 “Um! I think I remember it,” nodded Larne; and at his tone Carnes smiled. “Well, there's two stories, and a mansard roof; and the man- sard has a lot of windows all around on the four sides, and all with blinds; some of 'em a bit open, an’ lookin' as if the whole house was full. You could see, from the road, little glimpses of winder curtains, and lifted sashes, here and there.” “In the mansard?” “Yep! Well, as I was sayin', the pole holdin’ the broken wire was pretty close to the house, and the wire itself had caught and tangled in the tree, -still closer. Says the foreman, one of you boys must take the pole an' the other the tree, to splice that wire; an' as the other chap had on his climbin’ togs, and grips, I says, tree for mine, I'm a squirrel at tree climbin','—an’ so I went up.” He paused a moment, and glanced quizzically from Larne to Carnes. “There was two men—belongin' to the place, I judged—that had popped up an’ stood lookin' on; an' when I went to the tree one of 'em, a colored boy, says, 'Ah'l clim’ that tree for yo’, boss.’ “Can you splice a wire an 'just the in- sulations?’ asks the foreman, an’ the boy says, “Ah dunno, but ah got powful good eyes, boss.’ I thought that was a funny an- swer, and so, just joshin' I says, “Well, I'm purty near-sighted, but I can splice a wire.’ ‘Then up go,' says Mr. Boss, an as he spoke I was sure the two men exchanged sort of queer, kind of relieved, looks.” “Ah!” breathed Larne. “I had to saw off a limb that was towards the house; and when it was down an I had a clear view of them winders, I pipes out, before I thought, 'Gimminy.” The two men actually jumped, and the boss asked, “What's broke?’ ‘Most lost my footin', I sings back, ‘count o' my darned eyes, and then I be- gan splicing the wire with my face towards the mansard, work- in slow, an’ sort o' grumblin’—for them winders, blinds, sashes, curtains, winder frames an’ the whole blamed business was just —paint, framed in.” “Paint?” echoed his two listeners. “Yes, sir; paint! I could see, from where I was, just where the real dormer openin's had been flatly boarded over, an’ the effect of windows painted on. Of course, I could only see the one side, but, afterwards, I gave myself a chance—from the ground— to look at the two sides toward the river and the south, and— 210 A BLIND LEAD after I'd seen the one, at close range, I'm sure that they're all painted.” “And from where, then, does the mansard get its light?” ques- tioned Larne. “Well, sir; there's a flat roof with a two foot iron railing round it. The 'riginal railin's open work, a fancy sort; but— inside that is a close board linin'!” He got up, as if his business was at an end. “Is that all, Jimmie?” “Yes, sir. Any orders?” “Nothing now. You have done well. Keep at it. I'm coming down there soon.” “All right, good bye, sir; bye, Mr. Carnes.” And Jimmie went his way, grinning, cheerily. Larne watched the door close behind him and then turned slowly towards Carnes. “Talk about timeliness!” he ejaculated. “Is it—the right word, then?” “It's the ‘word’ that makes me long to hasten our movement upon that sanitarium! And that will materially hasten, or shorten, our work, once we are there, I verily believe! It's— but there—I want to think before I talk—much more. Only— Carnes—I wish you and Abinger, and the lady, were on the way to Chicago now! :k >k >k >k >k *k sk >k sk Val Effingham was nearing the La Croix mansion at a slow pace, and with a face set and almost stern; a look most unusual upon his handsome and usually genial countenance. Since the beginning of the La Croix perplexities he had passed through many stages of feeling, beginning with the first shock and horror of his sweetheart's abduction, and on through the ebb and flow of alternating hope, suspense, fear, doubt and uncer- tainty—during her absence. When her return was made certain he had believed himself the happiest of men; and so—for a little time—he was. But the change began on that first night of her home coming, and, since then, he had run the full gamut of sensa- tions, from sadness and gloom to despair. He had been very patient, with what he had at first believed to be the gloomy imaginings, the hurt feelings, of a sensitive woman, mistakenly fancying that the situation could in any man- ner change his feelings, because of the gossip and possible scan- dal which must be the sure consequence of so strange a mis- adventure; for he would call it by no harsher name. INTRODUCING CARNES 211 Then had come his first doubts and suspicions, which, serious as they were, had comforted him, in a way, so long as he might hope to find the real Iris, with her feelings unchanged. But as the days went on, putting aside his hurt feelings with a firm hand he began to think more calmly, to study the girl's method, to reason upon them, and to doubt—a little. And then,—within the week—he had sought her with a determination to under- stand, to draw her into such discussions as would give him surest proof of her real feelings; and, seeking her more often, for this purpose, she had given him what, for a little, he be- lieved to be full assurance that there could be no imposture. But with this came the proof,-equally assured—or so he believed,— that Iris, the real Iris was changed, to him, for all time, because, somehow, somewhere, she had found another lover, or at least another whom she preferred to him. And now with mind fully determined, with affections almost mortally wounded, and with all his strong racial pride aroused, he was seeking her for a final explanation. Heretofore he had been gentle, tender, solicitious. Effacing himself, and yielding to all her wishes, implied or expressed. Now he was in a different mood. For his peace of mind, his self-respect, he must know—and speak—the truth. Two days had passed since his last talk with Larne and Abinger, and, during the interval, he had seen neither, and had not approached Iris. Now—at the door—almost, he met and was hailed by Jerry La Croix, coming down his stately steps to enter his runabout— “Hello, Effingham! Glad to see you're alive! Thought you were going to let the girl slip away without a fond good-bye; or is there a little quarrel afoot? I’ve fancied so of late—” La Croix grinned at his joke. Effingham concealed his surprise, and smiled in his turn. “I’m not too late, am I?” he questioned. “Any new plans?” He could hardly wait for the answer. “Oh, no. It's the same old desire to see her friend Mollie Hartwell, and have a few days’ ‘chin. Maybe you can coax her to give it up. I think it's the wrong time, myself; but she won't listen to us. Well, good luck to you!” And he lifted his square bulk into the big machine, nodded, and whirred away. The girl came slowly into the library where Effingham waited. He had sent up his card with a line written across the back, and 212 A BLIND LEAD she came, after only a brief delay, holding the card in her fin- gers. She seemed upon the point of speaking; but he addressed her, hastily, eagerly—with the closing of the door. “I’m sorry to seem to have ignored our agreement, so soon;” he began, “but there is something I must say! I owe it to you as well as to myself-One moment—” as again she seemed about to speak. “I have promised not to renew the old argument, not to urge, or plead for myself, and I shall not break that promise. I met Mr. La Croix at the door. He tells me that you are going to Chicago—soon.” “On the afternoon train tomorrow,” she replied, politely but positively. “Is it not a sudden decision, may I ask?” “I have thought of it for some time, but I fixed upon this date only two days since.” She might have added that it was soon after receiving a letter bearing the Chicago postmark. A letter in a large business-like envelope, and addressed in a large busi- ness hand. Instead she said, “I hope you, too, are not about to urge me to give up the journey, or at least to wait, because—” she hesitated— “Because it would be useless? I understand that, but Iris, I want you to answer for me a few simple questions. I think I'm entitled to this much.” “In that case you will certainly receive your due.” They were both standing, and she glanced from him to a chair at his side; but she closed her lips without asking him to sit. “Thanks!” he murmured, “as I have already said I shall not try to reopen our old discussion. I have thought upon our too fre- quent attempts to understand each other, and I fear that, already, I have urged you unduly; for—of late, I seem to see things more clearly—or from a less personal, and perhaps selfish point of view. Iris, tell me, when you came home from—your—mysterious journey, did you intend to renew, or ratify, your engagement to me? did you wish it?” “Honestly l” she promptly answered, looking him full in the face, “I did not expect you to desire it.” She spoke as if quite prepared for the question. “And why?” he asked. “Must we go into that—again?” “Not if you object. You believe now, I trust, that it was my desire; then, quite as much as ever.” 214 A BLIND LEAD that you will release me, now, and until I come back! after— that—I think I can promise that you will understand me better, and know me better! I'm sure of it—strange as this must seem to you, now—you will know that the girl to whom you have paid the highest honor in your giving has never been unworthy of it! And now—will you say good bye, and—let—me—go. I have much still to do,-and—I'm very tired.” And, suddenly, she looked it. He took up his hat and turned away,—then, pausing, “Believe me,” he said, “I have not meant to distress you; I had hoped to help—to make the present situation a little easier—for you— perhaps. I have realized, from the first, that, for some reason, you were unhappy.” “For some'! say for many reasons! But here words are quite useless! You have been kind; you have done what you could,— good bye! will—will you shake hands?” She put out her own, and he took it in his and holding it looked down into her drooping face; then, suddenly, and silently, lifting it to his lips he released it gently and went out. As he passed down the steps he said to himself, “I must see Hillary Larne—again!” And his face was almost grim, his lips set in firm, cold lines. CHAPTER XXIII. BETWEEN ACTS. On the day after Larne's visit to Rufus Carnes he went again, together with Doctor Flack, to once more test their joint fortunes at the sanitarium. The new incumbent, a small lady-like man, with a number of enthusiasms, aside from that of his profession. Chief among these was a liking for things mysterious; while his fancy for de- tectives and all their doings, was equal, in its intensity, to that of a novel-reading school boy. The literature—some of it—spread out upon the table of the new doctor's private office, gave ample proof of this liking, and furnished, for the two visitors, almost instant inspiration toward a new and bold method of attack. But such a method fitted “I HAVE MUCH STILL TO DO, AND AM VERY TIRED.” HE TOOK UP HIS HAT AND TURNED TO GO. BETWEEN ACTs 215 Larne's mood; and, having drawn out his host, and assured him- self of his ground, he boldly introduced himself as himself, and his business as being a strictly private search,—altogether apart from the work of the police—for the little son of the bereaved and distressed millionaire Claxton. And the thing was done. After a heart to heart talk, which almost ignored the bewild- ered and amused little doctor and a “burst” of “confidences” that spoke well for Larne's ability—as an originator of romances at short notice, as Flack afterward put it—they found themselves clasping the cordial hand of the new head of the house and bow- ing themselves out; carrying with them the freedom of the place, and all in it; and assured of the hearty and delightful co-operation of the new dictator. “Provided, of course, gentlemen,” quoth said dictator, “that this in no way trespasses upon, or interferes with, the methods and discipline of the establishment,” and this they declared to be clearly understood. As they drove away, “It looks pretty certain,” said Doctor Flack, “that, at least, the Claxton child need not be sought for —here.” - “Nobody supposed he might,” affirmed Larne. “And—Miss La Croix?” Larne favored him with a glance of veiled amusement. “With all the yellow journals of the city busily quoting the goings and comings of ‘Miss La Croix, what asylum, public or private, would refuse to welcome, as a qualified inmate, a young woman declaring herself to be Miss La Croix? Tell me that.” “M—m—m—m—!” quoth the doctor. :k >k sk >k >k >k >k sk :k It was after noonday when Larne, returning from his visit to the sanitarium, reached his office quarters, to find Captain Rohan turning away from his door. At sight of him the captain's face lighted up, and he followed him within. “Larne,” he began at once, “I’ve found what I believe to be confirmation of that last auto car story! It did go out into the Bronx district! I’ve had it traced; and—from the way it dodged and doubled and evaded all close scrutiny—it was not out on honest business. When first seen it carried a child—boy or girl—seated between two men in the tonneau. Later it was a big covered bundle—the boy, drugged or asleep, and covered up, no doubt, and the same men. I’m getting anxious, Larne! If-” BETWEEN ACTS 217 was calling them together. For, now that he was about to take this final and most radical step, he felt that he wished the full endorsement and approval of all who had been with him, thus far, in this strange inquiry; especially those who had known the La Croix family,–as he had not. He desired to place before them the situation in full as he now saw it; and to have their entire approval, or hear their pos- sible criticisms. This final meeting had been suggested, at first, by Abinger, who wished his own position clearly understood; and, having received satisfactory replies from the three, Larne wrote a hasty note to Una, sending it to her direct by the hand of his own well drilled office boy; and then he went down to Abinger's room. He was in haste, now, and he made known his business in few words, for Abinger, as he knew, held himself in instant readiness for the journey. And then, standing beside the inner office door, which he held half open, and turning there, to utter a final word, he heard a voice in the outer room which caused him to start, and stay his speech; and then the door was pulled hurriedly open from the other side, and Val Effingham strode 111. “Larne!” he exclaimed, “I’m glad you're here! I was going up—in a moment.” There was latent but very evident excitement in his voice and manner, and his face, paler than usual, was set and purposeful. He put out his hand and closed the door, saying “Pardon Larne!” And then, advancing, and turning so as to face them both, he said: “Abinger, Larne, it's well to say to you, here together,-what I have to say; and it's this; I have just left Miss La Croix—if she is Iris La Croix—and she has definitely broken our engagement, —if we ever were engaged; for, my friends—in spite of what I said to you here, scarcely a week ago, I do not know now, whether she is or is not Iris La Croix! I'm puzzled ! I'm half mad! This—my last state, is worse, far worse, than the first! And yet—I’m glad of what has just happened ! I wish to heaven I had never asked you to drop the inquiry ! And I hope you won't leave me quite out of the other case, for of course I can’t ask you to change or go back on Rohan—now.” He paused, and the two opposite him exchanged swift glances. It was Larne who first spoke. “We won't talk of that now, Effingham; but it will come right— “WE MUST ACT-NOW!” 219 “Given away perhaps?” “I don’t think so; one of the parlor maids was dismissed that day, but she would not have received such a gift| Larry, -” again her eyes were fixed upon the inner room. “Who’s the be- whiskered person? I thought—” “That we admitted no strangers? That is Carnes, girl; and he goes to Chicago, with the others, but not of them. That is why he is now in simple masquerade. He took a look at Abin- ger earlier in the day, himself unseen; and, later, we decided that it might help him, at some point in the game, and as he comes into it at the last moment, to be with us here tonight; so we de- cided to keep the real Carnes still unknown to Abinger—I'll tell you more later, girl. Now we must go in.” The very quiet of the group in the inner office, and their fixed regard, as Larne and his last guest entered, bespoke the serious- ness of their purpose, and their interest in it. Heretofore each had talked alone with Hillary Larne—about this strange case of Iris La Croix, and its possibilities. Some- times it had been one feature, and sometimes another, that had been discussed, but because Larne was not given to much speak- ing, and had always held them closely to the matter in hand, not one of those grouped about him now had heard, from his lips, a detailed and full review and opinion of the queer business, as it must, by now, appear to him. And so when Una had been ush- ered in and while she greeted, briefly and almost without words, those about her, Larne closed and locked the outer door, and then returning to the inner room, he paused, facing them, and plunged at once into his subject. “Much as we have all reviewed this affair of the Iris La Croix abduction, and what some of us think, believe, or fear, may have been its after results,” he began, “we have not once, discussed it in full—and all together. And before I take the next step in this still hunt, I wish to be sure that we all see alike; and that I shall have, in whatever I may do, the full support of all here.” Smiling he held up his hand, to check what seemed to be an out- burst of uniform protest, or reassurance, “Because,” he hurried on, “our position,-more especially mine, as your leader,—is al- most unique in the history of criminal, or mystery, hunters. First, because we are carrying it on without the authority either of the police—which would give us, in case of failure, a backing, and endorsement, as accredited agents of the public good, -or “WE MUST ACT-NOW!” 221 He now drew forward a chair, and seating himself, amid utter silence, said. “Come, I want you all to free your minds before I say more.” It was the sudden change in Val Effingham that had caused Larne to feel, at the last moment, that he could not be too certain of the attitude of his co-workers. All now knew of Effingham's withdrawal from the case; and yet—while none save Abinger and Larne knew of his last declaration, which amounted almost to a recantation—, they were all united in a steadfast clinging to his original point of V1eW. Since, through Effingham a doubt had been raised, a doubt which had grown in the mind of each, and in each had been strengthened from day to day, they could not, they must not, withdraw or cease their efforts, until they knew the truth. So long as there remained one chance that the real Iris was a prisoner somewhere, they must do what they could; and must not cease until their last effort had brought success or failure. And now, as before, they assured themselves that not yet was the time come for the enlightenment, the undeceiving of Jerry La Croix. And, strangely enough, it was the three who knew Iris La Croix,—“the real Iris” as they now distinguished her,—who were the most emphatic in their opinions and beliefs; and of these Tony Leach and the little doctor, were rivals for fore- most place. And now, while they freely discussed plans, possibilities, opin- ions, it was Larne who held back, careful not to begin a new argument, or to set before them a fresh possibility, thereby launching a new quest, in a new direction. This thought was bringing a smile to the eye of Rufus Carnes, setting well in the background, when Madam's voice caused him to turn. She had drawn her chair nearer his own, and she was now saying— “It is a long time since we have met, Mr. Carnes, but I am willing to hazard the statement that you have been studying our friend's methods, and that something in the situation, amuses you. Am I wrong?” “You are right,” replied Carnes, still smiling. “Have you never observed that when Larne has a thing fairly settled in his own mind, he is very careful not to arouse or encourage a new 222 A BLIND LEAD line of argument—once he sees that all the others concerned are satisfied with the situation,—as it looks to them.” - “Ah!”