Part 4

“A short fellow with red hair could never do it,” mused Webster, as he became aware of this. “How Providence does dump its gifts at the feet of some people.”

A low exclamation drew his attention swiftly to a table quite near the one they had selected; he saw a woman in a sombre motoring dress draw a thick, dark veil about her face; a man who sat at the table with her was regarding her with obvious surprise.

“What is it?” asked the man as Webster passed.

But the woman placed her hand upon his arm in a gesture that asked for silence; and all the time her gaze was fixed upon the two, who were by this time some yards away.

“You can order for me, too,” said Webster. “I have the utmost confidence in your taste. Meantime, I’ll watch a small comedy which is going on behind you. No, no,” hastily, “don’t look around, because it has struck me as being just a little queer, and I want to see the finish.”

Kenyon laughed and said, “Well, if it’s a matter of interest, I depend upon you to keep me posted.”

With that he gave his attention to the selection of the dinner, while Webster, with a great assumption of carelessness, watched the couple to whom his attention had been drawn a few moments before.

They had the appearance of having stopped during a motoring journey, for dinner; for the man, too, wore the costume affected by that cult. But they, apparently, had lost all interest in the meal; they bent toward each other and conversed in low, eager tones.

“She’s telling him something, and it’s about us,” thought Garry. “And, by George, doesn’t he seem pleased to hear it, though. I never saw a man’s face light up so much before.”

He continued to give the couple his attention while Kenyon gave his orders to the waiter; after the man had gone he said:

“I say, Kenyon, do you know that we seemed to startle that young woman as we came in. Now, don’t look around, I tell you,” sharply. “They are not yet aware that I’ve noticed them, and I’d rather they wouldn’t be.”

“Startled her, did you say?” Kenyon leaned toward the other, and his eyes narrowed expectantly. “What does she look like?”

“I did not have a chance to see. She drew her veil instantly upon sight of us; and it’s really the most competent veil I ever saw. It hides her completely.”

“And the man!”

“He is elderly. His head is half bald and he has craggy, prominent features. I wouldn’t like to be positive, but from this distance he seems to have the coldest and most vulture-like eye I ever saw.”

“A most interesting person, indeed,” smiled Kenyon.

“Interested, you mean. If you don’t feel his eyes boring through your back, you are absolutely without that sense. He seems upon the point of devouring you. I can’t make out just how the girl is taking it, not being able to see her face; but it’s what she is saying that’s exciting her companion and causing him to radiate so. They must be people who know you.”

“I told you this morning, that I knew no one in New York.”

“You made some acquaintances last night,” said Webster, meaningly.

“The man is not one of them.”

“How about the woman.”

Again Kenyon’s eyes narrowed; there were little puckers about their corners.

“About her I cannot say.” He paused for a moment, and then asked, eagerly: “What is the color of her hair. Is she light or dark?”

“The veil conceals everything, and she holds it in place in a way that plainly shows that she intends it to go on doing so.”

When their dinner began to arrive Webster took his eyes from the pair for a few moments; and when he looked up again they had gone.

“Why, I really thought they were good for an hour,” said the young Chicagoan. “It does not seem possible that their interest could slacken enough in that time to permit of their going away.”

Kenyon did not reply, but sat staring moodily before him. He had maintained this attitude for some time before Webster noticed it; and then the latter grew suddenly silent.

“It’s the girl,” he told himself. “Poor chap! She’s got him, whoever she is. He’ll never see a woman in the distance again without thinking it’s she; nor he’ll never see another sun arise without thinking that it’s going to witness his meeting with her. That is, not for a while. It’s comforting to think that such things don’t last long.”

He had reached this stage in his reflection when a boy approached.

“Mr. Kenyon?” inquired he.

“Yes,” replied Webster. “Here, wake up, old chap; there’s a message for you.”

“From a man who just left in an automobile,” the boy informed Kenyon, as he handed him the message. “He said there was no answer.”

Kenyon tore open the envelope. The note was written upon a sheet of hotel stationery, and contained but two lines of writing. A glance took this in, and with a laugh he tossed it over to Webster. The message read:

“Your progress is wonderful! But don’t forget that boldness can be carried too far.”

