Part 9

“Humorous!” exclaimed Webster. “Why, it’s riotous. Your matter-of-fact acceptance of the situation is really the funniest thing I ever saw. But,” and his manner changed to one of curiosity, “how did you get out of Farbush’s house without having the police called upon?”

“I hardly think there was any chance of that, at the worst. But, as it was, I simply laid low, as we used to say at school. Farbush stormed and raved and threatened down below, and waved his revolver for a time, while the others protested. I could not quite gather what it was about, for they all spoke at once. But it had something to do with the safe, for they all three came up the stairs, I lying snug behind an offset in the wall while they entered the office.”

“Then, when Farbush saw the result of your acetylene flame, I suppose there was a renewal of the tempest?”

“It had begun when I slipped down the stairs,” answered Kenyon. “But I was safely out at the front door, and on my way down Fifth Avenue, I suppose, before it reached its height.”

“The estate of Stephen Austin,” mused Webster. “That, apparently, is what all this trouble is about.”

“From the clever moves of the girl who plucked the envelope from my hands in Farbush’s office, and her anxiety to get safely away with it, I should think so myself.”

“I can hardly understand how she got into the office--unless there was more than one door.”

“There was not.”

“But you saw her leave the room, and you locked the door behind her.”

“I locked the door, yes. But I did _not_ see her leave the room.”

Webster looked at his friend inquiringly.

“I distinctly remember you saying that she walked to the door and blew out the candle.”

“Precisely; but I said nothing about seeing her leave the room.”

“By George!” Webster slapped his knee suddenly. “It was a bluff. She did not go out, at all.”

“No; she was in the office all the time I worked upon the safe. I reasoned the matter out afterwards. While she was fumbling with the combination, she must have caught sight of me. It was a shadow, perhaps, or more likely my reflection in the polished door of the safe. When she covered her face with her hands, I thought she was crying of disappointment; but really she must have been stifling a scream, or shrewdly thinking up a plan of action.”

“I prefer the last,” stated Webster.

“So she arose, took up the candle, and walked toward the door. Every step plainly said that she had given up the fight, that she had no further hope. Almost in the doorway, she blew the candle out. I naturally supposed that she went on; instead, she darted behind something in the office,--there were lots of things that would screen her,--and so waited until I had found what she appeared to want so badly.”

“Clever!” exclaimed Webster, emphatically. “She has nerve, too. Not one girl in a thousand could think so clearly under such circumstances. Do you know, I’m almost sorry that she was caught.”

“It does seem rather provoking.”

“And this young man, Forrester, was on the premises all the time. I suppose he was a guest, and was hidden away much after your own style.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“But old Farbush was the wise fox, eh? He suspected something and probably was lying in wait.”

“I suppose so.”

“And it’s more than likely that the coveted packet immediately passed back into his hands when he confronted the pair in front of the rifled safe.”

Kenyon muttered a reply that was not intelligible. He was drawing steadily at his cigar, holding it clinched between his teeth, and frowning thoughtfully. Webster had noticed his replies being rather brief and absent for the last few minutes, and said:

“What’s the new one, Ken; you might as well tell it all. You can’t surprise me any more than you have already done.”

“I was thinking that, on the whole, I would have done a great deal better if I had waited awhile before leaving Farbush’s house.”

“But why? You might have been caught.”

“Of course; I would have been taking a chance. But, then, what else had I been doing during the entire night.”

“Well, that’s true. But what do you suppose a little lingering on the scene would have brought you?”

“It might have confirmed a suspicion that I’ve had ever since. And that is, that Anna and Forrester met with the surprise of their lives when the office lights were turned on and they saw the safe broken open.”

“But, great Cæsar! Ken; how could that be. The girl, according to your own reasoning, saw you crack the safe.”

“Don’t go too fast, old chap; I didn’t say so. I didn’t mention any names; for I’m not altogether sure that it was Anna who was in the office with me. The girl who snatched the packet wore a heavy cloak and a hood; Anna was in white when I saw her a moment later as she stood beside Forrester in the lower hall.”

“But she might have thrown the cloak off.”