. Madam's quick eye gleamed. “So you too see, then, a weak point in the—situation, as set forth here tonight?” Carnes lowered his voice, already, as always, discreetly modu- lated. “I am speaking, you understand, from the general point of view,-and in that I do see—a weak spot. But rest assured that Hillary Larne does not.” “By which I infer that he knows more than he has seen fit to impart to the rest.” For an instant their eyes met. “Surely,” he evaded, “you know Hillary Larne? as for me I’m no deeper in his confidence than are you.” “I know him,” she replied, smiling now, “and I trust him. But who understands him? surely not I.” Rufus Carnes had once been a distinct figure at the central office, and a terror to evil doers about town, he had, for years, been withdrawn from public service, but he was known and valued, by men like Hillary Larne, for his skill in disguise, and his ability to act a part, and to sustain it, at need, in the face of broad day, and of keen eyed opponents. - Like most men of his one time calling Carnes had never lost his liking for a strong case; and while he now called himself a private citizen he was seldom loath to take a hand, given the right captain, the strong case, and a good part to play. He had looked upon Larne as the right captain, since his first meeting with that young man, three years earlier, when they had plotted, and worked, together, for the overthrow of a group of counterfeiters who had long made the days and nights a builden for the chief slaves in the treasury of Uncle Sam. Their work ended—for the gang of Canny Joe—in absolute defeat; and since that day Carnes could be counted upon when the call was from Hillary Larne. “‘Who understands him,'” repeated Carnes, and he smiled at the fervor of his own words. “And yet—you trust him,” he again repeated, in a musing tone while he studied her strong fine face, “It's always that way!” “Yes, I suppose it is,” Madam smiled in her turn, “certainly I trust him! But—for all that, I do want to hear his real opin- ion—all of it—as to the present status of this case. Are you aware, sir, that since the day when we first talked of this queer business—quite briefly and when there was as yet no data- “WE MUST ACT-NOW!” 223 almost; I have never once heard him express an opinion, or be- lief. Even Una—” here again she smiled—as at some amusing memory—“declares that she has never been able to draw from him a distinct opinion!” As the words left her lips, they heard the little doctor exclaim to the little group about him, in the half defiant wholly argumentative tone which they all knew so well: “I’ll ask him, certainly I will! a pig in a poke can’t run, and we, some of us, may need to run pretty fast—before long, if some of these stand and deliver plans should happen to go awry and my legs are pretty short for running!” Then, encouraged by the smiles of the men and the low laughter of the two younger women, he turned upon Larne, almost fiercely. “Larne the fact is, simply, that I have just expressed to these good people a desire to know your precise attitude as to the inner details of this queer business! It is true that you have talked with us all about the chances, the clues, and so on, and that we all hold ourselves at your command, in the matter of the search for Iris La Croix. That she was taken and held for ran- som was our first belief—since which we have “believed and changed that belief from day to day;—most of us. But while we have all given our opinions, freely, we have never heard yours, fully and freely expressed—” Something, a half serious, half smiling, wholly patient look upon Larne's face caused the impatient little man to hesitate; and for so long that Larne at last took up the word. “I quite understand your feelings, doctor. It is a fact that— heretofore I have talked to each of you separately, and rather briefly, dealing more with the present emergency than with theories or beliefs. And I have asked you to meet me here to- night—to give me your aid and counsel quite apart from the enterprise which you, doctor, have so happily characterized as “swash buckling. But you are quite right, since you desire it you are all entitled to the fullest exposition I can give of my views— of the present status of the case, as I see it. All of you know them,-in part. Mr. Carnes, here the least of any, perhaps; and—” here he glanced about him inquiringly, “looking at the matter from the doctor's point of view I fancy I could not bet- ter supplement my original object in calling you together. Do you agree with me Madam Dalmeney?” Madam's smile was divided between Larne and the doctor. _“I have no criticism for your methods, my friend, but—I “WE MUST ACT-NOW!” 225 Iris in earnest. Still, these things alone would have been in- sufficient, if the little differences had stopped here.” He smiled, and turned toward Mrs. Leach. “The strongest ropes are made of the greatest number of small strands, each individually weak, but a power when united. I lost no given opportunity—and made such others as I could—to talk with those who had known Miss La Croix, artlessly, of course, and by way of the usual small talk:—some of you may have ob- served that I have been uncommonly ready, of late, to perform my social duties—such, at least,-as did not take too much of my valuable time. I also incited you,” nodding to Mrs. Leach, “and Abinger here, all of you, in fact, as the opportunity came, or could be made, to assist, and the result has really surprised me.” Here he produced the small thick note-book, and fluttered its leaves. “I have these results recorded here. There is no time to read them all, but I may say that in most instances all these friends and acquaintances, who, of course, had no suspicion of my purpose—most of them requiring no drawing out, after the sub- ject was opened,—had observed some singularity, some unfamiliar word, some act, strange, unusual, or quite unlike the old Iris. Mrs. Leach, here, could give you a number of these instances,” he paused, looking again at the lady. “Shall I ?” she asked. “Yes.” It was the doctor who spoke. And Larne nodded. “I won’t mention names,” began Mrs. Leach, “except in the case of her own family, and I never talk with her aunt that she does not complain that, not only has Iris lost all the little humorous ways that her intimates saw most of, but,” said she, one day, ‘Iris, before she went away, used to come to my room so often, especially when the east wind brings on my neuralgia, for I never leave my apartment then but try to forget the pain, sitting close by the grate, -or in a sunny window—and playing Patience, and Iris never missed coming in for a while to perch on the arm of my chair and pretend to be greatly interested in the cards, teasing me, and sometimes helping my hand. Now she never comes! always sending her maid with polite inquiries and to ask if she, Iris, can be of any use to me! It is so unlike her old self! And the maids all say that she never speaks to them any more, except to thank them for services.” It’s these little things,” finished Tony, “and her frequent forgetting, that her “WE MUST ACT-NOW!” 227 by staying so long? She—or the real Iris—has but now come of age to control, as the will stipulated.” “This,” rejoined Larne, “is Effingham's theory; it may be the right one. Miss La Croix, he says, writes a very clear and char- acteristic hand, and one it would be difficult to copy without long practice. He has furnished me with specimens of her writing, and I have also a carbon copy of a letter written by the present incumbent. It is a rather poor imitation of the other; but it was, doubtless, written hastily, and for strange eyes only. As to a possible forgery, doctor, our banks are rather careful, and very critical. They are also skillful at detecting a forgery. I think our abductors would only risk this as a last resort.” “You are right! It would be a great risk.” It was Rufus Carnes who spoke. “These people always decline to take a big risk so long as there is a safer way—even if it is also, a more diffi- cult one. They will work hard, lose valuable time, and endure much discomfort to avoid a serious risk. It looks—to me—” He shut his lips suddenly, and shot a swift glance at Larne. “Beg pardon, old man! I'm butting in too soon, I guess.” “You have spoken,” declared Larne, “to the point, and at the right time. And it brings us to the point at issue. Miss La Croix was restored to her home after almost three weeks im- prisonment. She was ill nearly as long. And almost four weeks have passed since Effingham first announced the fraud, as he then thought it. And now, assuming that this fraud is a fact, and that Miss La Croix is still a prisoner—what a situation! Her captors must be clever, strongly intrenched, very sure of themselves, and not too numerous. Also, as it seems to me, they must be in funds; a common or underground hide-out, with an unwilling prisoner to guard and conceal must have been un- earthed, it would seem, before this time. What say you Carnes?” “Until day before yesterday,” said the old detective, “all I knew of this case was the newspaper version; and to jump at a conclusion in these affairs is to fall down, oftener than not. How- ever, speaking at the jump—I should say that these captains of intrigue are likely to be men outside of the regular line of crooks. Educated men, probably, and wise in the city ways. Men with friends on the outside, as we say; and with many resources. And —” here he fixed an inquiring eye upon Hillary Larne, “it’s quite safe to assume that they are men having the courage of their iniquities, and that they have now gone too far to draw back with YES OR NO 229 “I will not!—I will not!—I will write nothing—sign nothing! For—I am not Iris La Croix l’’ • She had lost much of her energy, of movement and speech, her step was growing languid, and her food—it was very good food, —often went back almost untasted, much to the distress, and voluble remonstrance of the colored mammy. But the look of ob- stinate resolve that spoke in her eyes, and in the firm set of her lips, was as strong as at first. It was the morning of the day that saw a triple departure from New York, and for Chicago. The girl's breakfast stood at her elbow almost untouched and as the woman entered to carry it away she exclaimed loudly. “Yo' pore foolish chile, ter go an try stahvin yoself now, fer when es like es not—you'll need all yo streng’f an purty soon too ! ! See—ah'se brung yo some different readin this maunin.” The girl glanced up, indifferently at first, and then she let the magazine fall from her hands and stared. For the woman was placing upon the corner of the little table, with elaborate careful- ness, two or three books and several newspapers. The first news- paper the girl had seen since her imprisonment. “Why is this mammy?” she asked, with great show of indiffer- ence. “Ah’m suah ah can’t say missy. Mebbe deys fohgot demselves.” And she made great pretense of going about her work of dusting, brushing, straightening, and all the little details of her regular morning's duties. But from the corner of her eye she was keeping close watch upon the girl by the table, who had picked up her dropped magazine,—searching for her lost place with a little petulant murmur of impatience—and resuming her reading. But she—too—was watching; and when, presently, the woman entered the next room, she took from the little heap the topmost paper and unfolded it with hands that were firm, but with lips that were indrawn between fierce little white teeth. As the rustle of the paper came to her ears the woman in the next room began to croon softly, keeping her back toward the door between, so that, while she must have heard, she could not, or would not, see that the paper soon fell from the girl's hand, and lay for a long time unnoticed at her feet, while she sat trem- bling and dazed, flushing and paling; clinching and unclinching her small hands, fighting for self mastery, and all the time silent, almost moveless. YES OR NO 231 the pantomime, clearly, meaning that explanation could not be given so close to the open tube at her back; and when the girl had so interpreted it, she said, slowly, petulantly. “Oh well—I should know better than to try to get plain facts here! It's a very mixed up lot of news; and, some of it, rather ancient. Still—oh well, you may leave them, and when I have finished the thing I am now trying to read I’ll look them over. Do your dusting, and then I'll lie down for a bit—I think.” And turning with a nod and a gesture she went quietly into the inner room—mammy tip-toeing after. “Now,” said the girl in a half whisper, “What does this mean mammy?” The woman, still on tiptoe, retreated to the farthest wall, beckoning the girl to follow, and then, in a low murmur, she began pleadingly. “Ain’t I tole yo honey, right frum ther first, erbout, how me an my man is fixed heah an how ah don dast to do nawthin tergit us inter trubble? Gawd knows ah'd help yo if ah could—an knowd how ! An my landoan yo understan yit erbout dat ole hole in dis wall? Yo's no cap on yo side, an down below. All they has to do wen I come up heah's ter tek off ther cap an’ lissen. An uts jes wot they erbout now. Taint nebber safe ter talk heah.” The girl sank down in the nearest seat and for a moment cov- ered her face with her hands, then rising, “Mammy,” she began in a low monotone, “I understand you, now, but—will you help me when you can?” “Ah sholy will chile, an yo bettah not keep me heah much longer now an we er keepin so quiet.” “I know! Listen Mammy! Will you tell them—what I wish you to?” - “Yass-um-um—” “Wait! There was something in those papers that they wished me to see?” The woman nodded. “Mammy tell them that when I glanced over the papers and saw in two or three, the mention of a Miss La Croix, you heard me laugh, and say to myself—they'll have to give up trying to make me believe I am this rich girl now? or some thing like that. And say—too—that I did not read them first, but went back to my magazine, and—” she shot a quick glance at the woman's attentive face, “Mammy don’t you reckon they'll let me go soon now? They surely can't believe I am Iris La Croix after this!” Then as 232 A BLIND LEAD the woman opened her lips, “Yes tell them I said that, too! And —mammy—when I do get away, if you'll call or send to an ad- dress I'll give you—I am not rich, but have a little money, and you shall have enough to buy you a little home, and—” “Sh-s-s-sh! Somethin a movin roun outside there. Ah mus go missy. An ah'll tell em wot yo all sez. Please mek er noise, say somfin',-an ah'll git out er heah.” For an hour that had seemed like an endless day almost the girl lay upon the couch, her face buried in its cushions. There had been no signs from below to indicate the success or failure of Mammy's message; for, somehow, she felt that the old woman would,—in so far as she safely might, —keep faith with her. And then, from the little mouthpiece in the wall, a low sound came; a new sound, that caused her to start and lift a face that looked as if it had lately come alive, through a severe shock, or a time of mental anguish. “Miss—La Croix?” She got up and went slowly to the tube, and if her face was wan and woeful, her voice did not falter, as she said. “The person you are addressing is at present in her Fifth Ave- nue house in New York—if the newspapers are to be believed. And they sometimes are.” “Ah! Yes? will you allow me to explain? You have persist- ently declared that you are not—Miss La Croix, and—it looks, I must admit, as if you were right. As if—somewhere—there has been a blunder. But-you have never given us any other name by which to call you.” There was a pause here. “You may call me Miss Smith, if you like.” She seemed to hear a chuckle from the other end of the tube, and she was wondering what new element had entered into her case; for not only was this voice a new one, but it was different, more cultured, kindly, and—respectful. It gave her,-for the moment, new courage—but only for the moment. “Very good." came the reply after a short silence “for con- venience we will make Miss Smith serve, altho' I do not like it so well.” And now the girl started, and listened with renewed and eager interest, for as the voice went on she fancied,—she was al- most certain-that she had heard it before. But where! where, zwhere? “However,” the new voice continued, “as I say, Miss Smith will serve; and now, since circumstances have combined to convince YES OR NO 233 us that you, really are not the Miss La Croix we thought you, we are ready now, to compromise, and set you at liberty.” The girl started,—she almost forgot that she was trying to iden- tify the voice as it proceeded and grew, somehow, more familiar. “Yes?” she replied. And she strove to make the word sound indifferent, while she was clutching at the wall, and trembling. “If you will be reasonable,” the voice continued, “and meet us half way, you may soon have your freedom. And now since we know the truth about you, and you know that we do, surely you need no longer object to signing this name Miss La Croix, to a slip of paper or two. If you will do this—and there can be no risk in it for you—all that will be ours—and will then pledge your- self—solemnly not to make the fact known—the fact of your signing, I mean,—you shall be set at liberty—very soon.” “How—soon P” “In twenty-four hours after you have signed the papers you will be set free.” “And—if I refuse?” Something like a muffled oath came to her ear, and then— “Young woman, I never threaten, but—you must know that by refusing to give us this signature you make yourself responsible for whatever must come. Of one thing you may be assured; we shall protect ourselves, at whatever hazard, and to turn you loose twithout your signature, and your oath, will be too great a risk! I make no threats, but you must surely see, that to keep you here, as at present, longer than is best for ourselves is not to be thought of; and to let you go back—to your home—your friends, is still less so! We have reached a crisis; I must have your answer— now—immediately—at once.” “Ah!” she clapped her hand to her mouth to smother the ex- clamation, and staggered to the nearest seat, trembling and aghast. Was it possible? Could it be? But the voice was still speaking, and with a new note of sternness; and she went weakly back. And now she could hear—she could not doubt it—other voices, two or more, mingling and murmuring; expostulating, excited. She could hear the first voice hush them with a tone as of author- ity, and then— “Miss Smith ?” “I am here,” icily. “And—you will sign?” “I Will not! Now or ever!” 234 A BLIND LEAD Again she could hear the buzz of anxious, excited, profane, discussion, which died away into the merest blur of sound as the opening at the further end of the tube was shut off—by a hasty hand, she fancied. Then, presently, she again heard the voice— very husky now. “There's no time to falter,” it said. “In forty-eight hours this place must be abandoned. We will give you twenty-four hours for reflection. At the end of that time you will either yield to our demand, or—you will pay the penalty. As between our own safety, and yours we can not hesitate, for we cannot afford to turn you loose, to work us a possible hurt. There will be no more dis- cussion;” he paused for a moment as if hoping for an answer, then, “In twenty-four hours it must be yes or no. If, after that time, you are still with us it will not be for long. When we leave this place we shall leave you behind—and when you will no longer be able to hunt us—or any one! You hear?” “I hear.” The voice was cold and clear; she stood, for a little time, beside the wretched metal mouthpiece, her eyes fixed and staring, her hands tightly clenched. Presently she took one—two -—three, slow firm forward steps; and then—something in her brain seemed to give way, and with the fourth step she reeled, swayed for a moment, clutching at the air, gasping, fighting for her strength, her reason, and then—she fell forward and lay outstretched, senseless. An hour later the old colored woman entering found her thus and took her up very tenderly. “For Lord,” she muttered, “Ef ah had tha powah ter kill some- body ah'd do hit—good!” Another hour went by, and then the girl's eyes opened, she stir- red and with the woman's help sat erect and looked about her. “Oh honey,” whispered the woman, “you's bettah thank de good Lawd an say yo won’t fight no moah; say ah'll sign de old papahs an go free—sholy.” - The girl let her head fall weakly back upon the pillow but there WaS no weakness in her tired eyes as she whispered back, “I—will —not!” THE WRONG MAN 235 CHAPTER XXVI. THE WRONG MAN. Miss La Croix left her stately home for the midland city with- out ostentation. She had carefully impressed upon all the La Croix household her desire that she make her