And underneath this was the signature: “Farbush.”

VII

THE BELLEVUE HOSPITAL PUZZLE

“Do you know, old chap, there are many features in this case that I do not understand.”

--_A Frequent Remark of Garry Webster._

“MR. FARBUSH,” remarked Garry Webster, speculatively, “is more than likely the gentleman with the half-bald head and the vulture eyes. But just where does he enter in this thing, I wonder?”

“There is no telling,” answered Kenyon. “It is not well to introduce all one’s characters in the first act, as every practical dramatist knows. Farbush has been held in reserve for the opening of act second, apparently; which reservation shows the hand of a craftsman of more or less skill.”

There was something in the speaker’s voice that caught Webster’s attention, and he gave him a quick, inquiring glance. It seemed to hold a certain resolution that was not altogether clear.

“If the appearance of Mr. Farbush has any connection with your adventure of last night, it is more like the climax of an old, rather than the opening of a new, act,” said Garry, slowly. “Where is your dramatist going to get his material to go on with his work? Surely not from the actions of a man eating his dinner.”

“I do not intend to continue eating indefinitely,” smiled Kenyon. He looked at his watch and continued: “An hour from now will find me in Selden’s Square and ringing the bell at 98.”

“Oh,” said Webster, “I see. You intend to return the check.”

“Not only that, but I intend to put a stop to the whole matter. Why, the thing has grown absurd. I’m not accustomed to this sort of dealing; and the quicker it’s over and done the more comfortable I shall feel.”

When they had finished, Webster said: “A cab will take us there in less than a half hour.”

“Us?” repeated Kenyon.

“_Us._ Why, to be sure. You don’t suppose I intend to let you go alone, do you? Well, hardly! Another thing. Come up to my rooms for a moment before we start.”

An elevator whirled them upward; and in a few moments the young man from Chicago was opening a revolver case in his sample room.

“It’s a Colt,” said he, calmly, holding the weapon up for his friend’s inspection. “Dull metal, forty-five calibre; has a barrel that assures accuracy and a grip that is a real grip. It’ll make quite a bulge in your pocket, but then it will also shoot a hole through a safe.”

“For a humdrum man of trade, Garry, you have lots of romance left in you,” said Kenyon. He took the revolver and spun it around, a forefinger through the trigger guard. “You intend that an armed force shall move on Selden’s Square, I see. But where is your ammunition?”

“Here,” and Webster handed him a dozen or more long cartridges.

Two revolvers were loaded and shoved deep into overcoat pockets; then the two descended to the street, got into a cab and were driven to Selden’s Square.

“Not a very live street, for so early an hour,” remarked Webster, as they alighted at the corner and walked slowly along.

“I noticed that last night,” returned Kenyon, somewhat grimly. “The thugs who attacked the man outside of 98 did not seem to have any fear of interruption.”

“By the way, you did not see anything of the attacked one when you came out, did you!”

“No; those who committed the assault either carried him away, or the police found him before I came out.”

They had reached 98 by this time and halted. It was gloomy and deserted looking; not a glimmer of light was to be seen at any of the windows. They ascended the steps and Kenyon pulled the old-fashioned bell-handle.

“Speaking of policemen,” remarked Webster, in a low tone, “that looks like one across the way.”

The gleam of the helmet plate and shield were unmistakable; but their owner made no move toward them, though he seemed to be watching them narrowly. Just then there came a sound at the basement door and a shuffling of feet up the steps. In a moment a sharp, wrinkled old face appeared above the rail and a quavering, high-pitched voice demanded:

“What is it, please? What is it?”

Kenyon looked down at the bent old woman who was peering up at him in a dim-eyed, uncertain sort of way.

“I desire to speak to”--he hesitated a moment, then proceeded--“to the master or mistress of the house.”

“Have I not told you a dozen times that the house is empty? Are the police paid to annoy people? I know nothing of those who were here; I know nothing of the dead man who was carried out in the night; I know nothing except that the agent placed me in charge this afternoon, and that the rent is fifty dollars a week, furnished. For anything else you must not ask me; I am old, and I must have my sleep.”

