Part 10

As Barry walked down the avenue, aimless and unseeing, he thought of many things; but the one which loomed up biggest was the colossal fortune controlled by Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding. It seemed to hang over him like some awful monster, hovering in the air ready to fall and crush him. It filled Lawrence with despair. He disliked the woman he had never seen because of her money, because she was Shirley's aunt, and, lastly and most intensely, because she had taken it upon herself to cast the mantle of her wealth and position around the girl she had neglected and ignored for so many years.

Barry realized perfectly the selfishness of this point of view; but he could not help it. If only Mrs. Wilmerding had kept out of it things would have come right somehow. At least, there would have been left him the feeling that he and Shirley Rives were on equal terms. He would still have had the delight of knowing that there were many things he could do to help the girl, instead of having her transported to a plane so infinitely above him, and so inaccessible.

Bitterly he contrasted the untold millions belonging to this new-found relative of hers with his own miserable pittance. His very name was tarnished, though through no fault of his; and it would be utterly impossible for him ever to harbor again the thoughts and hopes which had possessed him during the early part of his call.

Barry's abstraction was so great that he quite failed to notice the taxi which moved slowly out of a side street and trailed along the avenue about half a block behind. He walked straight on until, at length, happening to glance up, the looming front of the St. Regis reminded him of the terms of his bargain; and he promptly entered, though he did not feel at all like eating.

He had scarcely disappeared before the taxi drew up beside the curb, and a slim, dark fellow, immaculately dressed, stepped out. He paused by the open door, talking in an undertone with a man who remained inside; a man with broad, thick shoulders, a round, full face, and a Vandyke beard slightly tinged with gray.

For perhaps a minute they conversed in low tones. Then the door was slammed, and the taxi whirled on down the avenue, while the slim, dapper individual made his way promptly into the St. Regis, languidly surveyed the dining room from the doorway, and presently took his seat at a table just back of Lawrence.

The latter finished a very simple luncheon without so much as turning round, then made his way to the telephone operator. There was some delay in getting Hamersley's office; but, when the connection was made at last, he stepped into the booth, quite oblivious to the fact that the tall, dark fellow occupied the next one.

As Barry had half expected, Jock was out, so he left word for the Yale man to meet him at the Knickerbocker at five if he possibly could, and sauntered out of the hotel.

Listlessly he turned downtown, wondering what under the sun men of leisure did with their time. Somehow, the glamour which had enveloped him for the past few days was beginning to wear away. Once more he was desperately tired of doing nothing but lunch and dine and evade detectives. He wondered pettishly whether the man in black had been captured yet and taken back to his asylum, for it seemed impossible that any sane person could have acted in such an extraordinary manner. There were the detectives, to be sure; but perhaps they were all of a piece with the rest of the bewildering jumble. There seemed to be no reason or sense to what anybody did. They were probably all mad.

Lawrence was, in short, at odds with himself and the world. He would have given a lot to come face to face with some one he could sail into and pummel with all his might. It would be such a relief now to run into that smart Alec who had decoyed him to the house on Twenty-fourth Street last night.

Happily the mood did not long continue. An hour's brisk, almost feverish, walking brought with it a more sane outlook on life. When Barry strayed into a cafe on Times Square about half past three, more for lack of any other method of passing the time than from any real desire for refreshment, he had quite recovered his poise.

He was making for a little table in the corner, when suddenly a hand clutched his coat and a vaguely familiar voice sounded in his ear.

"I say, Oscar, sit down here, unless you're too bally proud to be seen with me."

It was the Englishman who had puzzled him so at the dance at Sherry's, and for an instant Barry frowned. Then, struck by a sudden impulse, he smiled and dropped down in a chair opposite the other. The fellow didn't look like a bad sort, and he was sorely enough in need of diversion.

"Why should I be ashamed to be seen with you?" he asked lightly. "Where did you ever get that idea?"

The tall man's blue eyes widened. "Where'd I get it?" he echoed, in surprise. "Why, at that blooming dance, to be sure. You wouldn't speak to me then, old chap."

Lawrence tapped the bell.

"I beg your pardon, then," he said. "I was worried, and not really myself. What'll you have?"

When the waiter had taken their orders and departed, the Englishman screwed his monocle into his eye and sat regarding his companion for a minute in silence.

"Jolly glad of that," he said solemnly, at length. "Didn't seem like you to throw an old friend down. I couldn't understand it. Sure you weren't thinking of the bally rotten way I was forced to leave Cambridge, old chap?"

"Positive," Lawrence returned promptly. "I'd forgotten all about it." He hesitated an instant, and then went on at random: "Of course, that wasn't your fault, you know."

"Should say not!" The Englishman's tone was indignant; and Barry suddenly had a suspicion that, if the fellow had not taken too much already, the limit was not far off. While his enunciation was perfect, there was an expression about his eyes which was unmistakable.