journey without publicity; in fact she made it so plain, and reiterated it so fre- quently and forcibly, that it caused them all to wonder and ques- tion; and stirred Jerry La Croix to caustic comment. One thing she said, which fell with especial force into the mind of the cautious aunt, and which, later, gave La Croix père food for anxious thought, and sudden action. “I don’t want you to tell any one that I am out of the city,” the girl had said more than once. “If it's known it will be in the newspapers; and if it is, Chicago papers will copy, and—oh ! I suppose I'll have to tell it—now, auntie! I—I'm a little bit anx- ious. Two or three times, of late—I have been almost sure that I was being watched—followed ! Once, in a down town store, a horrible looking woman made strange signs, and tried to speak with me. I may as well confess it, ever since I came back I’ve been afraid—a little, and to be known too well, under the cir- cumstances, is,—sometimes to be in danger. Please see that Papa La Croix makes every effort—you understand.” And then, quite naturally, Aunt Randa, was herself reminded of two or three instances where she too had observed a suspicious follower in their wake; and, once the girl was fairly off, she lost no time in informing her brother, who stormed and demanded to know why she had not told him at once. But the warning served its purpose, the servants, the newspa- pers, all tongues within reach, were promptly silenced, and Iris, herself, recalling this one thing forgotten in their last interview, had written to Val Effingham at the last moment, saying: “My Friend—for I hope you will be more my friend, in the future, than you feel that you can be now,-at our last meeting I forgot to say that while I am going away, as you know, for a little relaxation, and to pass a few quiet days—I hope—with a friend, I do not wish my going to be exploited; and I ask you to help me, as you may and can, to keep the knowledge of my ab- sence from the city out of the newspapers, as well as from the 236 A BLIND LEAD dear public, and my friends in general. Trusting to your long tried kindness, I am, Your Friend.” It was this note that sent Val Effingham promptly, and in hot haste, to Bruce Abinger's door, at the moment when that young man was emerging, Gladstone bag in hand, to make a leisurely journey to the central station, with Larne close at his heels. In his eagerness and anxiety to relieve himself of his errand Val did not observe the bag, and was not aware that, while he talked, and they listened, Larne became its possessor, and still held it, when, having unburdened himself he turned to go. “I thought it safest to speak to you, both; for while not certain just what I did say the other day, I feared to take a chance.” His friend gravely assured him that they would guard their lip and then, his mind relieved, Effingham found time to note the Gladstone. “Leaving town Larne?” he asked, falling into step beside them. “Not for long,” was the reply, and in a moment they separated, for Effingham's car waited at the curb, and the others, pleading an engagement, declined its proffered services. “It's fortunate for us,” said Abinger, as, a moment later they entered a cab—for Abinger desired to avoid a too prompt en- counter by arriving early, and taking his place unobserved. “It's very fortunate that Val put his request so briefly; otherwise we might have been obliged to prevaricate.” “It might even have required a plain lie,” laughed Larne. Let's hope we—or you—may dodge all the rough plans as easily,” and the subject was dropped, for all that was necessary to their •plans had already been said, behind closed doors. And now Larne, bidding his friend good-bye and good-speed as he left the cab, drove back in it to his own quarters, pondering by the way the possible and probable meaning of this strong de- sire for secrecy on the part of Miss La Croix, and assuring him- self that Effingham's timely arrival was most fortunate—for Ab- inger; and he smiled as the thought of the possible difficulties his friend might encounter should the young lady see fit to still fur- ther envelope her movements in secret—and difficult, ways. And then, he thought of Carnes, and his smile broadened. Meanwhile Abinger, adjusting himself and his belongings in his luxurious full compartment, had remembered to think it a bit THE WRONG MAN 237 strange that Larne had not waited to assure himself that the young woman, in whose interest he was taking this journey, did not miss her train. But this thought had not troubled Larne; who, returning to his office, lighted a cigar, picked up a magazine, and sat quietly— waiting. Presently—and as he was about to consult his watch—the office boy entered with a thin yellow envelope. “Tellergram Mr. Larne!” he announced needlessly. Larne opened it swiftly. The message was signed “C.” and it said–Carnes fashion— “All aboard. Passenger on time, accompanied by maid only. No display going aboard. By chance two are in the same coach. 35 • “So.” Larne mused as he touched a match to the thin sheet, “So the game,—the last round,—is begun l” and then, with a quick indrawn breath, “I wish it were ended—now !” >k >k >k >k >k >k >k >k >k They were an hour outside the city when Abinger walked through his coach, from the rear, looking neither to left nor to right, and remaining, for full twenty minutes, forward. When he came back he was face to face with his fellow passengers as he came down the aisle, and his quick glances, quite naturally scanned their faces, as he passed. She saw him as he entered. She had seen him, indeed, when he went out; and when he paused beside her, she met his pleased, welcoming glance with one quite as ready, quite as open and friendly; and, after the usual greetings had been exchanged, she drew away her draperies and smiled again. “Will you share my seat, and entertain me by telling me whither you are bound—and why?” “If you call that entertaining,” he laughed, “I am willing to ex- change confidences. But mine will not interest you. It's simply business; and has to do with a man in jail who—wants to get out.” “And—shall you be able to get him out?” “That I cannot tell. The man, and his case, are strange to me. I am going out at the request of a friend—who is interested in— the case.” “Oh dear! I can’t make my story as interesting as that; for I am simply going to visit my friend Miss Hartwell; just a quiet visit, no society—why I even made papa La Croix make sure that 238 A BLIND LEAD my going is not known,-is kept out of the society columns.— We're to make no calls, and receive none.” “Is that a warning?” he laughed. She shot at him a quick ques- tioning glance. “How long do you remain?” she parried. “That is uncertain. Not a moment longer than I must; ser- iously, I may find myself quite busy. But—if I can serve you in any manner be sure I will find time for that!” Something in his look, or his words, caused her to start slightly and to turn away her face, keeping her gaze fixed upon the pass- ing panorama without for a moment, then facing him once more to look at him earnestly, inquiringly, anxiously. What she read in his face, his eye, must have satisfied her, for, presently, she said, in a lower, a more serious and almost hesitating tone: “Do you mean that you would serve, at need, in matters other than the mere social requirements? Would you do me a service? a real service? Would you aid me—at least give me your best advice, should I find myself in need of it before I leave Chicago?” Abinger turned his back to the aisle, his broad shoulders thus screening her, and bent a trifle toward her, his voice also sink- ing, his face grave. “Believe me,” he said, “should you have real need of me now, or at any time you need not hesitate to call upon me! For your own sake, and for the sake of my friend, I am glad to serve you.” She flushed rosily, and for a moment her eyes were veiled. Then she looked up, meeting his gaze and speaking firmly. “Mr. Abinger—I must not claim your services because—of your friend Mr. Effingham, for we have no claim upon each other now. If you have not been told this—he will no doubt tell you—soon, that —that there is no longer anything, any tie, binding us.” “But surely this will not last! What seems wrong now must be righted soon?” “Nothing is ‘wrong. Things never were so right between us two, as at present; and we shall never be more to each other than we are now. Mr. Abinger, please believe that I cannot accept your help because of him! But—I thank you for having proffered it.” She closed her lips and sank back in her place. For long moments there was utter silence between them. Then, again, Abinger turned to face her. “Will you let me speak quite frankly?” She nodded a silent as- sent. “I want you to understand, and to believe that what I have proffered of aid or friendship for my friend's sake, I now repeat THE WRONG MAN 239 -yes urge-for your own, because I ask nothing better than to help you to the utmost limit of my powers. I have felt, at times, that you were not quite happy—that something was troubling you! I hope I am wrong, but should it be true, and should you need a friend—when you need a friend—I beg of you, let me serve you!” She looked at him in wonder. “Do you know what you are say- ing?—are pledging yourself to?” “It is to your service' I do not need to know more.” She sighed heavily, her voice faltered, grew hesitating, and un- eVen. “My friend,” she spoke very gently, “I hope the need may not come; still,—it is possible I fear—sometimes—that I may find myself in real trouble; very real, very serious, very difficult to deal with; and—I have no other friend upon whom I may call. Do you still bid me look to you?” “I do! still—and more than ever!” He put out his hand, and, after a moment's hesitation she laid her own within it. “And now,” she exclaimed, as one who tosses away an un- welcome burden of thought, “Let us forget all this, until—we must remember. We shall soon be in Chicago, and I shall drive straight to my friend’s house—” “You will let me see you there in safety?” he interrupted. She hesitated, then “yes, or you may go with me to the door,” she assented, “and—will you give me an address—where I may reach you at need. This need, if it comes, will come soon. And —if you do not hear from me by—tomorrow night, you may know that the need has passed; but—I fear ! I fear more and more, somehow, that I shall have need of you! Only pray under- stand this, you are not bound, not pledged to me when you have heard what,-if I claim your aid, I must tell—you will still be at liberty to withdraw !” “Thanks,” he laughed, “I’ll remember.” “And now,” she said, “if you mean to bear me company still, we must talk of pleasanter things. I should like, for a time, to forget New York,-Iris La Croix—and all her—possible— troubles!” “I shall certainly bear your company, so long as I may,” he answered, feeling each moment a growing surprise and wonder at her words and attitude. It was not what he had counted upon. The adventure was beginning strangely. She was puzzling him more and more. 240 A BLIND LEAD >k >k sk >k >k >k >k >k 2k The Hartwell house upon the North Lake Shore drive, was a luxurious modern home, and there Abinger drove with his friend, who seemed in growing good spirits. He waited in his cab until he saw the wide door swing open, and then she waved him a smiling farewell. Somehow it reassured him, and he drove away feeling almost sure that, whether she needed him, or not, he would see her again, and soon. And so comforting himself he drove away to meet and hold council with his old time friend Preston Frayne. He had sent him a message from the Central Station, and he felt sure of finding him at the place appointed. He had no mind-at that moment—to spy upon the girl. But he had assured himself through Frayne that the prisoner, Arthur Snelling, was in the county jail, and he meant to approach the case through him. He felt, somehow, that, let her be whom she would, Iris La Croix, or another, she had been sincere with him. Sincere in her declaration of anticipated, or possible danger, in her trust in him, and in her belief in his willingness to help her. # felt that things were being simplified,—for him, and he was glad. But the young woman who rang at the Hartwell door had an- other attendant and guardian. He had slipped quietly from a sec- ond taxicab when the first drew up at the house near the center of the block and had walked briskly past Abinger's cab as it turned and drove away. Near the lower street corner he slackened speed, put his hand to his pocket and stopped short. Evidently he had missed some- thing of value. He glanced all about him, seemed to hesitate, and finally £d back; peering downward, and walking slowly." He had ' quite reached the Hartwell place when the trim figure in the pa # £Soat and veil came down the steps, looked up and down # e drive, and hurried away northward. # # £ °9'ner the man seemed to abandon his search, and #.al f ££h She was crossing the street now, and he noted, as e to f a cre * Abinger's cab was still in view, held, at the cor- #e: * street, by a jam of street cars and all manner of fr& ££ corner she turned westward, hastening her steps ung herself 9 moment, until, hailing a Clark Street car, she sw: man b 9" board and went back down town. “hind took no risks. The car was filling fast, and THE WRONG MAN 241 . he, too, caught a hand hold at the rear and was satisfied. “At least,” he assured himself, “she is no stranger to Chicago”—. She was going with the unerring sureness of one who knows her city,–straight to the county jail. zk >k sk >k >k sk >k sk >k Arthur Snelling had been a prisoner in the hospital, before, with his hurts healed, he was brought to the jail to await his trial for burglary, which trial, because of his wounds, and much red tape, had been twice delayed. He was a pale, anemic young man, with a weak face and a somewhat sullen manner, and he followed the guard listlessly, to meet, as he thought, the professional prison visitor and good Samaritan. He claimed no friends. He started at sight of the slim graceful figure and charming face of the girl who stood awaiting him, and he stared when she sprang forward, crying, “Arthur ! Oh Arthur!” in choked and trembling tones. But the words died upon her lips, and she stopped, midway of the small room, staring—incredulous. And so, for a moment, they faced each other. Then—“There is some mistake,” she fal- tered, as the door was closing behind the guard, who waited just outside,—And then again—“There is some mistake!” and as the prisoner still stood staring, she added—“please—the guard! tell him,-I asked for Arthur Snelling.” “That”—the man said, still dully staring, “is me.” “You !” The girl sprang to sudden fierce, eager, self-possession; and drew closer, facing him almost threateningly. “Are you” she asked, a strange growing excitement burning in her cheeks, and gleaming in her eyes, “Are you the Arthur Snelling who took part in a post office robbery in Slayton—a year ago—almost—?” “Yes—m,” he replied sullenly. “The Arthur Snelling who, having escaped, was arrested with two others of the gang last March, when you fought the officers, and were hurt and captured, while they escaped? Were you the only Arthur Snelling in that robber band?” Something in his sudden anxious drawing back, his furtive half veiled glance all about him, seemed to rouse her to actual fury. “How long” she began, and then, before he could speak had he so willed, “Man!” she cried, “There was one man killed out of that wretched band—he was shot dead. Who was that man” “It was—” he looked at her, slunk backward and was silent. 242 'A BLIND LEAD “Don’t dare lie to me! I can find out the truth! There are ways! Tell me—how long have you called yourself by that— name? You would better tell the truth, for I knew Arthur Snell- ing, and unless you answer me truly—every word, I will see that you are doubly punished!—you-white-faced-sneak!” A faint flash of resentment seemed to kindle in his face, and he straightened his shoulders a little, and met her gaze—for just a moment. “If you want to get even,” he mumbled, “better find the liars that gave me the name, and swore they'd see me through if I’d call myself by it, and not otherwise! They’re the men you want— I guess.” “Ah! I begin to understand!” she spoke as to herself, and re- gardless of him; and then, for a moment, she was silent—think- 1ng. Soon she sighed, looked about her, found a chair, and seated herself. She was growing calmer, but the fire in her gold brown eyes was still alive. “Sit down,” she commanded, “And tell me the truth. I came here to find Arthur Snelling—to help him! If you speak the truth—all of it—I’ll not harm you—I may even help; and—tell me—first is—was—Arthur buried in—that town?” “No. Some one—some woman, sent for his body and took it south—somewhere.” “I see!” Again she pondered; and again bitterness and regret spoke in her look and manner; then “Go on,” she urged. “And begin at—that night.” “Honest,” he affirmed, hesitatingly, “it began in an accident. We had been carousing, a little, early that night, and then had laid down to rest a bit, half dressed. When we wakened all was hurry, and Snelling somehow got hold of my coat, and I his. They were most alike. But in mine was a letter,—’twas of no account, or it wouldn’t have been left there, but when they examined the body they found it, and so he was supposed to be—me; and that's the way the newspapers had it.” “Yes,” she assented, “Go on.” “I hadn’t any folks to speak of, and so, a few days after, the two at the head of things persuaded me to keep the name of Snelling. They said he had a relative that was liable to put up money for him if he needed it, that he never went home, and his folks hardly ever saw him, and that we could draw on them, now and then, on the strength of the name.” 244 A BLIND LEAD “Almost,-” replied Rufus Carnes. “And now I must be off before the other fellow comes. He's a New York lawyer, and his errand is the same as mine—almost. But,” with a grin, “his motive is different, and so will be his method. He'll probably bring along that fine chap Press Frayne, whom I'd much like to meet—but—I—can't-stop—now.” >k >k >k >k >k >k >k >k >k The night mail from Chicago eastbound carried a statement, made, signed, and sworn to, in the Chicago jail, and bearing, upon the long legal looking blue envelope, the address of Bruce Abinger, Atty. and, in one corner, these words, “To be read, and held until called for,” and nothing more. But the same mail carried another, lesser, letter, also addressed to Bruce Abinger; and this letter—in part—explained the first. CHAPTER XXVII. A SPECIAL DELIVERY. “The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft a gley,” and it was not long after the departure of Miss La Croix for Chi- cago that proof was given—quite convincing proof—that the best laid plans of women, to even the young the lovely, and the clever, will sometimes go awry. The one enemy that cannot be guarded against—is chance; and on the morning after the departure, Chance, in the guise of the postman brought to the La Croix door a letter, a special de- livery letter, for Miss Iris La Croix. Now, as it happened, there had been more than the usual caution observed, regarding the mail delivery since the early days of the abduction of the daughter of the house, and letters with strange superscriptions had been rather carefully scanned; a habit which, like most habits that have seemingly outgrown their use, was still observed. Ordinarily, this special letter or message would have gone straight into the hand of the addressee, for Miss La Croix had always been a stickler for the sacredness of the private mail, and hers was never trifled with. But today she was absent; and so, when the postman had A SPECIAL DELIVERY 245 scanned the missive, noted that it was in—a—to him—unfamiliar hand, and that the envelope was not superfine—a mere common and cheap thing in fact—he called promptly for the judgment of the master of the house, who was still in the breakfast room, while the postman waited, and looked not ill pleased; for in this house all who waited waited in comfort. Jerry La Croix, portly and good humored, looked at the letter and then felt for his pince-nez, putting them on to look closer. Then, glancing up, he caught the eye of the footman, fixed almost anxiously upon him. “Did Miss La Croix order her letters forwarded, James?” he asked. “No, sir.” “Ah! Why, in that case I think we will just sign for this, and wait until we hear from her.” And this he did. When the postman had gone La Croix turned again