And with that she went slowly and complainingly down the steps, and they heard the door close abruptly behind her.

“They have gone,” said Kenyon.

“And apparently the attention of the police has been called to some features of the case.” Webster looked at his friend for a moment and then added. “What are you going to do now?”

“Perhaps to see Moritze & Co.’s local representative, in the morning, would do some good. But, first, I think we may get a little information from our friend across the way.”

They descended the steps and crossed the street toward the policeman. The man regarded them with attention, his thumbs in his belt and his legs very wide apart.

“How do you do?” spoke Kenyon, in a fraternal tone.

“How are you?” answered the man.

“Is this street part of your beat?”

“It is all of it, just now.”

“Ah, indeed.”

By this time the policeman seemed to have made up his mind about them.

“Reporters?” asked he.

“Something like that. I understand that you had quite an exciting time of it hereabouts last night.”

“Yes; but say, how did the papers get it? The captain said the matter was to be kept quiet.”

Kenyon laughed carelessly.

“Oh, the papers have many surprising little ways of getting information. Now, the body that was carried out of 98, for instance. Nothing has been heard of it?”

“No; and it has a nasty look. It’s the kind of thing that we police don’t like. The detective department has it now.”

“Nothing is known of the people who occupied the house, then?”

“Not a thing. They rented it furnished for a term and paid the money down. They gave the name of Farbush.”

The two young men exchanged swift glances; the policeman noticed the looks:

“Do you know anyone of that name?”

“I fancy I have heard it before,” replied Kenyon.

“Well, I suppose you are not giving anything away,” grumbled the man. “The afternoon papers will be driving the police out of business for good if they keep on the way they are going.”

“Don’t be discouraged,” said Kenyon, with a laugh. “You see, they don’t know so much after all. They only appear to. For example now, we don’t know where the man was sent who was knocked out just about here last night.”

The policeman laughed, shortly.

“The _man_?” repeated he.

Kenyon caught the inflection.

“Why, it wasn’t a woman, surely,” said he.

“I guess you’re right about the papers not being on to so much,” grinned the policeman. “But you’ll have to call up Bellevue if you want any information. As I said to start with, this thing is supposed to be kept rather quiet; and I think I’ve done too much talking as it is.”

As they walked down the street Webster said thoughtfully:

“The complications seem to pile up, don’t they?”

“Amazingly. And with every lap the track gets heavier. I think the best thing that we can do is to pay a visit to Bellevue and have a talk with someone there who can give us definite information.”

There was something in the speaker’s tone that made his friend look at him quickly.

“Don’t let the matter get on your nerves, old boy,” warned Webster. “You’ll only put yourself in a daze; and then you’ll never get to the bottom of it.”

“I know it; but then there is--”

He paused abruptly and gestured the rest.

“You mean the girl?” Webster frowned. All along he had feared this phase of the affair; the girl had struck him from the very first as looming altogether too large in Kenyon’s account of it.

“If it wasn’t for her,” said Kenyon, “the entire matter would be a sort of joke to me. But she changes the face of everything. I can’t stop thinking of her.”

“Well, you had better get into the habit of trying,” growled Garry Webster. “You know it doesn’t do to go about falling in love with girls like this. Now don’t try to shut me off! You _are_ in love with her; if you don’t know it, I do. I’m experienced. I’ve been in love a half-dozen times myself.”

He paused for a moment; and his tone changed, as he continued:

“You see, Ken, you don’t know anything about her. As the thing stands it doesn’t look even near right. It’s a police matter, and she is unquestionably mixed up in it.”

Kenyon winced at this and his face seemed to lose a little of its color. But he said nothing.

“I know that my remarks hurt some,” proceeded Garry. “But it’s a fact, and fact is a thing that I’m strong on--it’s a thing that a man doesn’t do well to brush carelessly by. If he does he’s making a mistake.”

Kenyon put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Don’t think me an ass, old fellow; I see all these things you speak of--and perhaps more, for I’m deeper in the maze than you think. But in spite of it all, I can’t drive the image of that unknown girl from my mind; and I cannot help believing that no matter what manner of things the others may be guilty of, she is innocent.”