“Then it would have been upon the stairs, and I would have seen it. She had not time to dispose of it in any other way, even had there been a reason for it. From the time that the light was switched off in the office, until it was turned on in the hall below, was only a moment.”

“But you heard the footsteps on the stairs--and there was only one girl below.”

“There was only one girl _below_, yes. And I heard the footsteps on the stairs. But there was also a pair of stairs leading to the floor above. The girl who snatched the packet may have gone up; I’m not sure.”

Webster stared for a moment.

“That’s so,” said he, slowly. “I’m beginning to get hold. There were two girls in the house; and you are inclined to suspect that it was the girl called Dallas who was with you in the office.”

“Precisely.”

“Why, then,” wonderingly, “there must have been three different designs upon the safe going forward at the same time.”

Kenyon shrugged his shoulders and took another cigar.

“I don’t think it possible for any merely human mind to get at the true inwardness of this strange game. At one moment the people engaged seem entirely in cahoots; in the next they are apparently making off-side plays of a decided personal nature. We have discussed their attitudes toward each other before, and the thing is beyond reason. Forrester is a friend to Dallas. He wishes her well, at any rate, as far as I can see. And yet he is a firm friend and stands high in the favor of Hong Yo, who would, I have no doubt, murder her in cold blood.”

“I think I said some time since that the thing is a puzzle,” spoke Webster. “And I have had no reason to change my mind. But what do you propose to do next?”

“I think a visit to Bellevue might have some results. Either of the two of my remaining namesakes might be able to talk to visitors by this time.”

“Excellent.”

A short time later they were engaged with the same youthful surgeon whom they had spoken with before.

“I suppose you have heard of the fate of the man from Butte,” said he after he had greeted them.

“He’s dead, is he not?”

“Yes; fished out of the East River the other morning. And they found a new wound upon him--a knife thrust through the heart. It really is the most remarkable series of events that ever came under my notice. It would seem as though there was a conspiracy of some sort on foot; and the people behind it do not value human life very highly.”

“I should say not,” answered Kenyon, dryly. “But how are the other patients?”

“Number two, as I call the one hailing from West Point, is still in rather a bad way, but is recovering. The one from Saginaw left the hospital this afternoon.”

“But he is still in New York?” eagerly.

“Oh, yes; he can be found at the Hotel Suisse on Third Avenue.”

They thanked the surgeon and departed.

“A cabman should know of the Hotel Suisse,” suggested Webster.

So one was summoned, and it proved that he had the necessary information. A rapid drive landed them in front of a small, clean-looking hotel in the neighborhood of the Cooper Union. A stout German with a gleaming bald head was at the desk.

“Oh, dot Kenyon?” replied he, in answer to their inquiries. “_Ja_, I know him! He have der room dhirty-dhree got. He is a young kind of a fellar und has a pandage aroundt his head. _Nicht wahr?_”

“That’s the man. Can he be seen?”

“I will findt me oud.”

A colored boy was summoned.

“Mistah Kenyon is in de pool-room, sah,” he informed the clerk.

“All ride. Jusdt show dese chentlemens pack dere, yet.”

They found the person they sought perched upon a window-sill, intently watching a game of billiards. He was a compactly-built youth of about twenty-two or three, neatly dressed, and with the flattened nose and swollen ear of the prize-fighter. He slipped down from his perch, and at their invitation went with them to a quiet corner of the room. When he found that they were looking for information upon the subject of the attack made upon him, he at once manifested great interest.

“Police business?” inquired he.

“No; we have private reasons for seeking information in this matter,” answered Kenyon. “Anything you can tell us will be appreciated in the proper way.”

The little pugilist’s eyes snapped.

“Now, that’s good talk!” exclaimed he. “You see, pal, I’m a stranger in a strange land, and my roll ain’t any too thick. New York is no place, just now, for a man in my line; and even if it was, I couldn’t take anyone on, the way I’m fixed here,” and he tapped his bandaged head significantly.

“Your name is Kenyon, isn’t it?”