"Should say not!" the other repeated. "You know jolly well John Brandon would never disgrace the old name. A plot against me--a beastly plot; that's what it was!"

He took a long drink, and sat staring oddly at Lawrence.

"Say, Oscar," he burst out abruptly, "you must have been in the States a bally while, by Jove!"

"I have," Barry smiled. "How did you guess it?"

"You talk just like these blooming Yankees; 'pon my soul, you do! I've been listening for that bit of an accent you used to have, old chap; and I give you my word, it's gone--you've lost it. Funny thing; eh, what?"

For a second Barry sat silent, his interest thoroughly aroused. Was it possible that he was on the point of finding the key to the enigma which had so puzzled him.

"Accent!" he repeated the next moment. "Did my accent used to be so bad?"

Brandon laughed.

"Not bad," he chuckled. "Just enough to notice now and then. By Jove! Have you forgotten how we always said you'd be taken for a foreigner sooner or later? You wouldn't now, old chap. Give you my word, I'd think you were a blooming Yankee if I didn't know you so well."

*CHAPTER XXXII.*

*AN EXTRAORDINARY INTERVIEW.*

It was at least three-quarters of an hour later when Lawrence left the hotel and walked slowly toward Forty-second Street. He was puzzled, perplexed, and rather piqued; for, in spite of all his efforts, he had been unable to extract from the Englishman a single additional fact which would help him solve the problem which vexed him.

Brandon evidently took him for some one else, and the resemblance must have been astonishingly great; for it was evident that the Briton had spent a year, if not more, with Barry's double at Cambridge.

It was the famous English university, of course, and not the equally well-known Massachusetts college. Lawrence had realized that very early in the talk; but, in spite of his repeated efforts, he had been unable to elicit a single additional particular concerning his double, save the fact that Oscar Nordstrom had evidently spent some years as a student in England. While Brandon had plainly been on the most friendly terms with Nordstrom, he seemed curiously ignorant regarding the man's antecedents.

"It's a queer thing from beginning to end," he murmured as he pushed through the whirling doors of the Knickerbocker. "I wish I could find out who I'm supposed to be. I'll wager anything that this would solve the whole mystery."

For a moment he stood in the lobby glancing mechanically around. It was much too early to expect Jock, and he had just made up his mind to pass the time comfortably in the smoking room, when suddenly his eyes strayed to the face of a woman moving slowly and gracefully toward him from the elevator. She was tall and slim and very blond; and there was something about her attractive face which touched a chord in Barry's memory. Somehow the sight of her seemed to bring with it visions of a smooth, sandy beach, with the ocean stretching out beyond it, of merry sailing parties and clambakes, of drives and automobile excursions, and a host of other summer pleasures.

"Southampton, of course," he muttered. "But what the mischief is her name?"

The next instant their eyes met, and he saw that the recognition was mutual. She gave a sudden start, and stood for a second staring incredulously at him, a wave of color flaming into her face. Then, as he moved forward, she seemed to recover herself, and came slowly to meet him.

"How do you do?" she said, in a low, soft voice, which had in it an odd note which Barry could not quite fathom. "This is a very, very great surprise."

Hat in hand, Lawrence clasped the slender fingers she extended to him, and smiled. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered her.

"Isn't it?" he agreed pleasantly. "But here in New York one is constantly having surprises like this."

She raised her eyebrows a trifle. "Surely not quite--like this," she murmured.

He laughed, racking his brain desperately for the forgotten name. "No, of course I didn't mean just that," he returned. "This is an exception."

He hesitated a second, wondering if she would help him out; but she made no effort to speak. Leaning against the back of one of the crimson velvet chairs, she seemed content simply to look at him.

"Do you know," Lawrence exclaimed, forced to say something, "that when I saw you, my mind went back instantly to that wonderful, smooth beach, with the cloudless blue sky above and the waves dashing up almost to where we sat on the sand."

She smiled faintly. "I thought of that, too," she murmured; "but I saw it all in the moonlight. With that flood of silver dancing on the water, making everything almost as bright as day, except where the shadows of the trees behind were denser than ever."

Lawrence did not remember any trees near the Southampton beach; but, supposing this to be a sort of poetic license, he nodded agreement.

"It was a wonderful summer," he added. "Somehow it doesn't seem possible that three years have passed since then."

A low, silvery laugh issued from her lips, and she tapped him lightly on the arm.

"Always the same flatterer," she said softly. Suddenly her face grew pensive. "Does it really seem that long to you? I've often wondered. Men have so many things to occupy them--especially such men as you. A woman has only her remembrances to treasure zealously, and bring out now and then to gloat over. And memories are rather barren things sometimes."