to the footman, “anything peculiar, or unusual, about this letter, James?” he questioned. “You were eyeing it rather queerly ! Come—speak out?” James was an old servant,—and he knew his master. “You’ll excuse me, sir, –since it was your orders that we be careful about the letters—especially them that did not come in the regular way?” “Certainly I Go on!” “You’ll notice, sir, that its not the sort of writing material that Miss La Croix uses, nor her friends either. It's common, sir; very. Of course it might be from a tradesman—or—” “Or a begging letter, eh?” “Yes, sir; only—a beggar would hardly send a special stamp, do you think, sir? and a tradesman, such as your daughter patronizes, uses fine stationery, and always has his card upon it, very noticeable. It was the combination of common paper and extra postage that attracted my notice, sir.” “Very good, James. At any rate it can’t be a bomb, so we'll put it aside for missy.” - But now Aunt Randa had been attracted by the discussion, and she, too, had examined the letter; and, more than either her brother or James, she questioned and criticized. “Why, Jerry La Croix, what can it be? There's nobody, no- body whatever that is known to Iris who could send her a letter like that! You ought to open it, at least, before you ven- ture to forward it.” 246 A BLIND LEAD “Did she say anything to you about forwarding letters?” he asked sharply. “She said that she expected nothing of importance; and—her stay being short, it would be useless to forward the ordinary mail. I heard her maid ask her for instruction.” “Then—that's settled.” But he was in error. Aunt Randa, being now disturbed in mind was very observant, and, sitting all the morning in her balcony window with her sewing, and a book, she observed a strange man who passed and re-passed before the house and seemed to be watching it from across the street, where he lounged, at times, as if waiting for some one. Her brother laughed when she reported this at luncheon, where he joined her quite unexpectedly. But when, two hours later, this same man rang the bell and asked for Miss La Croix, the anxious spinster felt seriously alarmed. But he did not say which Miss La Croix he desired to see, and James gravely sent for Aunt Randa, for the man bore “an important personal message,” or so he said. But when the elder lady appeared, and the messenger discov- ered that there were two of the name, he retired in evident con- fusion, and without explanation, taking the important message with him. And then Miss La Croix senior sent for the runabout and followed her brother downtown; and, very thoughtfully, she took the special delivery letter with her. Now it chanced that Una who at the request of her absent young mistress had stayed at her post, with Larne's full ap- proval, and to keep in touch with whatever might occur there, had also observed this strange man; and so, soon after seeing Aunt Randa depart, she too went out, -rather ostentatiously, to see if the stranger was still on guard; for he had simply been told that Miss Iris La Croix, junior, was not in. Una saw nothing of the strange man, but she had, nevertheless, her own little adventure. A very tame one, to be sure, but still of importance, as it proved. >k >k *k >k >k sk :k *k :k Jerry La Croix was a man of extremes. What he chose to ignore he put out of his mind altogether. And, by the very reliable rule of opposites, when a thing, be it thought, idea, or doubt, was given mental lodgings, he had it ever before him. He had chosen, at first, to ignore the episode of the special A SPECIAL DELIVERY 247 delivery letter, after signing for it and hearing the opinion of James; and when his sister appeared at his office, with the letter and the tale of the mysterious man—who first spied, and then called boldly for the daughter of the house—he was, even then, disposed to scoff. “It was some charity graft, I dare say,” he assured his sister —“Iris was always an easy mark for those people, you know.” But when he heard all the story, he ceased to argue, saying, finally, “Well, well, Miranda, we'll wait—until we hear from the girl, at least.” “But—if this man comes back?” she persisted, “if something more should happen?” and then she poured out, in an energetic burst of appeal, all her own fears, and those of her niece as well. “I must tell you now, Jerry! The poor child told it to me in confidence—at least she didn’t mean you to be troubled by it, but she's had her fears! She told me so! She's felt, at times, that she is being watched—followed—and—I think she felt that she might be safer in Chicago than here—in her own home; and its plain enough,-this being true—why she didn’t want her going known? Why she dreaded the newspapers so! Oh, you need not laugh! I'm not exaggerating.” She got up and caught up her little silken hand-bag, her gloves, and long motor veil. “And I’m going!” she adjusted the veil, and pulled on the gloves in silence; then— “But I tell you this, Jerry?” she concluded, “that girl was worried! and you know that she does not borrow needless trouble. Something is going to happen! I'm sure of it! And if it does you may just blame your own obstinate self, and—” But here her brother interposed. He was a busy man, and he had, at the moment of her appearance, a rather perplexing matter of business before him for consideration. He got up and faced Miss Miranda with a look she knew of old. “My dear woman this thing won't—spoil in a few hours! Go home, and if you can’t stand another ounce of pressure—or if your man returns—for goodness sake open the letter! I'm busy just now, and shall be for some time. I'll think over your story, when I’m at liberty, and to-night we will talk it over.” He really did not expect her to open the letter, but he knew that the permission would gratify, and reassure her; at least for a time. But he had not realized how fully she had been aroused, “A QUEER MIX UP" 249 less force, and gave into the hand of his secretary—who came in haste—a slip of paper, saying, “Rush it, Harvey, and wait for the answer. No questions—mind!” When the young man had gone he sprang up and began to pace the floor, restlessly, almost fiercely. His telegram was addressed to Miss Mollie Hartwell of Chicago, and it contained this surprising inquiry: “Is Iris with you? Answer quick.” “Jerry La Croix.” In half an hour—a very long half hour it seemed to the waiting man—Harvey returned with the answer, and it brought con- sternation to the mind, and a sudden bull dog firmness to the face, of Jerry La Croix. And small wonder, for it was a long message, and it read thus: “Miss L— came to our door this a. m. at 9 o'clock, and left a note for my daughter, who had gone downtown by appoint- ment to meet her. Miss L– went away at once, and has not been seen or heard from since. The note read—‘Am followed, I fear, by my old enemy. Tell any one asking for me that I'm not coming, have changed plans, will write, or see you, later. Iris.’” This message was signed by Charles P. Hartwell, the father of Miss Mollie. The waiting secretary saw the blood slowly recede from the face of the strong man sitting staring and statue like before him, and noted the hand that held the message, as it clinched and almost crushed the thin sheet. But hardly a moment had passed, after the first swift, and the second slower, reading, before La Croix spoke—firmly and calmly. “A taxi, Harvey; and a good one. I shall not be back tonight. You may close up.” CHAPTER XXVIII. “A QUEER MIx UP.” Madam Dalmeney sat at Hillary Larne's desk in his inner office facing a man whose look, upon entering, had bespoken, to her experienced eye, a resolute will and a determination to know. “A QUEER MIX UP” 251 about him, inspired, at first, by Val Effingham's doubt and fears. La Croix listened in utter and dazed silence, his face sphinx- like, save for an occasional quivering of the muscles about his mouth, and a tense, gripping movement, of his big strong hands. And Madam, watching the look that grew and kindled in his eyes, as the tale went on, was not surprised when, with the last word, he brought his clenched fist down upon the desk beside him, saying- “By Heavens, Madam. He was right! Val Effingham was right! And I—I was a blind fool! And—you think—” “I am sure, Mr. La Croix, that Hillary Larne will be here to- night; at what hour I do not know. He looks to hear by wire, from Chicago, tonight. I am surprised, indeed, that the delay has been so long. When he comes you shall be informed. He will wish to consult with you, of course.” He got up, slowly, heavily; he was guarding voice and words with all his iron strength. “I shall not interfere with your plans in any way,” he said, with decision. “They seem to be very wisely made, and will, I trust, be carried out successfully. But—this girl—I can see,— now, all the strangeness—all the difference! Do you know—or —how do you account, for her—for this strange—resemblance?” “The girl—ah, yes.” Madam had been waiting for this. “Sit down again Mr. La Croix. In this matter I think—I am very sure—that you can help us. I believe we must look to your past for the key to the whole riddle.” “My—past !” He dropped slowly back into his seat. “May I ask you a few personal questions? We really must have your help, Mr. La Croix!” At first he did not heed her words. He seemed thinking; and presently he stirred, and a look, first, as of wonder, and then of knowledge, came over his face. He drew his chair closer to Madam’s. “If the solution to all this strangeness lies in my past,” he said firmly, “we will find it! There was no crime in my earlier life. Only trouble—and sorrow. I had almost forgotten the one, I thought I had outlived the other. But ask what you will, Madam.” sk sk :k * :k >k :k >k :k As Jerry La Croix emerged from the elevator, and went out upon the street, Tony Leach slipped past him, unseen but see- ing, and hurried up to Larne's apartment. 252 A BLIND LEAD She was eager and excited, as usual,—indeed rather more than usual; and she greeted Madam hurriedly, wasting no words. “I just had this to come, Madam, dear; and I hardly hoped to find Larry—yet. But you are just a beautiful substitute;” and she gave Madam an energetic hug. “My trouble's this: I just can't keep this business from Carry any longer, and Larry said—” “Larry said that when you must tell Carry, you might? Is that it?” Smiled Madam. “Oh—you do know everything! Yes, Carry's getting sus- picious. And besides—he really can help me—I think. You see it's like this, Larry gave me that list—the one Una dropped,’ and he mentioned, one—well two numbers that I was to give most attention to. Well, I’ve just had a note from this one— number nineteen,—here it is. Larry specified the hand writing, you know. He wanted—samples, like this.” “Yes,” nodded Madam and she put the thin satiny bit of paper, Tony proffered her carefully aside, with a glance: “And,” pursued Tony, “I want to know how soon I may go down into the woods with my car. Larry thought a car might be useful—to some of them—if it could seem to be there just by chance, you know; and as I am getting quite friendly with Mrs. Welford Tomlinson—” “That's the lady of the Shipman house, I think?” “Yes. Well, if Larry will let me I can use Carry splendidly in the auto—he can break down anywhere!” And Tony laughed mischievously. “Now I can’t stop another minute, Madam dear; Carry's around the corner waiting; so just you ask Larry, when he comes, to let me know if I am to keep on at that list—I hate the thing, but don’t tell him that—and if I may pay a visit to Mrs. Tomlinson, soon.” And Tony, airily inconsequent, as al- ways, and looking as if she thought only of “the butterfly side of life,” went her way—to confide, at last, in her big useful husband. >k -k >k >k >k sk sk :k sk Hillary Larne reappeared that evening at ten o’clock, after an active and somewhat unsatisfactory day; but not dissatisfied with the outlook for the morrow. He had left Effingham, and in fact all the others, scattered here and there—upon various pretexts, and in a number of char- acters,—in the near vicinity of the Brookdale sanitarium, and the house of the mansard roof. 254 A BLIND LEAD past two o'clock. It had been sent half an hour earlier, and it ran thus: “Things are coming about strangely. Have not seen Miss L- since left her at the H-'s door. Have made queer discovery at jail, which will wire in detail, later. Go now to seek further news of Miss L—. Will report fully about nine o'clock P. M. Abinger,” Abinger had sent back a brief first telegram that morning, soon after leaving Miss La Croix at the door, of the Hartwell residence, and this Madam had repeated to Larne by telephone. This first message had been optimistic in tone. Larne laid down the later message, he had caught Madam’s earnest gaze, and asked: “How did this impress you, Madam?” “Evidently things are not moving as Bruce expected. She has treated him to a surprise of some sort.” “Yes,” he agreed. “I think that is quite clear, and that only.” He took up the second message: “Now for Carnes,” he said. “I hope it will be clearer.” “That,” said Madam, “reached me at twelve o’clock—high noon.” Larne spread it out upon the desk beside him and read it, aloud, and slowly: “Chicago, II:35—At 8:35 followed A– and I— to H-place in taxi. A– left her there. She left the house four minutes later, took car downtown—went to jail—saw prisoner—and was disappointed—he was the wrong man. She took his statement before a notary—wrote two letters at a nearby hotel—took early lunch, and is now waiting to take some train out of city. I to follow. Details later. C.” Larne looked across at Madam and pursed up his lips. “Get- ting exciting isn’t it?” he commented. “It is, -rather,” smiled Madam. Something in her tone caused him to study her face silently, for a moment—and then to say soberly. “There's more, I see; more telegrams?” “Not yet,” she took a folded paper from the desk at her elbow, and held it in her hand, saying: i.'” has been here. She wants to tell her husband—every- thing.” “A QUEER. MIX UP” 255 “Good! It's perfectly safe. Leach is staunch, and—he may be useful—now.” “I—told her so. She wants to be on the ground with her big car; she says you suggested it.” “I did. The moment we know just where to strike, a big swift car—close at hand—may prove very useful.” “So she thought. And—she left—this.” The folded note which she held out to him bore on its upper face, in Tony's scrawly handwriting: “Exhibit, of Number Nineteen. Leach.” Larne laughed, unfolded the sheet, glanced at it, looked closer, and uttered a low exclamation. “Dear lady—the keys!” he spoke in a sharp half whisper, and his eyes were gleaming. He caught the keys from her hand, opened a small drawer of the desk, and took out a little packet. Opening this he chose from it two half written sheets and spread- ing them out beside the other bent over them with eager interest. Presently—“I thought—so!” he murmured. “Madam—look!” and she bent her head, and scanned one after the other, slowly, keenly. “Well?” he questioned. “I think they are—the same,” she said with decision. “And Il Do you know how very important this is—as proof?” Then, before she could answer, he threw up his head. “Listen,” he said. “There was someone tattooing at the outer door. The telegram,” he whispered. But it was not a telegram. It was Una, and there was a look of eagerness, almost of excitement, upon her face. She spoke hurriedly, while clasping Madam's hand. “Larry, I'm glad you're here! Listen,” and she told them her story of the morning. It began with the coming at the La Croix home of the special delivery letter, and the watchful man with a message for Iris which he refused to leave. She told of Aunt Randa's anxiety, and growing uneasiness; and then- “I had noticed this rather shabby-looking man lounging across the street,” she hurried on, “and as I come and go, now, almost at my own sweet will, I thought I would slip out and try to get a closer look at him. But he was not to be seen—at least by me—and I turned back. Almost at the door I met—Mary Crane —the maid who had been dismissed—” here she caught Larne's eye, “you remember her, Larry?” He nodded, and she laughed “A QUEER MIX UP” 259 for train on N. Y. C. Branch, due II:40 P.M., eastward bound. More later. Carnes.” He threw down the sheet impatiently. “They're full of in- formation,” he commented, crossly, “Madam—what is it?” “Since both these messages are riddles, Larry, and its useless to guess at them—now, let me finish my report—for there's more. First, here's Tony's exhibit; its a mere note of regret that he can’t keep an engagement for—tomorrow afternoon.” “Who can’t P” “Number 19, of course! It's the handwriting I am interested in, and you should be. And, when there's more time, you’ll do well to compare this, and another which I am about to show you, with some of those business letters sent to Mr. La Croix by the ab- duction,—also with the Claxton letters, just now, however, look at these.” She put down before him the note marked by Tony Leach, and then, and more carefully, placed beside it a second one; an open half sheet of very common paper. “This,” she explained, “is the letter that brought Jerry La Croix to your door today. The special delivery letter, that ar- rived too late to reach Miss Iris La Croix. Read this, and then —compare the two.” Larne took up the sheet, and, after a keen slow glance put it down, flat beside the first, and looked again. “Ah!” he ex- claimed, “we begin to burn! It's the same! Look Una!” The girl glanced over his shoulder, and started. “It’s from Number 19!” she cried. “Read it aloud,” urged Madam, and Larne promptly com- plied. “Dear ‘Miss La Croix':” here he looked up saying: “Of course you have both observed that the name is between quotation marks? Well—let's resume,” and he began to read once more. “What are you doing? We still await that “charity fund, and have already waited too long. You must not hope to reap a bene- fit at our expense. We will give you twenty-four hours after this reaches you; at the end of that time we must be satisfied of your good faith, or—there will be another abduction. X.” Larne took up the letter, and turned to face his two companions. “That,” he said dryly, “is a threat,—and one they may not be able to carry out. Also—it tells us something.” “You mean—” began Una. “I mean that if this letter means what it says, it is proof that 260 A BLIND LEAD “Miss La Croix' is not keeping faith with them, and that her movements, now, become more important—to us, and more diffi- cult to follow, than we thought! If one could but reach Carnes, now! But Rufe Carnes is not easily shaken off; and he has her trail. But Abinger—” here Larne chuckled, “I’ll venture to prophesy that he-loses it! Let's trust that those others who threaten—Number 19, and the rest—will lose it, also.” Larne put the letter down and reached across the desk, to take up the express receipt brought by Una. This he put down be- side the two notes they had mutually attributed to the pen of Number 19; and, looking down upon them, he nodded. “The evidence,” he declared slowly, “is pretty nearly all in— at last, and we have begun our roundup none too soon! She is given,—it seems, twenty-four hours from this afternoon. Um! He was speaking, now, as if to himself. “I must get back at once! certainly before daylight. We can easily reach that place by mid-morning. Tony and her Carry can make that motor trip very soon, I fancy, and”—luckily here his eyes began to twinkle— “that maniac made his escape this afternoon.” “Larry!” It was Una's exclamation, but a glance from Ma- dam’s keen eye checked her further words. Larne was bending over the letters still outspread upon the desk, but he drew him- self erect in a moment, and, with the fixed look they had both learned to understand, stood, staring straight before him, but seeing only that which his own alert mind was visioning, and then he turned and smiled, glancing from face to face. “Ladies!” he questioned, “Do you see how far we have ad- vanced since—this morning, helped on by these fragmentary letters and messages from different sources? We have not yet found Iris La Croix, it's true, and there's a change, still, of losing this other Iris—her double. As for Jerry La Croix, he has en- tered the game at the psychological moment we so often hear of, and so seldom encounter. And, if Madam is sure of his present attitude, I believe we may cast aside all our previous fears and doubts as to the—surety of our quest; for his story— that, and his present attitude, makes the question of the abduc- tion sure; gives us a motive, and shows us how