“All right,” returned Webster, with a sigh. “Look at it as you see fit. I only hope you prove to be right. There is a great deal in a person’s characteristics, I know; and of course I haven’t seen the girl. Perhaps, if I had, I might feel just as confident of her as you do.”

“I’m sure you would,” said Kenyon, fervently. “No one to look at her could feel otherwise. I know that I’m talking like a moonstruck sophomore, Garry, but just the same I mean every word of it.”

At that moment Webster sighted a cab and signaled it. In a very short space of time they had been set down at Bellevue Hospital, and a nurse had summoned a white-clad, pleasant-faced young surgeon. When he heard their errand he looked interested.

“Oh, yes,” said he. “The rather queer matter of last night. Sit down.”

The two young men sat down and the surgeon occupied the corner of a desk. Apparently he made the same mistake as the policeman had, for his opening words were:

“You are the first reporters that have called in reference to this thing; and there is, I think, a most interesting story in it.” He touched a bell, and a pretty girl in a nurse’s uniform made her appearance. “Miss Dickson, get me histories 906-7-8.” When the girl had gone, the man of medicine resumed. “It’s not often that we meet with such a remarkable series of coincidences; but the night has strange kinks in a big city, and the accident ward of a hospital is the best place to see them that I know of.”

The girl re-appeared, handed the speaker three sheets of paper, and vanished.

“I’ll read you these in regular order,” promised the surgeon. “Then you’ll get about the same effect that I did. And before I begin I’d like to say that these are not the regular histories demanded by the institution, but private ones of my own. You see,” with a smile, “these cases were so odd that I did not mind going to a little extra trouble.”

Selecting one of the sheets he began to read:

“Thursday night, November 12th. About 9.30 the patrol of the 40th Precinct brought in a case of assault. It was a man of about thirty years of age and weighing about one hundred and sixty pounds. He was of dark complexion. He had been picked up by the police upon the sidewalk in front of 98 Selden’s Square. The injuries are three incised wounds in the back, probably made by a knife, and two contused wounds of the head. The skull is most likely fractured.”

“Since that was written we have discovered that there is no fracture. The man recovered consciousness and told how he came in his present predicament. Afterwards, during the absence of the nurse, he left the hospital. Just why I don’t know, for he was badly hurt and required attention and nursing.”

Turning to the second sheet he read as follows:

“Thursday night, November 12th. At 10.18 the ambulance was called out. It brought a second man, suffering the same injuries, and who had been picked up in exactly the same place as the first. This man, however, was conscious and able to make a statement immediately.”

“Selden’s Square is a much more abrupt place than I would have thought,” remarked Webster.

“So it would seem. But listen to this other.” The doctor read as follows from the third sheet:

“Same night. About 12.05 I was called down to receive a new case. It was brought in by a cab-driver and a mail-carrier. The latter, while on his last round of collection, found the man lying in the middle of the street in front of 98 Selden’s Square, and at the next corner summoned the cab-driver to his assistance. In this case, as in the other two, the bludgeon and knife had played their parts. This man was smeared with blood and his clothing was torn into shreds. Apparently he had given his assailants a desperate battle.”

The physician laid down the last of the sheets and looked at his visitors with a smile.

“Well, what do you think of that?” asked he.

“Remarkable!” answered Kenyon, briefly.

“Astonishing!” said Webster.

“I think so, too. But this is only the mildest and most conventional side of the thing. What I have yet to tell will make you despair of finding adjectives to express yourselves. But I can only give you the outline, as that is all that I have as yet. The first of these men is from Butte, Montana. He is an engineer in the employ of the Anaconda mine, and apparently a thoroughgoing fellow, indeed. The second is from the town of West Point, and is a sort of private coach for backward students at the Academy there. He is a rather frail young man, with near-sighted eyes and an impediment in his speech. The third is from Saginaw, Michigan. He is a small, compactly-built fellow, of about twenty-three, and with the constitution of a young bull. By profession he is a pugilist. His first words when he recovered consciousness were to inquire about the persons who assaulted him. And when he learned that none of them were in the ward, as badly used up as himself, he was the most crestfallen person I ever saw.”