For an instant Lawrence stood aghast. What did she mean? Certainly he could recall nothing of a tender nature having passed between them, and her words were decidedly significant. He pulled himself together with an effort; but, before he could speak, she broke the silence.

"Your voice puzzles me," she said abruptly. "It doesn't seem possible that you can have been long enough in America to have lost every trace of accent. Of course, it was never very noticeable; but one who knew you well could always tell."

Barry's jaw dropped, and his face took on an expression of utter astonishment. His accent--again! What in the world did it mean? Was it possible that she was taking him for----

"You were talking about that summer at Southampton, of course?" he managed to ask in an odd voice.

"Southampton?" she exclaimed, her eyes fixed intently on his face. "I don't understand. You don't mean that you've forgotten--Cannes?"

Lawrence stood as one in a trance. "Cannes!" he muttered hoarsely, wondering whether his brain was giving way. "I have never been in Cannes in all my life." Then, as the belated memory came to him at last, he gasped out: "Aren't you Miss Vera Pell?"

The woman's face turned white, and one slim, gloved hand stole upward to her lips. Her eyes, wide, almost black with the emotion which was rending her, were fixed on his face with a look of absolute bewilderment.

"Are you jesting?" she managed to gasp at last. "You know that I am Mrs. Walbridge Gordon. You could never forget--it is impossible."

As Barry did not answer, a look of utter horror flashed into her face. She swayed a little, and put out one hand to steady herself.

"Who--are--you?" she asked, in a low, trembling voice. Then swiftly she laughed an uneven, hysterical sort of laugh. "You are jesting with me. It is impossible that there should be two men so absolutely alike on earth. You must be----"

She broke off abruptly, and her eyes flashed past Barry's shoulder to the door. The next instant a spasm of fear ripped swiftly across her face, and her white teeth came together over her lips with a cruel force which brought forth a tiny fleck of blood to glisten there.

"Go!" she whispered in a harsh voice. "My husband is coming. He must not see you here."

"But--who?" Lawrence managed to mutter.

"Go, I tell you--quickly!" she repeated. She was trembling violently; and that look of fear had come back into her face to stay. "You must--for my sake."

Without a moment's hesitation Barry obeyed, slipping around a big pillar. With his back squarely toward the entrance, he passed quietly and easily through the crowd toward the telephones in the narrow passage behind the desk.

His brain was in a seething turmoil; but overtopping every other emotion was anger at the man who had arrived so inopportunely. If he could only have delayed a single, brief minute longer, the name trembling on the woman's lips would have been uttered, and Lawrence would have possessed at last the key to the mystery which was driving him almost frantic.

Who was he supposed to be? Who was the man he so resembled? Why had he been given a thousand dollars to pass himself off for this unknown for a single week?

These and a dozen other questions passed swiftly through Barry's brain as he perfunctorily fumbled the leaves of the telephone book to give some excuse for lingering there.

What did it all mean? Was he ever to know?

*CHAPTER XXXIII.*

*GONE!*

Lawrence presently closed the book and ventured back into the lobby. A swift survey of the place told him that Mrs. Walbridge Gordon was no longer there; so he made his way to the cafe and settled down in one corner to wait for Hamersley.

He rather wished he did not have to talk to Jock just then. It would be a difficult matter at any time to explain what had happened to him the night before without breaking the pledge of secrecy he had made to the little man in black. Besides, at the present moment his mind was so full of the extraordinary experience he had just been through, and its probable relation to the mystery which surrounded him, that there was little room for anything else.

Nevertheless, when the big bulk of the Yale man loomed up before him, and that booming voice resounded in his ears, Barry was glad, after all, that he had come. When one is perplexed and muddled and utterly at sea, there is nothing like a good friend whose discretion can be trusted and whose interest and sympathy is assured, even if he lacks the cleverness to suggest a solution of the difficulty.

The result was that Lawrence hailed Hamersley with pleasure, silenced the upbraiding tirade Jock started, and began to pour into his ears an account of the extraordinary things which had been happening for the past few days. He made no mention of Shirley Rives, and he refrained from saying anything about the man in black, the conditions the latter had imposed, or the money which had changed hands. He simply told his friend that he had undertaken certain trivial matters concerning which he was sworn to secrecy. What had occurred after that strange interview in the Pennsylvania Station, including mention of the Englishman and an account of his interview with Mrs. Walbridge Gordon, he had no hesitation in narrating; and, when the story was finished, the big fellow's eyes were starting out of his head.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, leaning back in his chair and staring at Lawrence. "If I didn't know you better, old boy, I'd say you'd been hitting the pipe. Shadowed, kidnaped, mistaken for another man, and---- Say! Did you find out what that woman's name was?"

"I did; but it wouldn't be quite right to mention it, would it? I only brought her in because it bore on the case."