the deed, and the deception, became possible! I believe, too, that we can feel almost certain of the personality of the chief–or, one of the chief plotters,” here he glanced toward the outspread letters. “I wish we knew a little more about the Chicago end of the complication,” RESCUE AND DEFEAT 261 he sighed, “but I can make a hazardous guess—a—a—a bare possibility, and that is suggested by this message from Carnes. The train they were about to take crosses the state a little south of our danger zone or debatable land, and might drop a pas- senger at one of the outlying suburban stations not far from our point of especial interest, or just below it, in the Bronx. I don't like the idea, because, just now, I can't see its object. How- ever—” and he heaved a sigh of relief, “I have unlimited faith —in Carnes.” He caught up his hat and gloves, and turned to Madam. “It’s hard upon you,” he said. “But I think Una must remain at her post, until tomorrow, at least. And you know where to wire or telephone. All the men will be at their posts,—and—as soon as I'm on the ground, I'll tell you where and when to send Tony. I fancy we shall need her car, soon. As for La Croix, as soon as we are gone call him up, please, ask him to call here early—and—use your tact and good sense, as you always do. When he comes you are free to tell him what you will. My soul! it's mid-night almost! Una we must flit.” “And I,” mused Madam, when the door had closed behind them, “must catch a brief nap, with my ear toward the telephone. And there's likely to be a queer lot of questions to be asked and answers,—or to be suppressed, it may be, -before I hear from Larry again. Why, Bruce Abinger is due to be here by noon, and Mr. La Croix still sooner. Ah, me, it's a queer mix up that I’m supposed to be able to deal with all right! I pray the powers I may not blunder, and make it worse!” CHAPTER XXIX. RESCUE AND DEFEAT. It was an early hour for Tony Leach and her ease-loving husband to be abroad; and the quiet of a clear summer morning brooded and smiled all above and about the handsome and luxurious residence district lying west of Central Park and along the beautiful Riverside Drive as they made their way through it, and gradually eastward, and to the north. And it was not alone the hour that was unusual; the manner 262 A BLIND LEAD of their outing was quite as strange; for, while they were whirled along their way in the big soft running car that was the latest of Carry Leach's various investments in light-geared speed makers, side by side in the driver seat, and with that in the rear unoccupied, save for a pair of rain coats, which gave the im- pression that their journey would not be a brief one, close behind them, Hughes, their expert mechanician, solemn and uncon- cerned, guided the blue limousine which had been Tony's pride and joy ever since she had found that she could master and control its enormous force and power with almost the skill of Hughes himself. On they slid, past Morris Park, leaving it to the south and westward; crossing the Harlem River presently, and so on and on, until the Bronx, too, flowed behind them and to the west of their onward course. And still on, and northward. Presently Tony spoke; they had both been rather absorbed and silent since they had reached the more open country. “I think, Carry, when we have crossed the Westchester Turn- pike we had better drop Hughes a little farther back,—say just within sight, and signalling distance. We're likely to meet some of Larry's outposts soon, I fancy.” “Huh ! Is he covering the whole county?” grumbled Leach. “Goose! He's making a good wide circle, to take in the Brook- dale Sanitarium, and all those houses that we know of. Mind now, Carry, a tramp under a tree, a man on a bicycle, a bunch of telephone linemen-isn't that what you call them—any, or all, may belong to Larry's band; and we must not pass them too swiftly to observe the signals.” ... “The signals, eh? All right, Missus, you're the boss this trip.” And the big fellow laughed contentedly. He was looking for amusement, of some sort, from this adventure, and, for him, to # £ed was to be happy. “What's our first move?” he ques- 1OneCl. “Why, unless, we're held up and given fresh orders—I'm to get into that other seat—presently—and we are to stop at the Shipman place to take up Mrs. Tomlinson for a spin. She's not far from the sanitarium—and while going and coming, along the two roads that pass her place, we are to be on the lookout for signals. And then—when Larry and his men know that we're on the ground—we are just to run to and fro and await the next word. As for Hughes—he—stays—stop-slow down. Carry!—don't you seep” RESCUE AND DEFEAT 263 A young man in shabby outing clothes was slowly approach- ing walking as if weary, and leading an evidently crippled bicycle. As he came abreast of them he halted, and signaled. “Well?” questioned Leach, while Tony leaned back in her place and looked aristocratic and indifferent. “Excuse me—you haven’t seen a small tool-kit in a leather case, have you? My wheel is not working right, and—um!” Leach had now turned fully toward him, and the speaker noted a tuft of white clover nodding from his coat lapel. He paused to look up and down the road, and then said with a grin, “’Scuse me, sir; you’re going?” - “North,” murmured Leach. “Yes, well I'm to tell you to run slowly, and to keep within a few miles of the asylum. And, after your first stop—” he halted here until Leach nodded, “you are not to get too far from the house on the bluff—the one with the rubble-stone pillars to the porches you know, and not to get nearer it than—say two miles— until further notice. Um—there's a car coming!” “Yes.” - “Yours?” “Sure.” “Well—I guess that's about all.” And the wayfarer grinned and went slowly on; stopping soon, to stand aside and admire the big blue car as Hughes presently wheeled past him; and, a moment later, he dropped to the ground in the shade of a low spreading oak, and sighed comfortably. “Reckon this is my next station, for the next hour; although I mighty near missed it.” And he craned his neck, to peer up at a spot upon the brown tree trunk, breast high and not too carefully done, where two fresh white cuts had removed the bark leav- ing a rude little x, which, while not too conspicuous, was easily visible to one who might be looking for such a sign. There were numerous similar marks within a given radius, along the highways, and here and there upon the cross roads, cut upon trees, fences, and, sometimes, the gates and bars. They were not all “cross marks.” Some were crude V's, and some still cruder circles. But each had its meaning; and each was a help, a step, in Larne's queer venture. The young man with the bicycle sat quietly beneath his tree, lazily puffing a cigarette until he saw a second vehicle coming toward him. Again it was from the south, and again he lounged forward, and beckoned. 264 A BLIND LEAD This time it was a carriage that halted at his signal, a pair of sedate bay roadsters before it, and a rotund and grizzled old man holding the reins; while a woman, matching the man in bulk and age, and two small girls, completed the party. “’Scuse me, sir!” The young man's eyes were upon the driver's coat lapel, which was guiltless of ornamentation, “’r’ye going—” he stopped and waited. “I’m goin' up to the Heights,” the other replied, testily, “And we're takin' this road, because—” but the other promptly inter- rupted. “Beg pardon—I just wanted to tell you that there's a prisoner from the asylum loose, somewhere among these farms and woods, an he's—” but the woman cut him short by uttering a series of hysterical, “Oh's 1” and the half shrieked inquiry. “Who is it? *Tain’t that horrible man that allus chases the women folks and children, and is so dangerous? Oh, my my!” “Yes-m it's him. Haskin's his name I believe. He got away sometime last night, an’ the blue flag's been up ever sense day- light, and all the men they can spare are out after him, besides a lot of volunteers. I’m told to say to people passin' over these roads not to stop if they sh’d see a tussel anywheres. They want to git him as quietly as possible, and no crowd gatherin'. It always makes him worse, and he's bad enough already. If I was you I'd take that lower road, when you’ve crossed the track. Good-day, sir.” And despite the woman’s efforts to extract a morsel more of exciting information, he went back to his tree, £ his wheel, with which he now professed to be extremely usy. 'As early as six o'clock that morning Hillary Larne had ar- rived at the Sanitarium, and, almost at once, in one of the lesser buildings, farthest from those which housed the patients, and nearest to one of the smaller gates which opened upon a quiet lane, out of sight from the main buildings, a suppressed stir and bustle was going on. Half a dozen men all wearing the uniform of keepers, were re- ceiving instructions, arming themselves “to the teeth,” and set- ting forth, two by two, in different directions. Two men, mounted upon lively young horses, rode southward, and made themselves conspicuous upon the main travelled road, where autos, pleasure omnibuses and private carriages were oftenest seen. Two others, upon motor-cycles, took to the more open by ways, and the last RESCUE AND DEFEAT 265 two pair, on foot, and with—wary, seeking eyes, made straight for the woods, the meadows, and the foot paths along the small streams all about. In the city we must needs have the telephone, the telegraph, the daily press—and the megaphone—to spread, quickly, a piece of important news. In a country district, thickly settled, or thinly, an event, exciting, disastrous, or alarming, is carried, seemingly,–by the winds, the wandering little breezes, the flit- ting birds, even the flying leaves; and a word spoken far to the northward, flits from lip to lip, until—soon—“the message to Garcia” has been delivered;—saves all modern wizardry of elec- tric connections, tools, and swift postal deliveries—in the old sure primitive fashion of primitive man. By noon of that day all the country-side within a circuit of many miles, raying out from the Sanitarium in all directions, knew that its most dangerous patient had escaped, and was at large, somewhere among the woods and hills, and thicket set streams; hiding in some granary, cowering in some thicket, ready to leap out from some wayside covert, raving, menacing, attacking; fierce and cunning, with all the madman's uncanny strength and skill. A creature to fear and flee from. And wherever the news was carried, doors were closed and barred, children were collected under cover, and haled from school and wayside playground; women waxed excited, or hys- terical, as their nature was, and men went about warily, watch- fully; and, many of them, discreetly armed. Tony Leach and her big husband heard of it, sitting in their car, even before they had made known their pleasant harmless business abroad. They had found Mrs. Tomlinson upon her broad front piazza, peering anxiously after two mounted keepers who had sought her permission to send some men to beat up the woody stretch on either side of the place, and between it and the creek. She was nervous and eager; and she first poured out the ex- citing story, and then listened, doubtfully, to their smiling invita- tion. At first demurring—fearing. Was it not great risk, just then? And ought she to leave her servants, to be terrorized, per- haps, in her absence? It seemed to be Carry Leach, or his arguments, that at last decided her. “Surely,” he said, with his big hearty laugh, he could protect her against one maniac; besides, how could even 266 A BLIND LEAD a madman, afoot, halt or overtake their speedy car? She must see its speed. Besides, here was his wife: If Mrs. Tomlinson declined his first invitation she would make Tony fear to trust him, and that would result in sending him away solitary; for he knew Mistress Tony! She had come to see her friend, and of course she would forsake him, and his car, and remain behind to help Mrs. Tomlinson protect her servants; in which case, should he encounter the madman he would certainly drive him that way in revenge for his outing in solitude. And when Tony had said, in her prettiest manner, “Of course, if you won’t go, dear Mrs. Tomlinson, I'll stay here with you—at least for the afternoon!—but—oh, do come! We will be quite safe, you know! Come—jump in 1" And the lady yielded. “I’ll just speak to my maid,” she decided, “and come out at once—er—why—won't you come in for a bit?” “No, indeed!” Smiled Tony. “It won’t be worth while; since you’re coming with us.” It was mid-morning when Tony and her friend set out to- gether with Tony's husband as chauffeur; and the rumor of danger all abroad seemed to add spice to their summer day's pleasure. “I almost hope we do meet your maniac!” Tony declared, with a little shiver of anticipation. But her guest shuddered in earnest. “It would be horrible!” she declared. “What if we should break down, and he should appear then?” “And what if we should !” jeered Tony. sk * sk >k >k *k *k >k >k At half past seven o’clock of this same morning, a young woman, well dressed and carrying herself haughtily erect, alighted from a car, on a branch line of the N. Y. C. railroad, at a pretty suburban station running east from the city proper, and took her way, after a slow glance all about her, to the only hotel of the place. She looked weary, but by no means uncertain. She required from the small hotel only food, and a brief rest, and, in a little more than an hour, calling, through an obliging porter, for a light vehicle and a good horse, she took her way cross the country still, as was evident to all who observed her, quite certain as to purpose and destination. One other passenger had left this same surburban train at 270 A BLIND LEAD attic, or mansard floor, she paused before what looked like a wide, panelled double door, permanently closed by iron bars over- lapping, and made fast, from side to side. For some moments she felt here and there among the panels, running her fingers along them, until, with a fierce indrawn breath, and a strong outward pull, she held open the inner or middle panel of what had seemed one wide and permanent barrier, and thus disclosed a narrow single door, beneath, and in the center, of the wide and seemingly guarded double one, and to this door— after a hasty glance down the stairway, and a moment of listen- ing, she began to apply the keys. Firmly, carefully, she applied them, pulling, shaking, and ex- hausting, one after another, every effort, and at last, with angry eyes and flushing cheeks, she applied her lips to the keyhole. But only a faint sound came back to her, and this the briefest of syllables; and at last she stood half leaning against the still open panel, which she struck vigorously with her open palm, in the wrath and humiliation of her defeat. Then, after a mo- ment, she began again; trying the keys once more, carefully, patiently, until at last, “My soul!” she groaned, “to be here—so near success, and still to fail! It can’t—it shall not be 1” Suddenly she caught away the keys, and went running reck- lessly down the front stairway. As she took the first step down the second, or lower, flight, a sound, faint at first, but strangely pitiful struck her ears. But now she was bent upon her new purpose, and, merely turning her head for the briefest moment, she hurried on, and downward. Into the rear parlor she hastened. “It's well I know the house,” she muttered, as she flung back the door. “Faugh,” as the fumes of stale tobacco almost stopped her at the threshold, “Do they never admit fresh air here?” and do they always smoke? Ah!” she had noted the speaking tube on the * wall, the cap removed, and dangling loosely from its cord. Closing the door, she fairly sprang across the room. With her lips at the tube she called, in a voice that now, for the first time, trembled and broke. “Hello!—Miss-La Croix!” There was no answer. “Oh—please answer me! I'm sure I heard you—your voice and then there was an answer. “And I may have heard yours; but it was not addressed to me.” p” 272 A BLIND LEAD The curtain before the half barred, wholly darkened, win- dow was torn away with one Snap of her strong round arm; there were soft words, and sobbing answers, a few swift, vigorous movements, and then, down the corridor came the girl, with gleaming eyes, and glowing cheeks, and an almost martial ad- vance; and a boy, slender, pale, still sobbing fitfully, was cling- ing to her hand. “Keep close to me dear, do just as I tell you and you will be safe and at home soon, never fear.” Just at the head of the stairs she halted before a closed door, swiftly opened it, and, entering, took from a mantle a long leather case, and from the case one of a pair of revolvers, which she thrust beneath her belt. “It’s not loaded,” she murmured, “but if needed here, I think it will serve,” and she smiled scorn- fully. She had moved lightly, and now, at the kitchen door, she halted and slipped the weapon from beneath her girdle. Before Mammy Lou's splint rocker,-wherein the good soul still calmly slept,— stood a tall colored man, his eyes fixed upon his sleeping wife. “Uncle Alec'" The voice was sharply imperative, and he swung toward her. “There, don't move again; and try to talk! you're going to obey me, and I'm going to get yourself, and Mammy Lou here, out of trouble. You think your ‘Master Paul’ is coming back, but he's more than likely to be arrested before he leaves New York. Open that closet door behind the stove and take out # hemp linen line. Be quick; as you know how well I can shoot—” “I-I'm mos' fraid yo'll let it go off too quick Missy Alys—” “Then hasten,” she knew the yellow man, and knew him for a coward at heart, a blustering coward. “Now, tie Mammy in her chair Alec, and do a good job, and as soon as it's done take your hammer and break the lock of the basement door. After that you may run for the woods, and when your master comes—if he or any one does, come, tell them a pretty story about the wild man who tied up Mammy and whom you have been trying to follow. Make haste now for the farther you get from the house before you hear their signal the better for you! Wait, who keeps the key of that upper room, Alec?” “Missus-of late, Miss Alys,” he quavered. “I thought as much ! Where is she?” A “Out ridin' in a auto–She had to go or else ask the folks in. in- RESCUE AND DEFEAT 273 “Never mind! Is it done? Then go Alec, and don't look back, nor stop for—for five minutes. Wait! Is there—really—a madman loose in the vicinity?” “Yass Missy—shorely, am—” “That will do! Now go, Mammy will probably sleep for an- other half hour. - “She stood watching until the man was well on his way down the sloping wooded path in the rear of the house, and then, with a final glance at Mammy, she took the boy's hand, saying, “Come dear!” and ran with him through the house to the front entrance. This she hastily unlocked, and then, hesitating for an instant, she said again, very gently, to the eager, trembling child-"Just another moment dearie,” and led him into the back parlor, where she again called through the still open tube. “Miss—prisoner, listen, please. For just a little I feared that I had blundered utterly, but I have liberated the other prisoner, who surely is not Miss La Croix, and I now say that, failing, in your case, I am about to turn loose the authorized rescuers; and that, before nightfall, you will certainly be free. Good-bye, dear!” There was no response. The last words were uttered with a queer break in the girl's clear full voice. And then, with a final “Come boykins,” she hastened, her charge ahead of her, out, and away. There was a wooded lane which she knew, leading downward toward the creek in the rear of the house, and following this she crossed the little stream over a nearby foot-bridge, hastening with her charge, toward a little trolley station on the further side. As she left the bridge and came into the open the girl glanced about her somewhat anxiously. “Boykins,” she said, with a whimsical half smile, “we will have to take our chances with the ‘wildman, for I’m not sure that an empty pistol will put that sort to rout.” - She caught his hand anew, and then, turning glanced back. Up the slope, between the tall tree trunks she fancied she saw moving figures in the rear of the house she had just left, and, farther along the creek, high above the tree tops, she saw a broad blue streamer fluttering from the tallest peak of the Sanitarium. “The wild-man,” she again murmured. “He’s still at large. Little comrade, we must not miss