“Quite a variety of types and temperaments,” remarked Kenyon. “But what had they to say for themselves?” eagerly.

“I don’t know that I am altogether at liberty to tell you that,” answered the young surgeon, slowly; “It’s a sort of police matter, you see. But if you’ll agree not to publish until the authorities release us, I’ll give it to you.”

“We’ll keep it to ourselves,” promised Kenyon.

“Very well then. But as I said before, I can only give you the outline of their statements, at that. Each of these three men is an absolute stranger to the others; yet each was summoned to New York upon the same errand, by the same man, and at the same time. Upon the night of November 12th each arrived in town, one from Butte, one from West Point, and the other from South Bend, Ind.; and each of them immediately made his way to the place of appointment--98 Selden’s Square. And as they arrived there, they were attacked murderously and left for dead. All this is strange; it only requires one more touch to complete the mystery. And we have that in the fact that the three men’s names are alike.”

“And what is the name?” asked Webster.

“Kenyon,” answered the young surgeon; “and a rather unusual one it is, don’t you think?”

VIII

THE NIGHT GROWS THICK WITH WONDER

DOM MIGUAL: Hush! Walk softly. This night is filled with astonishments.

--_From an Unacted Melodrama._

AT the surgeon’s words Webster fairly gasped his astonishment. But Kenyon’s face was unreadable.

“A remarkable state of affairs, indeed,” said the young adventurer. “And without a doubt it has some equally surprising meaning if we could learn all the facts. But you said that you do not feel at liberty to tell us more, did you not?”

“I do not know a very great deal more,” answered the surgeon.

“These men are not yet able to be seen, I suppose--that is, the remaining two?”

“No; and will not be for some days to come.”

“That is too bad. I should have liked to ask them a few questions.” Kenyon arose and said: “Is it permissible for you to tell me the name of the person who summoned them to New York?”

“It is not. That is a point upon which the police left special instructions.”

“Ah, pardon me! And thank you for what you have already told us. Good-night.”

Once again they were upon the street, walking along in silence, hands stuffed into overcoat pockets and heads bent in deep thought. After a space Kenyon said:

“Well, Garry, my son, we don’t seem to have come at anything of value, as yet, eh?”

“Rather, we have gone deeper into the tangle,” answered Webster. Then he laughed in a sudden fit of boyish glee and continued: “But, I say, it’s more fun than going a-fishing, isn’t it? I’d like to work at a thing like this as a regular job. It’s got it all over hardware for real interest.”

“It seems to me that it’s going to be my occupation, for a time, at least,” said Kenyon, a certain grimness in his tone. “The matter concerns me, and if it’s possible to get to the bottom of it, I’m going to do it.”

“Right,” agreed Webster. “It’s your place to do that very thing.”

They walked back to Webster’s hotel, in silence for the most part; when they arrived Kenyon immediately took up a telephone directory and began fluttering over its leaves.

“It’s just possible that the manager of Moritze & Co.’s New York branch may have a ’phone connection at his home and I may catch him there,” explained he to Webster. “Oh, yes, here it is. His name is Leventhal. I trust he is a snugly married man and is at home just now.”

After a few moments waiting he got the number asked for.

“I want to speak to Mr. Leventhal,” said Kenyon.

“This is Mr. Leventhal.”

“Manager for Moritze & Co.?”

“The same.”

“I have just received a check upon your house for a considerable sum, and I’d like to make some inquiries about the person who drew it.”

“I never transact business after business hours,” said Leventhal, decidedly.

“But this is a matter of importance. I’d like you to tell me what you can about Hong Yo, who I think is known to you.”

There was a sharp exclamation at the other end of the wire; after a short pause there came the answer in the same cold tone.

“We never discuss our depositors with strangers--or anyone else, for that matter. If you have a check signed by Hong Yo it will be honored instantly, no matter what the sum. Good-night.”

“One moment,” cried Kenyon, hastily. But it was too late; the other had already rung off.

“I expected that,” remarked Webster. “Bank people are rather close mouthed as a rule. I don’t think you’ll learn much from that source.”

“It would seem not.”