“Well, neighbor, it is and it isn’t. I’ve used it ever since I broke into this mixing business, but my right name is Farral. You see, I was raised in Kenyon, Iowa, and when I found myself looking around for a name to put upon the fight cards in Chi. a few years ago, why, I just picked the name of my old town. Young Kenyon is a name the sporting editors know, and,” with some pride, “they also know that I work hard at me job.”

“Tell me about this errand of yours to New York,” invited Kenyon.

“Now, that’s where you stick me, bo; that’s a little passage that’s got me tied hand and foot! Ever since I got that letter I’ve been trying to dope it out, but it won’t work into shape, no matter how hard I try; I’m not strong on the think thing, anyhow, just at the present time. There’s something like bees gets to buzzing in my top whenever I overdo it.”

“But you can tell us just how the thing came about, can’t you? That will not require you to do much thinking.”

“Oh, sure, I can tell it to youse,” cheerfully. “But there ain’t a lot to tell, at that. You see, it’s this way: I’m sitting in my room one morning, fixing up a black eye that I got in a job the night before. Me landlady knocks on the door and chucks a letter over the transom. I opens it, see? Quick! for I think it might be more work, and work is the thing I’m looking for. The letter is from a guy named Forrester, and he tells me to move East as far as New York in a hurry. He allows that he’s got a good thing for me and encloses a check for expenses.

“I’m in South Bend. The time named is the next night; so I packs me bag and takes the cushions for the big town, right on the jump. I don’t know Forrester, you see, but money talks every time. I didn’t know how good the thing was that was waiting for me either, but figured it out as a soft proposition with plenty of backing that the guy wants me to clean up for.

“I’m cheerful and neighborly when they dump me into Jersey City; I cross the river the same way, and I whistle all the way uptown. Then when I duck into this Selden’s Square place I gets my bumps. That’s about all there is to it.”

“Did Forrester not mention the nature of the work he had for you to do?”

“He didn’t mention anything except his own name and the house in Selden’s Square.”

Kenyon glanced at Webster.

“This one seems to have been told less than the fellow from Butte,” remarked the latter. “I wonder why?”

“Perhaps the other one insisted upon knowing more before he made a move.”

The little pugilist looked interested.

“Say,” spoke he, “if youse can put me hep on the game, I’d be obliged. There is something coming to a couple of stick-up guys for trimming me that night, and I’d like to settle the bill when I’m fit.”

“I’m sorry to say that we can tell you little or nothing; we are vastly interested ourselves for certain reasons, but can learn nothing definite. However, this much I’m sure of. One of the men who had a hand in laying you out is a New York crook called the Stalker.”

“The Stalker, eh? I’ll remember that. In a little while my lid will be all right and I’ll hunt him up. And if I find him, he’ll get plenty. Make a note of it.”

Kenyon handed the youth a sum of money that caused a broad grin to spread itself across his face.

“Pal,” said he, “yous’er all fineo. It takes a sport to pass it along that way. And that’s no hop vision. Say,” warming up, “I’ll bet yous’er a friend of the young lady who was to see me at Bellevue yesterday.”

“I thought you were a stranger in New York.”

“That’s right So I am. Me, the perfect stranger, see? I haven’t a friend between here and Pittsburg. The girl is new to me. But she was there with the bells on, just the same. I know a real one when I see her, even if I don’t mix with the motor-car owners. I thinks she’s a friend of yours because she treated me right, and because she asked me about the same line of questions as you handed me.”

“It is possible that I know her. Did she tell you her name.”

“Sure. And her address.” He took a card from his pocket and read:

“DALLAS GILBERT, _The Girls’ Club, Mulberry Street_.”

He looked up and continued: “It’s one of these things that rich girls get up for poor ones. And she said she was there every Wednesday and Friday night; and she also hinted, if I ever found anything out about this Selden’s Square thing, to drop around there and tell her about it.”

“And I’ll ask you to do the same,” said Kenyon. He wrote the name of his hotel on one of his own cards and handed it to the pugilist. “It’ll be worth your while.”

“So her name is Gilbert, eh?” said Webster, when they reached the street. “And she’s a girl addicted to helping the poor. I say, Kenyon, that sounds rather good.”