a car.” And the woods—the thought drove the half smile, with which she had sought to cheer and encourage her little companion, from her face and it became troubled and apprehensive. FACE TO FACE 275 It left much to be desired, to be sure; because Snelling's knowl- edge, except where it concerned his own share in the business at hand, was limited. And how could Abinger guess that the very items which he lacked—while so much needing—would be await- ing him in his New York office when he returned. “It will help,” Abinger had said to his friend, as they left the jail, “Still—I’m disappointed. I will make my call at once, I think, after which I'll look in at your quarters again, and, if pos- sible we will dine together.” But they did not dine together; and, at the Hartwell home, Ab- inger's earlier disappointment became a shock. He learned, then, all that Hartwells could tell him, and, remembering the girl's promise to send him word, “at need,” he drove at once to Frayne's rooms, where she was to address him. * And there he found her note, which had awaited him for hours. It was one of the two she had written after leaving the jail, and it ran as follows: “My Dear Mr. Abinger: “I beg that you will not judge me—yet. I am leaving the city at once, and if all goes as I hope I may be in New York City with- in another twenty-four hours, and shall go almost at once, to your office; for I am sending there for your use some documents, one of which I ask you to read at once, on your return. • “I. L–C.” : >k >k >k >k >k >k >k >k It was two o'clock of that eventful summer day, when Bruce Abinger, having passed his second night in a rocking, roaring Pullman palace car, thrust the key in his office door, and giving one swift glance all about him, entered, and closed it softly. He had been absent two days, and of what had occurred during his absence,—here in the city, or out yonder along the highways of the Bronx,-he had no knowledge. That knowledge, information, awaited him on the floor above, he felt reasonably assured; and that some one, Madam, Una, even Larry, might be, must be, awaiting him there, also he knew. Had he not, hastily, and without forethought, wired them of his coming? He was anxious to know what, if anything, had happened here. He was troubled and expectant; but he lost no time, nevertheless, FACE TO FACE 277 my own; and that I was the illegitimate daughter of one Jerry La Croix, now a man of great wealth, who had deserted my mother, and her two children, this together with many details, with which I need not trouble you. “I was, at this time, in a southern school, with two years of student life still ahead, and so, as I supposed, was Arthur, my brother; and for the next two years my dream and hope was to complete my studies and become self supporting. “During these earlier years, all my affections had all been lav- ished upon Arthur, and when, at the close of my school life, he became an invalid because of a serious accident I abandoned all my plans, to care for him, and remain with him. And so another year passed, and when he was at last rallying from his long illness, and could abandon his crutches—he had been for many months ser- iously crippled—an epidemic of fever visited our city, and poor Arthur, and then myself, were among its victims; my own illness being most serious and my convalescence slow. “At about this time I began to discover, first, that my uncle was, or seemed, in frequent financial difficulties, and also that Arthur, during my long illness, had become too fond of the society of gay young men, and inclined to dissipation. It was at this same time, too, that a new influence came among us in the shape of a man from New York, who became very intimate with both my uncle and Arthur, although considerably younger than the one, and older than the other. “And then changes came about swiftly. We began to shift about from plan to plan, our finances changing from plenty to an almost empty purse, and more and more frequently—as I began to observe—my uncle's finances seemed, somehow, affected by the presence or absence of the man from up North, as we at first called him—Mr. Hood as he called himself. And then, one day, after almost a year of these changes, and frequent flittings, Mr. Hood mentioned, in my hearing, the name of Jerry La Croix, tell- ing me carelessly of his riches, his fine home, and his beautiful daughter, just home from Europe. “It was not long after this that my aunt and uncle gave me my first glimpse of them as they really were, and had been, for many years. As adventurers, in fact; they had removed the mask, they informed me, because I was now a woman grown, and—they needed my help. They had thought out a plan by which my father Jerry La Croix was to be assessed’ for our mutual benefit. It 278 A BLIND LEAD was a very clever scheme, but it required my cooperation, and this I refused utterly. Then we had our first quarrel. “After that things became most unpleasant. I made several attempts to leave them and care for myself, but the tie that held me was Arthur. He was becoming more dissipated, or so I feared, and I dared not leave him. So some unhappy months passed, and then Arthur disappeared, with two or three wild young men like himself. And then of course my one thought, and hope, was to find him, to reclaim him and make a little home, somewhere, for just us two. “Once or twice we heard of him; and once he came home sud- denly, only to vanish again the next day. And then came the be- ginning of the end. “There had been a bank robbery in an Illinois town. Part of the gang had escaped. One had been killed, and Arthur had been taken prisoner—caught in the act. And he was held for trial in the Chicago jail. “I was frantic—and I was helpless. And at this crisis Mr. Hood and my uncle approached me with a new scheme. From the mo- ment when, seeing me, he had noted my resemblance to Iris La Croix, whom he said he had seen more than once Mr. Hood had been evolving the plan which must succeed, he assured us, because of its very boldness. And then I was—after the first revolt—as clay in their hands. For they had made Arthur's liberty the price of my masquerade. And now my uncle and aunt revealed to me their last depth of infamy, when, as a last argument, they declared that he-my uncle, could, and would, bring a witness, to prove that Arthur was not one of the gang that night, but was caught with them because he had been so foolish as to turn and run when— loitering near, upon the street—he saw that the police were com- ing, and ran. At lrst I doubted, but they gave me such proof, letters.were exchanged—Arthur wrote—or so I believed—and at last, districted and reckless, I gave my promise. • How I studied my part,-how the man ‘Hood, supplied us with Pictures of Iris La Croix, some specimens of her handwrit- ing, and much family history you need not be told at length. I came to the city in the character of Bertha Helmuth and on the night of the abduction I left it dressed like Iris and like her leaving the club rooms in a motor car. It had all been most care- fully Planned in order to mislead, and complicate the trai-I saw 1n # £ of course, and my heartless father. And, after the abduction I talked with her—but she never saw my face. FACE TO FACE 279 “There were some things that they hid from me. For instance, I was told that Miss La Croix had been engaged, but—that Mr. Effingham had gone abroad. I had much to face—to contend with —and for which, I was unprepared. There should be a limit to my masquerade, they promised me; I was to be abducted a second time, and soon, and then the real Iris was to be returned un- harmed. But I began to doubt them. My position grew unen- durable. I tried to hate the man whose nameless child I was, and I could not. And then, one day, I saw among some Chicago newspaper items, that the date was fixed for Arthur's trial in Chicago. I began to doubt them and when I questioned them they evaded, and parried; and then I determined to go to Chicago. I thought I could make the trip, unknown to my confederates, and I tried to go quietly—as you know. “I had no thought of confiding in you—or confessing, if you prefer—when I left you this morning at the Hartwell's door. But I can do nothing now. I left the Hartwells a few moments after you, and went by previous engagement to the city jail, to see —my brother. And there I met—deceit—fraud—and saw my life summed up in two words, Fraud and Failure. But I'm not a coward. I will do my utmost—little as it is, to right the wrong I have done. It is all that's left to me, for—Mr. Abinger, I found in that jail not Arthur Snelling, but a masquerader to offset and mock my own. The man who was killed in that robbery in southern Illinois was Arthur Snelling; and I had schemed, and tricked, and caused an innocent and lovely girl much suffering, for naught. “When you have read this you are free to act as seems good to you. But if you will hold it until you have seen me, or for twenty- four hours after reading, I will thank you. I am leaving Chicago at once, or as soon as I have posted this letter; for there is one act of reparation which I hope to do soon. I shall then come at once to your office, knowing that you will have returned by that time. And, if I have failed in my mission,—indeed in any case— I shall have more to tell you. . “If I do not appear, after the time I have named use this letter, and its information, as you will. But if you do not see me it will be because I am forcibly hindered. “This accompanying statement, made by the young man who has personated my dead brother, will not interest you. I send it to you in trust, to insure its safety, in case I do not appear. From ‘Iris La Croix', no longer.” 280 A BLIND LEAD For many moments Abinger stood gazing down at this surpris- ing document, after reading the last words. It was amazing, startling, shocking! And yet—there was no least look of criti- cism, of condemnation upon his face. Instead it was kind, sad, pitiful. With the letter still in his hand he at last seated himself, and, from time to time, low words fell from his lips. What a situation! How entirely she had trusted him! And she was coming to him, first, before she spoke with any other. But—would she really come? and if so—why? “My Soul!” he ejaculated. “What a state of affairs! For her —for me!” How utterly alone she seems to stand! How much she needs a friend! And—” he paused, as if contemplating something fine. “What a simple, frank, setting forth of the facts! No plea for sympathy, no attempt—to justify, or palliate. And —the courage of it all!” A long time he sat thus, holding the letter in his hand, his head bent—thinking. And then, carefully putting aside the two papers, he slowly turned his attention to the remainder of his two days' mail. But he laid it aside, at last, and shook his head. It was a heavy mail, and while he found in it nothing to hold his interest, or even his attention, it was not because it was of little value. There were matters there of importance, to certain of his clients, and, at any other time, this would have meant, to himself likewise, but not now. At present his whole mind was fixed upon a girl with hazel brown eyes, that now held a strong golden light, and again deepened to velvety softness, and with lips that curved redly with momentary laughter, and then—and oftener—were pressed together firmly, with a haughty drawing back of the upper lip, and a swift uprearing of the well poised head. A haughty pose, and—strong. He pushed away the heap of letters with an impatient hand, and threw himself back in his chair. “It's useless,” he declared half aloud. “Until I can see some light upon this puzzle, or at least one feature of it, I'm good for little else!” And again he lost himself in a maze of anxious con- jecture, from which he finally aroused himself, getting up with a look of decision and relief upon his face, and this thought, fixed in his much troubled mind, like a star amid dense blackness. “For the one who lays down his life for his friend, the world FACE TO FACE 281 has praise and honor. If I am my brother's keeper, and can only save, retrieve, my brother's honor with my own, what then? Accepting this tale of trial and temptation as true—and it must be true—where lies the honor—where the strength—and weak- ness? My Soul! could I respect her—admire her more, if, be- lieving her brother—her only brother,-doomed to a felon's life, a felon's name, she should refuse to rescue him when away—a dangerous, difficult, desperate way, was shown her? Oh yes, a man might think, because of the difficulty, -the danger. But a woman—such a woman as she, could not. Women—when equally endowed with courage and devotion, are made that way!” Then, his face darkened, as the picture of the sham Arthur Snelling arose before him; weak, sullen, indifferent, almost, to the grief, the wreck and ruin he had helped to bring upon another. And what a situation | What a hopeless, horrible, outlook for this daring but defeated girl! How would she meet it? And what must be the outcome? She had said that she would come to him first. That she looked to him for help, at least for advice—was evident. What could he say to her? And—after all—would she come? His last question received prompt answer. There is character even in a rap at the door, and also,—often, —it announces the state of mind of the applicant. The knock which aroused him, and set his nerves a tingle for the moment, was not loud. It was low, distinct, and even. He opened the door, feeling assured that he should see her upon the threshold. But he started back at sight of the child who was her companion; and somehow, the look upon her face checked the words that hung upon his lips. For this woman needed no reassuring words, looked for no welcome; and her self possession made him wonder, and admire. He saw, too, in that keen first glance, that she neither needed nor expected sympathy. She met his gaze, and the hand he was about to extend fell at his side. She glanced about her, and then down at the boy. “May I speak with you, quite alone, for a few moments?” she asked quietly. “And may I, first, make my little companion com- fortable, meanwhile.” She was looking toward a big easy chair near the big front win- dow, a guest's chair, plainly; and he replied with the same quiet, “I’m quite alone. No one knows, as yet, that I have returned.” | : £ |# | l | | "////7ZZZZZ2×- |'' '%: || | */ Ž' ~~ % - | ©- - | y Ž/ % | * //, ///w Ż | | | IITIII | . | | | |'' || || !:# / NWi))) | | | ( #) % à % | * Ś # 3. ~~ “NOW,” HE SAID, “YOU MAY FINISH, IF YOU MUST.” FACE TO FACE 285 were locked, and, search as I would, the keys, usually left in the outer door were not to be found. I called to her, I heard her voice! I promised her a speedy rescue—and—” here for the first time she smiled, “she flouted me! she thought me one of her jailers—as I was—almost. And I could not make her listen. That, and the failure to find the keys, almost crazed me; but I dared not stay. As I was leaving the upper floor a sound at- tracted me toward a room which I knew to have been used as a place for storage, and there—locked in, and barred—but this time, thank heaven, with the key in the lock outside—I found that child, the Claxtons' stolen boy. And now, at last, I am come to my actual purpose. My strongest reason for daring to hold you to a word so blindly given. Will you take this child to his parents, at once! And will you tell this, my story, to Mr. La Croix, after you have told him where he may find his daughter. There is no time to be lost. Something, I am sure, has gone wrong, or that place would never have been left so long—de- serted—almost.” As if by one motive the two turned toward the child by the window. With a half eaten bon-bon in his fingers : had fallen asleep, his head upon the cushioned arm of the big CI1211". As the girl was about to rise Abinger put out his hand. In his face was a new look of resolve and authority. He smiled, touched her hand, and stood up. “Kindly remain seated for the moment,” he urged. “The child, of course, you are quite sure it is the right one? I never saw him—” “Nor I. He told his name. It was Ellery Claxton. And—I have seen his picture.” “Very good. In a moment I shall have something to say to you. Pardon me now.” He caught up his desk telephone, and, still standing, quite near her, called, in respone to the usual hallo. “I want the office of E. J. Claxton—No—I don't know the number—this is 60-8-10—yes, it's important—thank you! Ah, is this Mr. Claxton—good. This is Abinger—Bruce Abinger,- yes, at my office. Mr. Claxton if you will be here one hour from now, I think you will find your boy—No,-I can't explain now—I have not heard the full details.—Yes.—I know the condition of the child’s mother and it occurred to me that she would better be warned of his coming, a bit in advance—No, positively—I can FACE TO FACE 287 “Assuredly! I saw you imminent need of a friend; I wanted to be near you, to protect you; and it is as your friend that I am now telling you this,—all there is to tell. I am glad that you made the effort to release Iris La Croix, to-day, because—yester- day Larne, Effingham, Flack, and a dozen others, went to the neighborhood of the Sanitarium that used to be known as the Brookdale Rest, and—” - - “Wait! Oh, wait. What do they know?” “They have a string of hopeful clues. They believe Miss La Croix, or another, to be a prisoner in one of—several houses, that have been under suspicion, for—” “Stop! Where can you reach them—now—and surely!” “I see what you mean,” he was taking from an inner pocket a little note book, “I have two or three numbers where they, or some of them, may always be called, at need.” “Call the— Call the leader!” She spoke imperatively now, and there was a new light in her eyes. Without a word he took up the instrument, and, after again consulting the note-book, began calling. No one responded to the first call, and he gave another number. “Hallo,” he called eagerly when, at last, he got a response. “Who is this?—Harvey?—eh?—Is Tom there?—not? Who is, if any one?—Dick, eh? Give me Dick then,-quick—too”—he listened a moment then—Hallo—yes! Wait—” he turned toward her now, saying. “It is Effingham, at the other end.” “Oh!” she caught the instrument from his hand. “Please!” she urged, and, putting the receiver to her ear began to call— “Mr. Effingham—it—it is Mr. Effingham ?” she questioned and then, “Ah, thank you—I understand. I’ll not use the name again. I want to direct you to the house where she is—yes, that's it. Listen—are you near a large house built between the upper road, so called, and the ‘Merry Creek?'—yes, that creek;—its a large house, with a portico facing each way,+toward both road and river—yes; it's rubble built, below, and brick above, with a man- sard roof—yes, yes! you do know the place? Thank heavens! Go there, at once—this morning; for some reason, the watchers,— the chief jailers, were away—all except a colored man and woman, and in the mansard, locked in behind a door that seems to be nailed and boarded up, you will find—her! the real Iris... Don’t loose a moment in talk 1–it’s—no matter—no matter!