CHAPTER V.

That night, heavily veiled, she entered the park, alone. She was familiar with the contour and walks and knew the location of the long steps, but in her agitation, she thoughtlessly took to the walk on the left of the main entrance.

The darkness was not deep. Above could be seen stray fleecy clouds, flitting athwart the vast realms of space, while the atmosphere near the earth's surface was laden with a thin vapor. Down low on the horizon, above the line of hills, swung the half-moon, aglow with soft pale light, while the nearby electric arcs were scarcely affected by the haze that enveloped them. Every element seemed to have conspired to make the night a fit one in its baneful purpose.

As she proceeded, endeavoring to control her fears, though her heart beat wildly with misgivings, the stillness of the night was broken only by the sound of her own footfalls on the cement pavement, and ever and anon were mingled with the distant attenuated sounds of belated cosmopolitan life. At times her walk would be rapid, then slow and hesitating, almost a halt, as she approached some indefinite object, and as the clouds sped hurriedly across the face of the moon, grotesque shadows loomed up suddenly, shying her into moments of terror until discovered to be fantastic bushes or other odd-shaped growths.

Her sustained, keen, alert watchfulness preyed severely upon her tense nerves. At length she arrived at the place she thought designated in the note. She stepped off the walk onto the grass, and stood under the deeper darkness of a cedar. The stillness was profound; so much so that she fancied she could hear the throb of her own tumultuous heart.

And to add to the unseasonable moment, the weird, uncanny howl of a jackal, confined in the park menagerie, pierced the night air and caused cold shivers to race up and down her frame.

"It's a lonely spot," she whispered to herself. "And this is the top of the long walk. Now the time--yet! I can see no one. I do not feel safe."

Just then a man moved slowly from the shadows near the fountain. He leisurely walked toward the reservoir. She watched him for a moment, until the pale moonlight again faded away, and darkness shut him from view. Then, as if by inspiration, she suddenly remembered that the note directed her to the top of the "long steps." In her excitement, she had taken the wrong direction, and was then at the top of the long walk.

Cautiously as possible, she crept down the bank, crossed the bridge, that spanned the park's main artery, and though confusing in the darkness, she at last found her way to the appointed place without meeting or seeing anyone, but with nerves almost snapping asunder, and so fatigued that her limbs trembled.

She sat on a bench near a clump of small firs to get a little rest, and while peering through the darkness, which at that point was faintly illumined by the mass of distant lights spread over the city before and beneath her, she made out the figure of a man walking leisurely on the drive below where she was sitting.

She arose to her feet, and silently stepped in the deep shadow of a clump of trees, and watched him. She took him to be the same man she had seen a little while before near the fountain. As she watched him, another man, who had been concealed in the grove of trees, recently trimmed out to make way for the traditional group of Indians in bronze, "The Coming of the White Man," and which now graces the spot--stole up with cat-like tread behind her, and then, quite close, halted, and silently stood regarding her.

Virginia was watching the stranger on the road, almost directly below her, with such intense eagerness as to be quite unconscious of the dark shadow behind her.

"Perhaps I am being watched," she thought. "I will go down the steps." She turned about, and was terrified to discover a roughly-clad man at her elbow. Her heart seemed to stop its beat.

"What do you mean? Who are you?" she gasped.

The man lifted his hat, bowed and softly said: "Bees a-note a da fraid, Signora de Virginia. Eesa nota-a do you-a da harm. I come to da meet-a you."

His easy, respectful manner reassured her. Relieved, she said: "Then it was you who sent me the note this morning?"

"He, he, he, he," he chuckled low, but exultantly. "Eesa tole-a da self a-da letta would-a da fetch a-you."

"What do you want--what am I--who are you?"

He turned his head aside, and muttered to himself. "She doesn't recognize me as the old cripple," and evaded a direct answer by asking her: "Donna you da know-a me?"

"Your voice sounds like"--and she thought of the old cripple who intruded on Mr. Harris' grounds a few nights since. "Yes--what"-- And she halted, unable to frame her thoughts into words.

He laughed low and gutturally. "He, he, he, he, eesa be a da fine-a artiste. Make-a da boss actor--like-a Salvina--bime by, eh?"

"You--you--you kidnapped little Dorothy," she almost shrieked, forgetting her fear, and searching him with glittering eyes.

Jack Shore, for it was he, chuckled gleefully.

"You make-a da wild-a guessa, Signora, Eesa not-a da old-a cripple."