Kenyon looked at his watch.

“I’ll be saying good-night,” remarked he.

“It’s not quite 9.30, and I’ll probably get there at a decent time.”

“Get where?” asked the astonished Webster.

“Why, to this Mulberry Street Club, of course. It is Friday night, you see. I have a few straightforward words to say to Miss Gilbert about a certain packet, and I’m going to say them at once.”

XVII

AT THE GIRLS’ CLUB IN MULBERRY STREET

“If the instinct prompts you to mistrust--obey. For instincts are the whisperings of the gods.”

--_A Maxim of Hong Yo._

STEELE KENYON found the Girls’ Club without a great deal of trouble. It was a new and solid-looking building and from top to bottom every window gleamed with lights. He made inquiries of a sergeant of police who happened along upon his round of inspection. The sergeant was a ruddy-faced, white-haired man with the hale look of that type of old New Yorker whose reminiscences never went above Canal Street.

“That club,” said the silver-haired sergeant, “is one of the finest things in the city; and the women who carry it on deserve every kind of credit. You know how girls are brought up in some parts of the East Side; they don’t get any kind of training; they are not taught to do any useful work in their homes. They get to know the inside of workshops pretty early, and what they hear there, sometimes, is not the best thing for them. Then come the dances, the drink and the street.”

“And this is the class of girls that forms the membership of the club?”

“For the most part. And it helps them a lot. If they have a talent it is developed, if they have a liking it is encouraged. And there is nothing preachy or goody-goody about the place. That’s the secret of its success. They will teach a girl to dance just as readily as they’ll teach one to spell. I think the secretary, Miss Gilbert, is responsible for most of the successful features. She’s a wonderful young lady.”

The sergeant was about to pass on; then paused and continued:

“If you are thinking of helping the club along with a contribution, why, do it. You’ll make no mistake. It’s the real goods.”

“Quite an idea,” mused Kenyon, after the policeman had gone. “By George, it’s the very thing for me!”

He had been standing upon the opposite side; so now he crossed the street and entered the building. A group of girls were in the hall, muffling themselves up, for the night was cold for the time of year. At sight of the tall, elegantly attired young man, they set up a subdued whispering and giggling.

“I am inclined to suspect that male visitors are not very common, here,” thought Kenyon, with a good-humored smile.

One of them, a dark-skinned, black-eyed girl, who plainly showed her Neapolitan blood, approached him.

“Did you want to see anyone, please?” she asked.

“The secretary, Miss Gilbert,” answered he.

“You’ll find her in the office,” directed the black-eyed girl, pointing to an open door across the hall. “Walk right in.”

“Thank you.” He entered at the door indicated and found himself in an apartment lighted only by a shaded cluster of bulbs which hung low over a big desk in the centre of the floor. The shade threw the light downward upon a girl whose beautifully posed head and great mass of dark hair immediately told him who she was. She was bent over the desk, writing; and without looking up, she asked:

“What is it, please?”

Kenyon afterwards admitted that at that moment his heart was pounding as it had never pounded before; but when he answered, his voice was calm and assured.

“I have come to see the secretary,” said he, “and was told I’d find her here.”

At the first sound of his voice she started and lifted her head. The light showed him the color leave her face and then stream back, brilliantly. The surprise was a sharp one, but she did not lose the air of proud self-possession which seemed so natural to her. However, when she spoke, there was a slight break in her voice, a fact which she noticed and which caused her evident annoyance.

“I am the secretary,” she said.

“Ah!” He took a forward step. The light now fell upon him also, and showed a look of mild surprise. “Thank you.”

“Will you state your business,” she asked, coldly. “I have a great deal to do, and it is getting late.”

“Pardon me,” bowing. “I have recently heard good reports of this work, and had thought to send the treasurer a check if I found them verified.”

“The hour is rather unconventional,” she answered. And as he looked at her he could have sworn that he saw a quick flash of amusement in the dark eyes.

“It must be the light,” he thought. “It sometimes plays tricks like that.” Then he continued, aloud, “I fancy that unconventionality is as a rule the usual thing with me.”