—go, go at once!” She put the telephone down and turned toward him with parted 288 A BLIND LEAD lips, and then—the receiver dropped from her relaxed fingers, her head fell, and she dropped forward and was slipping to the floor when his arms went out, and she was caught in a strong and ready clasp, just as the buzzer of the wall telephone, which con- nected with Larne's room, above, and with several others, sounded shrilly, and he gently placed his burden in his second easy chair to hastily seize the receiver and give the accustomed hail. It was Madam Dalmeney who called; and he breathed a sigh of relief as he answered. “Is it you, Mr. Abinger?” she questioned, “and may I speak with you? I am coming down, and—” but he could not wait. “Oh, Madam,” he cried, “do come—at once! and—please bring —something—a restorative—it's needed.” “I’m coming!” Madam wasted no more words. He heard her thrust back the receiver, and, doing likewise, went back to his helpless double charge. CHAPTER XXXI. A WILD MAN ABROAD AND A REAL ADVENTURE. All day, since earliest morning, the uniformed keepers of the Sanitarium, and others, without uniform but none the less effi- cient as beaters, up and down the woods, across fields, and through hedges, had patrolled the district, all around and about the big group of public buildings, and farther afield as the day advanced, until, long before midday the excitement of the chase had spread afar; its effect being to leave the country, up and down, a scene of quiet, in which nobody seemed to live; for the roads were well nigh deserted, and the houses seemed brooding in a Sunday quiet, with closed shutters, drawn curtains, and all hands silent within door. For the warning had gone forth, “Call in your children, and keep your doors closed.” For the madman was given, it was said, to making sudden darts into open doorways, and to flying into dangerous rages, at the mere sound of a child's laughter, or the sight of a smiling face turned his way; while everybody knew how he had once pursued two defenseless maiden ladies, over hill and dale, through brambles and across creeks, until rescue came, almost at the last ditch. Even the pet dogs, donkeys, and sturdy A WILD MAN ABROAD 289 footed shetlands, were not trusted abroad; and up and down, for miles, only busy anxious faced men were to be seen, and these avoiding observation, and the more open places, and going in pairs; while such roving carriages and automobiles as were still seen, and these were few, went as if in haste—after due warn- ing, and were not seen again upon the same roadway. Thus went the chase until late in the afternoon, when a tall young man in rough outing costume made a hurried dash for a little road, house near the Sanitarium, flung himself across a shin- ing new motorcycle and fled away eastward. Here and there he halted, as he sped, and spoke, now to a solitary watcher, now to a group of two or three, who were mov- ing from point to point; and twice he halted, to send forth mes- sages, the first across the telephone wire of a wayside cottage, the next by telegraphs, from a small way station. And soon, wonderfully soon, the hunt seemed to converge upon a point midway of the patrolled radius, and then, to the instructed watchers, it appeared to spread out and encircle a fixed point, where, upon a pretty, swelling slope, between a flowing creek and a wide tree shadowed roadway, a large house stood; closed like all the others, silent also, like these, and too dignified, apparently, to note the cordon of guards that was quietly stretching out and around the place, at a goodly distance, and sheltered, here by a barn or hay rick, there by a tree or clump of shrubbery, and, again, by a rise or dip of the ground. It seemed an almost secure cordon, but at the southwest, or rear corner of the house, a dense growth of trees were spread out, —widening as they neared the road along the creek, and from this grove, a man emerged, coyly slipping from tree to tree, from bush to bush, peering, dodging, stopping and starting by turns, but steadily nearing the rear of the house, at the near corner of which was a door, opening kitchenward, and cut off from view of the further side by the overhanging corner of a second story bal- cony, facing creekward. The man was queerly garbed; as if he might have donned, at random, the odds and ends from half a dozen baseball uniforms of varying colors; and he had just crossed, in half a dozen agile jumps, the space between himself and the rear door, when a rather shabby automobile came into view at the front, on the main road, and just beyond the entrance to the grounds. As the odd looking figure landed before the low set rear door, 292 A BLIND LEAD thing imagined? He listened and quivered. And then, low, tremulous, hardly more than a breath, came—one faint syllable. “What is it! Oh, what can it be? If—” the quivering silence stung him. He put his lips to the opening and called, clearly, eagerly. “Iris!—Iris!” and then he heard—a gasp—a low inarticulate cry—and,—at last—low—eager—came—his answer. “Val! Oh, Val, Val!” It was a wail, with a note of sudden hope sounding through the fear and suspense. A sudden silence followed, and then—as he opened his lips to call—came the sound as of a falling body. And now, as by instinct, he is finding his way. He is outside —in the corridor—upon the stairs! All about him now are sounds, and cries. Above, below, he hears quick words tensely spoken, and sharp sudden sounds. With his foot upon the first landing there comes a crash from the floor above him—the sound of splintering wood,—a breaking lock —and a voice which he recognizes, exclaims. “My word, man! what a bastile! And—there's another door!” Bounding upward he shouts, “Larne, wait for me!” then, al- most breathless, he reaches the top floor. They are at the inner door; a door which he recognizes but has never seen. They have tried the locks and failed. It is indeed a bastile for security,—and then a voice cries: “The ax!” and Alec's new ax is poised for the blow. But Val Effingham catches it away and waves them back. “My soul, Larne,” he gasps, “you'd frighten satan!—if he saw you,- suddenly!” Larne chuckles and draws back. The blow is struck. The last barrier down. The ax falls from Effingham's hands, and alone he enters the mansard prison. While Hillary Larne in his motley —masquerading as the escaped lunatic of vicious tendencies,— draws back, saying very gently— “Let’s go below, boys.” - But at the next landing they halt, and silently draw back at a sign from Larne, ON THE LANDING 295 hailed by the man with the telegram. He sees the dashing car brought to a standsill, and notes the message in the hands of the driver, who is none other than our friend Carry Leach. Leach scans the brief message, and, for a second, wrinkles his brow as if in doubt. Then, thrusting the sheet back into the hands of the cyclist, he grasps the wheel. As the car begins to turn the watcher at the door utters a curse, and grasps the knob; and then the sharp call, “Hands up,” stuns him for a second, and, in another, brings him about, facing the three men, and their weapons, with his own ready in his hand. And again the silence of the guarded house is broken. “It's no use, Mr. Tomlinson—you call yourself that don’t you? Hands up! both of you! Stop! Don't try that game! Stand away from that door!—presto.” “Look out, Cap!” The warning cry and the report of the pistol, ring out together, and a second shot crosses the first almost at once. The man Tomlinson is not a coward. He is a fighter, and a man of muscle; but Captain Rohan's quick eye has seen his in- tent, and his own weapon has responded quickly. Then follows a moment of confusion. Across the Captain's face is a splash of blood and it drips in great drops from his right ear down upon his shoulder. His has been a narrow chance, and his right ear will never again be the smooth symmetrical mate of his left. As for Tomlinson, his pistol hand no longer holds its weapon, nor can it. But he fights for his freedom; and, before the others, Rohan in the lead, can reach him, he has the door open, and is across the threshold. He is tall and strong, a woodman born—and reared. And he hurls himself across the porch, dragging Rohan after,— and then, something—a veritable human catapult—flying toward him, fairly sweeps him from his feet. He struggles, still; but he has collided with Rufus Carnes; and though Rohan, disabled for the moment by his blood blinded eyes, has relaxed his hold, it is no longer needed for Carnes too is a man of muscle. As for their fourth antagonist, he, too, has trusted to his heels, and pursued by Rohan's two aids, has raced, blindly, almost into the embrace of a ready watcher, who, behind a clump of shrubbery directly in the fugitive's path, has waited his coming,-and re- ceived him with fervor. 296 A BLIND LEAD As for Rufus Carnes, if his coming has been unexpected, and spectacular, his going also is surprising,-for no sooner has a member of the outside guard appeared, to assist his captain than Carnes turns, runs to his waiting wheel, and mounting it rushes after the Leach car, which is breaking all speed laws in its haste cityward. Leach abating his speed, for just an instant, to fling over his shoulder an explanatory word. “We’re ordered away ladies! The escaped lunatic is said to be somewhere near here, now, doubly armed and likely to fire into any passing vehicle. Sorry, really—but—” the rest is lost in the forward bound of the little car as it leaves this zone of danger, and Tony Leach calls into the ear of their astonished and troubled est— - £ be anxious, Mrs. Tomlinson; we will telephone right back, and will run back with you as soon as its safe. Why! its a real adventure!” And they speed on, away from the besieged home, where still confusion reigns. The man whose identity had been swallowed up by his ugly motor garb, and uglier goggles, had reached the first staircase landing, while his companions below were still peering doubtfully out toward the highway, and the arriving car of the Leaches'. And here he paused, for, perched midway of the second flight was the queer figure in motley which had so alarmed Alec and stirred up the surrounding country. He was playing, as it seemed, with a large old fashioned pistol, his head bent above it, and his fin- gers toying with the hammer in a manner calculated to make one within “range,” eager to change his angle of approach. And then a slight sound like a syllable uttered just above the breath, #" the motorist, and caused him to sidestep and turn his head. Two men, -keepers, by their garb—were, or seemed to be creep- ing toward the “madman,” silently, and with great caution. But now something, a louder sound, from below, seemed to arouse him of the motley. He glanced up, and, uttering a low hissing savage syllable-alarming to the last comer, but a signal to the “keepers”—he sprang down the intervening stairs, and thrusting his weapon into the autoist's concealed face, snarled spitefully: “Take 'em-off! Quick!” The threatened man by his first dart aside had removed him- self from the stair head, and also from all sight of the hall be- low. But at the first sound, from thence, he made a sudden ON THE LANDING 297 leap toward the upper stairway and was at once seized by the supposed lunatic, with whom he wrestled, snarling fiercely over his shoulder to the two men just below him. “Grab this fool!—can't you!” Again a queer half hissing sound came from the lips of the “fool,” and the two onlookers drew back, and seemed in doubt, while the others strained and wrestled upon the lowermost stair until the foot of the “fool,” came down upon the smooth light leather of his opponent's motor coat, while his eager hands made a sudden clutch at the concealing head gear, and the two came down together, striking the landing a tangled heap of arms and legs. "And now it became plain that they were striving—the one to protest, and the other to tear away, the concealing automobile cap and goggles; and that each now held a pistol, in a reckless and dangerous grip; both muzzles, seemingly, pointing in all directions. The two men who waited for a safe opening seemed in the great- est danger. They had not seen, for the moment, what was really happening. The struggling men, in their fall from the stairs to the land- ing, had dislodged the ax placed close against the wainscot, and as it fell its blunt head struck the skull of the man in motley, and, for the moment, he lay underneath, dazed, and at a dis- advantage; while in that brief time his antagonist had caught up the ax and regained his feet. Standing above the still prostrate man he swung the ax aloft. “One step nearer,” he cried to the others, “and I'll brain him.” The two men, standing near with their drawn weapons, were directly in front, but just beyond the sweep, of the menacing ax. The prostrate man was struggling feebly, and was still too dazed to rise; and the sounds from below were now sufficient to drown any lesser noise, and for a brief time, there was no movement among the four. The man with the uplifted ax who was now facing the lower –flight and, startled by the confusion below he let his glance wander for the briefest moment. But it was long enough to change the situation. His returning gaze met that of his antagonist, now sitting erect, with his pistol aimed straight up the stairway; and he now realized that in seizing the more primitive weapon, and 298 A BLIND LEAD abandoning his pistol for the moment—he had blundered—seri- ously. For now the “fool’s” weapon was aimed at his head, and the fool was saying. “Take off them things!” Each syllable was an angry snap, and he saw that the other was looking, not at him, but beyond, and up the stairway. And then one strong hand, from behind, seized upon the ax; jerking it backward with sudden force, while another pulled from his head the disguising auto cap and glasses, and the next in- stant the man in the motley was upon his feet again. He caught at the ax, too late. He clung vainly to his conceal- ing head gear. But his disguise was torn from him, and, as he swung about to see what new enemy was above him, a girl's voice—amazed and scornful—cried, almost at his ear. “It's Perry Loundes!” Standing upon the stairs, just above him, was Valentine Effng- ham, in one hand the ax, in the other the captured cap and gog- gles, while another step above stood the prisoner of the man- sard, her eyes stabbing him with their blaze of unutterable scorn; and, from the other side, a voice—a new voice said: “Allow me, Miss La Croix, to present to you your late jailer- without his disguise?” He was between two fires. His late antagonist stood silently regarding him, for a moment, and then, uttering a short laugh, put up his two hands, and removed his battered hat and disguis- ing wig, his ragged beard, and the patches that had helped still further to disguise him saying: “You’re not among strangers you see, Mr. Loundes; and the need for concealment—I trust—is past. Kindly vacate the stair- way, if you please, and let the lady pass down. Mr. Effingham, I think you will find a large red touring car just beyond the upper entrance, and it is quite at your service. As for Mr. Loundes, I have a few words to say to him, after which I will leave him in Captain Rohan's safe hands, and follow you to the city, where, as I have lately learned, we are anxiously awaited.” He drew aside to make way for Effingham and the pale girl who still clung to his arm, but who turned to flash one more look of utter contempt upon the defeated and exposed scamp in the automobile suit, no longer a disguise, and into which he seemed to shrink. And then, as they passed on, and the uniformed men, close on either hand, drew yet closer, he turned upon Larne, now Smiling in his half discarded motley. ON THE LANDING 299 “So!” he snarled, his rage and hate lending him momentary courage, “you are the ‘wild man!' the escaped lunatic! and you are using the dogs of a mad-house to do what your own curs could not accomplish. And where—meantime—is the real luna- tic? Terrorizing the country I suppose—curse you all!” Larne's smile left his face. His eyes narrowed. His lips set themselves in straight strong lines. “Have no fear, Mr. Loundes, we intend to protect you thor- oughly on your way cityward; and, for your greater comfort, you may know that I am the only—and the wildest ‘wild man’ in the Bronx district. There is no inmate missing from the Brook- dale Asylum; and no keepers have abandoned their posts. Uni- forms are plentiful; and they fit the average man; mine, and Captain Rohan's also. As to the terrorizing, that has been en- tirely local, and seems to be manifesting itself here, just now. Which is quite as should be.” Loundes' full lips were drawn back in a twisted sneer; and his strong and rather prominent teeth, thus displayed, changed the face—of a sometime Broadway Lounger—easy going and in- different—until it suggested the primitive man—animal,—the brutal cave man—his own, possible, ancestors. Menaced, and at bay, there was no trace left of the cool man of the world, and its master in such. So long as the beast remains in man,—be it ever so well hidden, it will sometime assert itself, and it was uppremost, now, in this exposed, humiliated, defeated adventurer, who had sought to wrest from the world—his world,—that living, luxurious and idle, which, like all of his kind, he believed to be his due. He had preyed upon society, so long, so long collected, with deft hand and smiling assurance, his “toll.” And so successful had been his every effort, so easy, on the whole, that he had grown too self assured. Not once during all his recent plotting had he seen reason to believe, or fear, himself suspected— doubted; and this—his sudden downfall, seemed as complete as it had been instant. Throughout a long career of nimble-witted sharp practice, dur- ing which his prey had been, always, “the over-rich and the unco- proud,” he had been often saved, and protected, by a weakness always to be counted upon among these same “unco-proud” vic- tims. He had found that the man of wealth, and the woman of fashion, alike, dread and shun the daily press. Nowhere save 302 A BLIND LEAD gemmens bust in an tukyo pris’ner. Cept ah will say dat if, Miss Alys, hadn't a pisoned my tea lak she did dey’d a had a bigga fight fore dey got in / Dere now, Missy, ah'll shet up, and let yo' git rigged fer de road. Fo de Lawd's sake! I ain't brung yo' all no hat now.” Suddenly, across the flow of Mammy's voluble discourse, there broke a peal of laughter, which, beginning quite naturally, was prolonged until it became hysterical, and ended in broken words, and a flood of tears. * “Oh, Mammy, Mammy!” cried the girl, “and I was going away without a thought for the only friend I have found in this miser- able place! And I promised to help you,—and”—here the sobs choked her utterance, and she who through all the weeks of her imprisonment had held her only friend and comforter aloof, now flung herself into the woman's arms, and there wept out her re- lief and gratitude, her long restrained emotions of suspense, and loneliness and fears—how many. And Mammy, letting her bur- den of apparel slip to the ground, gathered her to an ample bosom, and turned a commanding front to the anxious lover; who would have relieved her of her burden, and administered the need- ful comfort. “Yo' jes res' easy, young man—an heah wot yore fren's a tryin' ter tell yo. Dis pore chile ain nuvver cried a single teah all dem days,—not ter my knowin’ and she won nevvah be huh right self till she do, and do it good! And den—it will be yo' turn.” And Mammy's and Larne's chuckle were Effingham's signal for retreat. “She's right, old man,” smiled Larne, who had been reading, as he could, while much diverted by Mammy's volubility. “Here's a good word from Madam Dalmeney. Let me finish it, and im- part the news. And then—” with a swift glance toward Mammy and her burden, “we can't get off to town too soon. We’ve two cars at hand—mine and Leach's big limousine—by the way, I wonder where is Leach, and his—” He was checked by the ap- proach of one of the nearby men, who had caught the word, Leach. “Mr. Larne,” he said, “Mr. Leach with his wife—I take it— and another woman in the tonneau came up just after the break into the house. And the man cycled up and gave them the— “warning according to instruction.” “Good! Then I'll wager that Tony will give a good account ON THE LANDING 303 of Lady Tomlinson, whom we won’t want to detain, long—I think. Here Effingham—” and he proffered the telegram, which read, in Madam's clever, curt, phraseology. “All well. Iris No. 2—here and story told; she gave the in- formation to Effingham after herself trying to liberate Iris first. Jerry La Croix came duly,–and has furnished more missing links. You can’t come back too quick—” As Effingham looked up from the reading, his name, spoken in a new and almost imperative, tone, caused him to turn, and almost to drop the yellow sheet from his fingers. “Val,” the girl was saying, all her old alert self-command and erect airy sureness seeming suddenly to have returned, “If you please—who am I? For weeks I have been called by a name that I have denied altogether, and—since I have been allowed to see the New York newspapers—I have almost doubted—what I had thought to be my actual identity.” She was looking at Effingham impetuously, but with a question, and—yes—the shadow of a doubt, or fear, lurking behind the question. It was the doubt which he saw—first, that, and the question, and he looked no further. He took a sudden forward step, caught both her hands in his, and drew her toward him. “Iris,” he cried, “Iris!” and then he turned, still holding her two hands, and said to Larne, “My soul! How could I ever have been so duped !” s “Ah!” It was the girl's voice, still firm, still imperious, “then— it was so? I was not mistaken; there has been—a—” she drew her hands slowly away from Effingham's clasp she turned, tall commanding, toward Larne, her face, her manner a demand, while Val Effingham, pale, speechless, and