"You were in disguise, a beggar. I gave you money. What have you done with the child?"

"What-a da child-a?" he asked, gruffly.

"Dorothy Thorpe!"

"He, he, he, he," he again chuckled, and sharply turned on her: "Who tole-a you, Eesa gott-a da kid?"

"What did you want to meet me here for? Was it not to tell me where Dorothy is?"

"Oh, he, he, he, he," he laughed. "Eesa jessa da thought-a youda like-a see me--alone--at night, Signora." And he watched her from the corners of his eyes, as, with bent head, he muttered:

"Turnoppsis, carrotsis, ca-babbages, black-a da boots, steal-a da chil. Anyting dees-a gett-a da mon. Go back a da sunny Italy!"

"What was your motive for kidnapping the child?" she asked, without heeding his significant answer.

"Da mon!" he promptly replied. Up to that moment he had equivocated.

"You are frank," she rejoined, and then asked: "Is Dorothy safe?"

"Youse-a da bet she's a da safe," he proudly replied.

"Ah!" It was a sigh of glad relief that she uttered, for she believed the man's statement to be true, and with the information her spirits rose.

"How many of you are there in this?" she quietly asked.

"Eesa not-a da beeze, jess-a da myself."

"You told me you sent the note requesting this meeting. Who wrote it? It was not you!" she demanded.

Jack was not expecting so pointed a question and was thrown somewhat off his guard by her abrupt eagerness. He answered thoughtlessly--or, it may have been, indifference to the importance.

"Eesa my good-a da friend."

"So there are at least two of you in this 'over the road' business?"

Chagrined, he thought how easily he had been trapped. "Hang it! I didn't mean to make a break like that." And then he exclaimed, between his teeth, for he realized too late the slip of his tongue.

"See-a da here. Da mon. Eesa want. How much-a you-a da give to gett-a back-a da kid? Speak a da quick."

Virginia perceived he was getting angry and restless.

It was about that time that Sam, who was lying on his stomach in a slight depression, peered over the rise in the ground a short distance from the two. He was a little too far away to hear distinctly, except occasional words, as their voices were pitched in a low key.

"How much will I give?" replied Virginia, surprised, and then her voice lowered again.

"You are a poor man, no doubt, but you have your liberty, which is priceless, and I warn you of the severe penalty for the offense you are committing. It is most dangerous business."

"Liberty, wid out-a da mon! Eesa be damn! Say, Signora, yous-a come-a down wid a da handsome da mon--Eesa take de kid--wid da longa golda hair so nicey da shiney, and da bigg-a da brown eyes."

"Dorothy, I am sure!" she thought.

"Well, what do you call the handsome mon?"

"Eesa note-a bees-a da hard. Eesa cheap at-a da twenty thous."

"Twenty thous--what!"

"Bigg-a da round flat dollairs!"

"Twenty thousand dollars!" angrily exclaimed Virginia, for the moment forgetting herself, and then again her voice fell almost to a whisper.

"You dare ask that from me! Knowing that I have but to call and the police would hound you to prison."

Jack swiftly wheeled about and rolled his eyes in alarm. The word police startled him, and for the moment he verily believed they were within call, a circumstance he at once set down to his lax watchfulness, but he soon felt reassured, and, turning upon her said, sarcastically:

"Oh, that-a beesa a lettle a da game-a. He, he, he, he," he laughed low and gleefully, in strange contrast to the white of his eyeballs, which shone with sinister effect as he leered at her.

"Two play-a dees-a da trick, Signora! Wouldn't yous-a look-a da well bees-a compan-e-on ove-a mine, in a da pen, eh, Signora. He, he, he, he," he again laughed.

"Eesa don-a da know some-a da ting about eesa da Duc, eh! Eesa don-a da hear a da game between ee mand a da Signora da Virginia, eh! Sacremento!" He fairly ground out the last word between his teeth.

Virginia shuddered and then involuntarily exclaimed: "Villain!"

Jack turned upon her swiftly, ceremoniously bowed, and again leered at her. Then, with a most offensive smirk playing about his mouth, said: "Tank-a da Signora, my a da pard."

Her face burned with the red that flushed up. She felt that even the darkness could not conceal her flaming cheeks. She bent her head in humiliation and shame at the all too well merited rebuke.

For a moment there followed intense stillness. She thought of what he had possibly heard at the Harris reception. "His disclosure would incriminate me with Rutley. Still, it matters not. My duty to my God, my home and Constance is to make reparation for the wrong I have done."