“Will you sit down?” She pointed to a chair beside the desk.

“Thank you.”

He seated himself and she regarded him with serious attention. Not since the first surprise had she betrayed the slightest sign of ever having seen him before.

“We are always glad to have people investigate us,” she said. “A great deal of money is paid out of our fund during the year, and, of course, it is necessary that more should come in if the work is to go on.”

“Of course,” replied he.

“There are people who contribute regularly,” she proceeded. “These help us a very great deal. But what they give is not nearly enough; and we are pleased to have new interest aroused, even if it is only passing.”

There was a curiously questioning look in her face as she spoke. Kenyon noticed, but did not understand it. At first he thought it might mean eagerness for the work in which she was engaged. But he dismissed that, instantly. The club and its welfare had no part in her thoughts at the present moment--he felt confident of that; it was other matters--the events of the night before, perhaps--that interested her.

“And she is speaking by rote,” he told himself. “All that she’s saying are the self-evident things that require no attention.”

While these things were passing through his mind she had continued on in the same strain, speaking rapidly and clearly, but wearing the same look of interest in something foreign to her subject. Suddenly this changed. His observant eyes saw it give place to a new eagerness that all but set her a-tremble. She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a book.

“It is customary,” she said, “for visitors to sign their names here,” placing the book before him. “Complying with this does not indicate their willingness to contribute,” quickly; “it merely enables us to keep track of those who have shown sufficient interest to make inquiries.” She dipped a pen in the ink and held it out to him. “Will you write your name and address, please?”

He took the pen, and a glimmer of humor appeared in his eyes.

“I wonder what happens after I sign?” he asked himself. “It appears to be a lucky thought of some sort.”

He spread his bold signature across the first blank line and placed the name of his hotel under it. Then she took the book and carefully blotted the page; watching her keenly he saw the fixed attention which she gave what he had written, and again saw the swift color sweep into her face. Then she placed the book carefully in the desk, once more, and leaning back in the office chair looked at him. He gasped in rapture; for she was smiling.

“Do you know, Mr. Kenyon,” she said, “I cannot altogether get rid of the notion that you had other things in your mind that you have not mentioned, when you came here to-night.”

“It is quite possible,” returned he, coolly. “Under certain circumstances one does not immediately plunge into the matters which interest one most.”

“You came to ask certain questions, did you not?” She placed her elbows upon the desk and her chin in her palms. For the first time Kenyon noticed the beauty of her hands. “Questions upon matters on which you think information might be of service to you.”

“Precisely.” His admiration blunted his observation; he did not notice that she was entertained by his even manner. “There is information which I fancy would relieve my mind to a greater or less extent. There are facts which have been dancing on ahead of me, so to speak, too elusive to grasp, but interesting enough to make it worth while to try.”

“I think I understand. And it might be some balm to you to know that you have not been alone in this.”

“I do not think,” said Kenyon, slowly, “that you refer to yourself. It is not possible.”

She raised her brows inquiringly, but said nothing.

“A girl of your parts should find no difficulty in obtaining information. There is a bird, I believe, that always waits until some other bird has built a nest. Then it calmly takes possession. I have always thought this a serviceable talent.”

“I do not think I understand.”

“I will be more illuminative. A man runs a desperate risk and works very hard to achieve a certain thing. When the victory is in his hands, a woman snatches it from him.”

She gave a gasp of wonder; her great, startled eyes searched his face.

“It was you!” she said. “It was you--last night!”

“And, I think,” smiled he, “that it was also you.”

“You were masked,” she said. “A masked burglar!” There was terror in her manner and voice, and she shrank a little from him. “I did not recognize you; I was too frightened.”

“You were not too frightened to remain and lay a little plan to beat me out,” remarked he, and there was an admiration in his tone that caused her to flush rosily. “But, then,” slowly, “it was, somehow, about the sort of thing I would have expected of you. Miss Anna did not seem at all the girl for such an undertaking, though of course I thought at first it was she.”

“Why _of course_?” she asked, a little resentfully.

“Because of her manner last night, when I talked with her on the stairs.”

“You talked with her--on the stairs!”