at loss, sent him a silent appeal. And Larne, a stranger, and still in his motley, but stately as herself, took the word from her lips. “There has been a substitution? Yes, a most wonderful piece of deception. Pardon me. I am Hillary Larne—” “Ah!” The look upon her face told him that she recognized the name, and understood, too.” “And all these weeks—almost—we have been searching for your hiding place. For Mr. Effingham was not long discovering the masquerade—although the resemblance was—wonderful.” He saw her lips part, and a change, a look of eagerness, came into her face; but she closed her lips, and he hurried on “It is a 304 A BLIND LEAD strange combination of events, and this is not the place to enter into details. I believe that—at last—all the threads are in our hands, and all can soon be made clear to you. At present my first duty is, to deal with—our friend, Mr. Loundes.” “He!” Her eyes flashed, and her lips were compressed, “Deal with him! He is vile!” And then suddenly, and with a start, “But—oh, Mr. Larne this awful story! Must I face that pub- licity—after all the rest?” “Not if the choice is left to me,” he was looking at her keenly. “There is a way—and a way by which the originators of this dar- ing outrage may receive a measure, at least, of the punishment they deserve.” “Do you mean,” she broke in, “that it rests—with me—the choice?” “With you, first—by right, certainly. With Effingham here, and—with Mr. La Croix.” - “But how—tell me how P” Larne glanced about him, at the man standing near, and then at Mammy; and the girl drew back a pace and caught at Effing- ham's arm, to draw him after. “Tell me—” she almost whispered, and Effingham turned a pleading look toward Hillary Larne. “Tell her,” his lips formed the words, “A little.” “You are aware,” Larne said, “if I have understood you—that you are supposed to be—to have been, liberated—almost at once?” “I know—since yesterday—the bare fact, not the details—the times—and methods.” “The details must wait—I fear.” “I know– Go on!” “You were released, it is generally believed, two weeks after your abduction. Mr. La Croix and his sister have not doubted the identity of the substitute— He has only now, today, or at least yesterday—been undeceived. At this time you are sup- posed to be visiting a friend in—Chicago—if you think—if I—” She threw back her head, and her eyes blazed. “If I think 1 Pardon me, but—who else should speak the final word? Mr. Larne—Val Effingham,-I would rather die than live through any more—any worse! and this awful possible publicity —it would be worse! For my sake—an—” pausing to look from face to face—“for the sake of others. Val—tell me—where now is this other—this girl who is so like me?” ON THE LANDING 305 “If I understand this message—and it is true,” declared Larne while again producing and opening Madam's telegram, “she was here not long since and she is now in the city. Read,” and he thrust the message into her hands. She read it and semed to hesitate briefly, then— “Where in the city is she—my—double?” - Larne told her in fewest words. And then she turned towards the highway and the automobile. “Is that our car?” “Yes.” “There are two in front?” “It seats seven. They are my men.” She turned aside to Mammy, holding out her arms for a wrap and selecting a veil. Then— “Good!” she said aloud, almost cheerfully, gentleman, I shall take Mammy with me. And—I shall go—first—to see this girl.” “Iris,” cried Val Effingham, “not now! not yet?” “Now!” she declared. “First of all !” And she moved toward the foot path. “Mammy choose yourself a wrap and veil from these—borrowed things, and come,—make haste—” Suddenly she turned to face the two men, who were also mov- ing toward the entrance, and the three paused, close together. “Listen!” she said, speaking low but with suppressed eager- ness. Years ago in one of my childish moods of wilfulness, I meddled with the contents of my father's desk—a certain small private drawer, and got my first punishment for it. When de- tected I was gazing at the picture of a child, so like myself that I wondered—but dared not ask, seeing my father's anger. I be- lieve it was this girl's picture—and—that—she—is—my sister. Val—let us go.” And again she turned away. She seemed now, in almost feverish haste. Effingham glanced at Larne, who, unseen by the others, nodded energetically. “She's right,” he whispered—“trust to her woman's instinct, and—her generosity.” THE FITTED LINKS 307 Croix, might in some way become mixed up with the account of the hunt for the escaped patient of the Brookdale Asylum, or Sanitarium, that makes this interview of importance—” “To whom?” snapped Loundes. “To yourself! Otherwise I should now be wasting my breath.” “As you assuredly are.” “We can settle that point later. At this time we are concern- ing ourselves with facts. To-morrow’s newspapers, Mr. Loundes, will contain the story of an escape, rather of another escape of the patient who has, on more than one previous occasion, broken from his keepers and alarmed the country-side for miles around. The resident Doctor—of course—will submit his authorized ver- sion, and there will be no wild and extravagant talk of fake alarms and all that nonsense.” For a moment the two sat in silence, while their eyes met and challenged. Then Larne let himself sink back against the chair rest, and resumed a reposeful, waiting, attitude. It seemed to irritate his vis-a-vis, who now, sitting bolt upright, snarled as he withdrew his wavering gaze. “Well—I suppose there's an—alternative?” “An alternative? Oh, you'd hardly call it that! Any variation of the story, however, would, no doubt, make for the general interest of the dear public, who do so love good fat scandal, and to watch a nice young man topple, and fall from his self-made pedestal. I'll give you an outline of a possible alternative'—the only one possible, because its all ready, with no loop holes open for errors or escape. It's like this—you'll excuse me if I stick to the first person style in my narrative—its easier, and makes for brevity. And—kindly don’t interrupt. You shall have all the time you need for criticism—later.” Again he fixed upon Loundes a long, slow, quiet glance, and then withdrawing his gaze he began. “For a number of years I have been interested in the smooth easy going and laborless career of certain young men about town, who, having no visible means of support still lived and thrived, and were, seemingly, happy. One young man, among these, I soon became especially interested in; and, as I observed him little by little, certain really odd coincidences came under my eye. A holdup occurred, for instance, and,—of all places,—near one of the gates of Central Park. And, three days later, this object of my interest blazed forth at his club wearing a diamond fresh from 310 A BLIND LEAD ---------- it will be given out that you are ill, and Doctor Flack Will £ : aS £ You will have, at all times, in your £oms, a muscular 'nurse. He will be present when you receive visitors—and you will be wise if you play your part, throughout, to the best of your ability. At the end of a week you will be able to travel quietly—and you will then leave New York—and the country. You will go abroad.” “No P’ - “You will go—and you will remain! Be silent sir. In five days your likene' all the usual poses, and your description, according te the Bertillion system, will be in the hands of every police Bureau in every city here and in Europe, So long as you live quietly, and commit no outrages upon public decency, yo: will not be molested. The first time you break over the line—if you do—you will lose your liberty. I am not speaking idly. It is in my power, and that of the state's authorities, to do all that...I threaten, and I do threaten. Understand me: Miss Iris La Croix was given up, by her captors, more than two months ago; and she has #ot left her home since except in the ordinary pursuits of her social duties,—and pleasures. Any other statement, or the faint- est rumor of one, will be brought home to you wherever, you *: If made, it would be denied, discredited, and there would be not one witness to its truth. But it must not be made.” He paused for a moment, then. “Well?” he queried. Loundes threw out his hands, “I’ll never go!” he raved, “I’ll shoot myself first!” “As you will! Indeed it would greatly simplify matters, One of three things you will surely do. And which one I must know before I leave this room. You will leave the country, and keep silent:You will shoot yourself, dead—Or—you will go to jail.” Ah!" mocked Loundes. “But the publicity, Mr. Larne.” - “You will go to jail,” pursued Larne. “Charged with—abduc- tion—and murder. "Mr. ioundes, have you forgotten the disap: Dearance of littl p the child P” e Robert Crane? Do you know what became of & 4 NO !—curse you !” fat.' do, and here is my last word...To make the <1Gne your the fair fame, of two young women, whom you have a crime I' to harm and wreck secure, -clear, I will condone if shall not any least harm comes to either of these, through you SPare you—Come! Your answer!" THE FITTED LINKS 311 The wretch fawned and cringed,—“I am almost bankrupt,” he whined, “How can I go?” “The way will be provided. Come, you will go with us to the city, and it grows late. Your—nurse—will meet us there.” “The—others? Are they—” “Your friends are all in custody. They will be turned over to the authorities to be tried for the abduction of young Claxton. You will escape that. And—we do not fear their tongues.” “And the other—the girl?” There was no answer. Larne threw open the door and called— “Come boys. Has Rohan gone? Ah! he has—Good! Then let us follow.” As they went below he took from one of the waiting men a long concealing outer garment, and beneath its folds the “wild man” disappeared forever. >k >k *: >k >k *k >k *k >k Madam Dalmeney, armed with sal-volatile and aromatic vine- gar, proved, as always, a friend at need. A glance at the sleep- ing boy, a closer look at the pale unconscious girl, and she took the helm; and while she labored, Abinger talked, a little. With Madam only a few words were needed. The girl was taken into Abinger's inner room and placed upon a wide couch. “It looks like exhaustion,” said Madam, after a little. “I think she will revive, soon—but—I wish we had a doctor.” Even as she spoke the buzzer sounded, and going to the tele- phone Abinger called into it, a curt “Well!” “Is that you Abinger?” It was Doctor Flack who spoke. “I’ve just come in—to look after my office, and get the news. The rest are all in the field; and Larne—somehow—feels quite hopeful. Are you alone?—These, I'm aware, are busy times, but—I’d like to see you.” And, the good doctor having reached a period, Ab- inger hurriedly said his say. And soon, the bustling little man was with them, and at the helm, with Madam. “It’s a faint from pure exhaustion—I should say,” he an- nounced. “Young man how much has she told you? Oh—, I mean about herself. When did she arrive? We'll use a little force to bring her out of this, for it does look like a hungry faint, now, Madam. And if I’m right, she must be fed—a little—and stimulated—a little. Above all, she must be quieted—her nerves I mean. As soon as she has eaten we will put her to sleep, for— e- 312 A BLIND LEAD say an hour. I think it will put her all right,—it may save her a serious illness. She's been above concert pitch too long. Madam, I rely on you to do the soothing—the re-assuring—and— Abinger, when she comes to herself you are to be out of sight.” It all came about as he had planned. The girl revived to find Madam bending over her, and the doc- tor near at hand. She was re-assured, comforted, fed; and after listening to Madam for a little time, feeling very drowsy the while, she closed her eyes for a moment, murmuring— “I am feeling—better—you are very kind—both of you!” She glanced about her, as if looking for yet another face; and then she was asleep. “Thank goodness,” whispered the doctor, “I never saw that new drug work better—Now she'll sleep for an hour, -and more.” And she did. “Thank goodness again!” the doctor repeated, when the slum- ber was assured. “It would have been a risk to remove her, or to let her go her way, without a little ‘fussing up; and that's what she'll need most, now. We're all friends here, and all in the ‘know.’ I’m going to say my say! Look at that face and tell me what you think? If she is not a La Croix, she ought to be. It's puzzled me all along.” “She is!” declared Madam. “Listen doctor. As you say we're all in the ‘know, I’ve had two long talks with Jerry La Croix, and I am not sure that we shouldn’t send for him, here—and now. I'll tell you, both, what I know; and—” “And I,” interposed Abinger, “will complete the story— “if I can.” “Better tell them in outline;” warned the doctor, “for things are happening, right now—out on the Bronx. The campaign was well on when I left there. And—My Soul! You should have seen Hillary Larne in his raggedy man attire. He looked like a base ball crank gone to seed. And the way he can act the part- It's fierce!” The little man's eye twinkled. There were queer things to be told; queer, and, some of them, strange; while all were most interesting—to Abinger and Madam. Some were old and some were new. To the little doctor nearly all was new;—and then, while their patient slept quietly, and the little boy awoke, was fed and soothed and given a world of pic- tures—over which he soon dozed again, they talked on, question- ing, comparing, wondering—and predicting. 316 A BLIND LEAD “Something like that. I sent for you to ask if you would tell to another—to Bruce Abinger—whom I think you know—the story you told to me last night. Not in detail, there's no time for that; but briefly—only making very clear the points concerning the deaths, as reported to you-of-your former wife—and child.” “Why do you say as reported?’” he demanded quickly. “It is thus that I understood your statement. Did you ever see the proof of death?” “Good Heavens—No! Why should I? But—go on.” “And—I want you to tell this also to Mr. Abinger for—an un- seen listener.” “Who?—For whom? Good God, Madam, you can’t think how all this startles me! You don't know what is in my mind.” “Listen,” she urged, “and—remember—I am telling you almost all that I know. The girl who has personated your—Miss Iris, is in that room,” pointing the way. “She came here, not long ago, almost prostrated, and soon fainted. She had raced, against time, from Chicago to this city, to try and liberate Miss Iris. She failed in this, but in so doing she came upon little Ellery Claxton, rescued him, and came here, with all possible speed, to ask Mr. Abinger to deliver the child to his father, and to send, at once, a rescue party after Miss—Iris. Bruce Abinger, as you know, followed her to Chicago—and there offered her his aid. She trusted him; and—she has told him her story. She even gave him a written statement—” “Stop!” he commanded. “The story, the statement—are not the questions!—Now—listen to me, Madam. Your story of yester- day was so wonderful, so impossible, at first, that I could not rightly take it in. All night it haunted me; and the thought of this girl, who so wondrously resembles my Iris, troubled me more than all the rest. But I was bewildered still more, this morning, when a word dropped by my sister brought me illumination; and I began to review—for the first time in many years—certain pages of my earlier life. I remembered that, while the certificate of my divorced wife's death, was sent me by her sister, there was no such formality in telling me of the death of the child I had never seen. But I never doubted. Why should I?” Madam stirred uneasily, and glanced toward the door, behind which, as she knew, the doctor and Abinger were seeking to hold the interest and attention of the patient, by telling her of the going away of little Ellery Claxton. THE FITTED LINKS 317 “Have patience,” La Croix urged—“I have almost done. As I have gone through life I have tried to meet the demands made upon me, and to perform my duties as I saw them, and as they came. Of my first wife I shall not speak—she is dead. Upon learning of her death I went to her former home, and that of her sister, to learn what I could. At that time the little girl was about two years old, and my wife had been dead some months. What I then learned of the woman who had possession of my little daughter made me very uneasy, and I determined to get posses- sion of the child at my first opportunity. As I was then situated I could not well care for a little child. I was poor, and was travel- ling, almost continually. A year later I was beginning to prosper, and then, when I was about to claim the child, I heard of her death. Again I went to learn what I could. The woman, Juliet Gregory, had gone away; but I saw the undertaker who buried her, or some other little child—and the doctor who had attended her. “But—Madam, as I look back, and think, may not this be the solution of the whole mystery? Juliet Gregory, I believe was equal to it, even then. At the time of the child's supposed death I was beginning to prosper, and the temptation to keep the child, and through her to try blackmail later, as the times should further prosper me, may have been back of it all. This girl—with the face, the bearing, -yes, and—I doubt not—the temper of the La Croixs—what else can one think?” “Mr. La Croix,” Madam spoke very gently, “I am seeing her, this ‘Iris the Second, as we have called her, now for the first time, and—I find her very charming. But Mr. Abinger has met her oftener and has studied her with interest; and, in spite of—every- thing he believes in her.” “And I, too!” groaned La Croix, “I want to—I must 1 Come Madam, let's get it over. I think I know—how.” “Not yet!” she said, “not until you have spoken with Bruce Ab- inger.” >k >k *k >k sk >k >k Madam opened the door that, because of a tall folding screen which she had conveniently placed, was concealed from the occu- pants of the inner room, and left it wide, coming forward with a little bustle to announce to Abinger, rather gravely, a gentle- man who desired to speak with him adding: . . . “If permitted, I will remain until the way is clear,” and then, HER EYES MET HIS AND NEITHER WAVERED. THE FITTED LINKS 321 “Oh doctor! you dear old duck!” she kissed him heartily, and, before anyone else could recover, began to talk. “Doctor dear,” she cried, “I am hunting for my double, and— I’m told that she came here.” Before the surprised doctor could answer, Abinger's door opened, and Abinger's self stood staring at the group. “Miss La Croix—” he began, and then, again, further words were forestalled, for his two doors were directly in line, and, both being now open, the girl now saw, through the inner portal, a pic- ture, a vision, her father and—HERSELF—another self, seated side by side, in the inner room, and she darted past Abinger, and flung herself upon them, smiling, breathless, excited. “Oh!” she cried, “what a fairy tale! Papa, PAPA!” Then, turn- ing in his arms, she put out both hands to the other girl, who would have drawn back. “Don't!” she pleaded, “Please, please let me look at you! Oh, don't mistake me! I do not hate you! And we must know each other! Papa, don't say a word, I know it all! She's my own sister—that sister you once told me of,- who died. But she's come back, I'm sure of it! Dear, I’m not crazy. I know all about it—almost! Val has told me so much. He guessed that you hated your rôle—Oh, I know there's a mys- tery,–but that's the fun of it; and it's really worth being locked up, to come back and find a sister, the thing I have always wanted, and that I used to cry for, and sulk when it was denied me. Isn't it true, Papa? Yes, you may speak now—Poor Daddy,” and she laughed gleefully. “It's true Alys; she's gone to bed without her supper because she could not be gratified. And—Iris,” drawing the still shrink- ing other girl toward them, “this is your sister Alys; and I’ve coaxed her to continue in the rôle of Miss La Croix, provided she says, you do not object to being plain Miss Iris.” “That indeed!” laughed Miss Iris, “when I came flying here, as soon as I knew—bent on taking her home to you, myself. As for my abduction, it would have been contrived in any case—with or without her aid. And as to her personating me, she didn't. I’ve been impersonating her; and playing at being Miss La Croix all my days.” At this sally a slow smile lighted the face of the new Miss La Croix, and it broke the spell of silence and restraint. >k >k >k >k >k >k >k :k >k It was a new Alys who went out from the place she had en-