She broke the silence in an assumed, haughty tone. "Well, as you are poor and in need, I will give you five hundred dollars upon return of the child; but if you do not comply by noon tomorrow I shall inform the police."

"Eesa bett-a note!" he replied, with an unmistakable menace in his voice. "Eef yourse da squeal on a da ma, Signora--look-a da out!" And so saying, he slowly drew his finger across his throat.

The action was most significant. "Eesa bett-a da keep a da mum! Understand-a! Youse-a geeve a me a da twenty da thouse-a dollair, youse-a take a da kid--but youse-a da squeal!" and he drew close and hissed at her--"Bett-a da look a for her eesa mong a da weeds in a da Willamette."

His attitude was so threatening, and his speech uttered with such savage earnestness, that it drove all courage from her heart. Again she felt, as once before, at the Harris reception, how puny a thing she was in the presence of a strong, masculine rascal.

She, however, quickly mastered the momentary sickening alarm that had seized her, and assuming a bold, threatening manner, in which she astonished herself, for she felt anything but defiant just then, said in a voice low and determined:

"Scoundrel! If you harm that child, I, myself, will weave the rope to hang you!"

Jack leered at her. "So Signora"--laughed, laughed low and derisively. "Ha, ha, ha, Signora lak-a da job, eh? Eesa mak-a da boss a hang-a man, eh?"

Jack could not repress a smile of admiration at her courage, and his lips quivered to exclaim: "God, she is game!"

"An-a deesea lettle white-a da hands-a," he sneered. "Stain 'em all a da red, eh?" and he chuckled low, as though amused. "Oh, ha, ha, ha." Suddenly he changed his tone and again continued threateningly. "Now look-a da ere. Eef-a youse-a da want a kid, gett-a da mon a da quick--twenty da thous, for eesa tink a da move-a da way. May bees gett-a da organ en-a da monk, go down South Amereek. Eef youse-a danna da squeal, da kid bees-a da safe; but effe youse-a da tell a po-lis, eesa mak-a da me a devil," and he again drew close to her and hissed out between his teeth.

"When eesa be lik-a dat, Eesa does a da murda," and so saying, he thrust his hand inside his double-breasted short coat, and partially drew out a glittering knife. "Eesa you da see?"--and he leaned over to her, a sinister glint shooting from the corner of his eye--"Eesa slit more's a da one-a windpipe." As he replaced the knife, a low whistle sounded off toward the right. It startled him, for he muttered as if alarmed. "Ha, some one is watching me." And without another word or moment of delay, glided off southward, and disappeared in the darkness.

Sam having seen the glitter of a knife against the dim city lights, unconsciously gave a low whistle of warning, and sprang to his feet. He believed Virginia was in imminent peril.

For a moment he stood irresolute, unwilling to uncover his identity to her or to in any wise have her think he had been shadowing her. Then feeling satisfied she was not hurt, he sped away on the track of the Italian.

Virginia was alone. She, also, had seen the figure of a man suddenly loom up on the right and then hasten after the supposed Italian.

The terror that now had seized her, the strain that gave artificial courage, so worked upon her nerves as to produce a trembling of her limbs, and to avoid a threatened collapse she sank down on the grass.

Her strength gradually returned, her agitation quieted and she began to think with lucidity. She had been followed by whom? Most likely a detective in the pay of her brother.

"Thank God!" His unknown presence at a perilous moment had been sweetly welcome. "Dorothy is not dead," she thought. "Thank Heaven for that, too; but she is in the hands of a murderous scoundrel, who would not hesitate to shed innocent blood were his own safety jeoparded."

An attempt at rescue by the police would, no doubt, result in the death of Dorothy. She must act alone, act at once. Having arrived at that conclusion, she arose to her feet. To get Dorothy home was the first thing to be done--the mother's life depended upon that.

How could she get twenty thousand dollars to pay the ransom? She bent her head in thought. She had been instrumental in the ruin and disgrace of her only brother's happy home. If it was in human power to restore happiness to that home, she would do it. The Italian is in desperate need of money. She could hypothecate her income; sell her jewels.

"I will offer him all I can possibly obtain--then, if he will not release Dorothy," and her voice took on a soft, strange, resolute calmness. "God helping me, I will take her from him, even though," and she looked at her own little white hands, "these do become stained red in the work."

Then she made her way out of the park, and returned to her home.