"Hum! I suppose you're right. Awkward fix for a woman to be in, ain't it? I reckon she and this double of yours must have known each other pretty well."

"I judged so," Barry returned grimly. "Do you know, Jock, I made the mistake of my life in giving that detective the slip. If I'd only stayed quietly there in that empty house until his employers showed up, there isn't a doubt in my mind that by this time I'd be wise to the whole shooting match."

Hamersley nodded. "No doubt," he agreed. "Still, a fellow can't always plan so far ahead. When a thug holds you up with a gun and carries you off that way, the natural thing is to go him one better, and make a sneak. Jove! I wish I'd been along. That chase over the roofs must have been some time, all right."

"It wasn't quite so entertaining while it was happening," Barry said. "You could have taken my place, and welcome, if you'd been around."

"Why don't you turn the tables on this gang of snoopers?" inquired Hamersley suddenly.

Barry started slightly. "You mean that----"

"Turn around and follow them. Get after that duck with the beard. Strikes me he's the head one of the push. Get him in a corner and make him come over with the information. Two can play at the game, can't they?"

"By Jove!" Lawrence exclaimed jubilantly. "I believe you're right, Jock. That's a whopping good idea of yours, old fellow!"

"Didn't expect anything but good ones from me, I hope?" Hamersley returned. "That's my specialty, you know."

Filled with enthusiasm over the notion, they made haste to leave the hotel. There seemed no time like the present for starting in, so they leisurely paused on the sidewalk to give any spies who were about ample opportunity to get on the job; then, turning eastward, sauntered along the south side of Forty-second Street.

Unfortunately, the scheme did not seem to pan out as they expected. Though they kept the sharpest sort of a lookout around them, suddenly turning to glance into shop windows, whirling about as if to retrace their steps, and taking the most roundabout route possible to the Yale Club, not a suspicious pedestrian or taxi did they see.

"Too big a crowd, I reckon," Hamersley sighed as they paused before the building on Forty-fourth Street. "We'd better take dinner here and start out afterward when the streets aren't so full."

"I can't dine with you, Jock," Barry said regretfully. "I've got a date."

"Part of the game you couldn't tell me about, I'll bet," the Yale man returned shrewdly. "Well, meet me here at eight, then."

Having left his friend, Lawrence returned at once to the St. Albans. As he took his key, the clerk handed him a letter, the precise, old-fashioned handwriting of which he recognized with a quick thrill.

"Wonder what the old geezer has to say now," he said to himself as he sailed up in the elevator. "If he's thought up any more conditions, I'll balk, hanged if I won't."

There were none, however. The letter contained five one-hundred-dollar bills and a few lines of symmetrical writing on a single sheet of note paper:

You are doing admirably. Keep on as you have begun, and use the inclosed in case your expense money does not hold out.

Barry scratched his head, and sat staring at the note.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" he exclaimed. "Don't want me to do anything but spend money. It's the weirdest thing I ever ran across, sure. What in creation does it mean? What does he get out of it? If I only----"

The room telephone tinkled imperatively; and, cramming money and letter into his pocket, Lawrence sprang up and took down the receiver.

"Hello!" came in a woman's voice. "Is this Mr. Lawrence--Mr. Barry Lawrence?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"Hold the wire, please. Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding wishes to speak to you."

In the brief pause which followed, Barry stood there the picture of amazement. What in the world could Mrs. Wilmerding want with him? He did not know her--had never seen her. She was not the sort of woman to give her personal attention to such trivial matters as an invitation to call or to take dinner, anyway. Was it possible that anything had happened to----

"Mr. Lawrence!"

The name came snapping over the wires with the force of a pistol shot, and made Barry jump.

"Yes!" he gasped. "This is Mr. Lawrence."

"Get a taxi and come to my house at once. Do you understand?"

Barry flushed a little at the peremptory tone, coming as it did from a woman he fancied he disliked so greatly.

"But I am just dressing for dinner," he expostulated, trying with not much success to make his tone cool and dignified.

"Dinner!" snapped the voice. "What's that to me? Go without your dinner, as I shall. My niece is gone!"

Lawrence felt an odd pounding in his head which made him certain that he could not have caught her meaning.

"Gone?" he repeated dazedly. "Where?"

"Don't be a fool! Should I be doing this if I knew? She went out after lunch and hasn't returned. A letter was just delivered which---- But we're wasting time. Are you coming?"

"Yes. At once. I'll be there in five minutes."

There was no response save a sharp click, and Barry turned from the instrument, his face ghastly. Shirley gone--disappeared! For a second he stood there, his lips moving. Then, with an exclamation of fury, he snatched hat and coat, tore open the door, and ran down the hall toward the elevator.

*CHAPTER XXXIV.*

*THE PUZZLE GROWS.*

It seemed an eternity to Barry Lawrence before the taxi finally swerved in toward the curb and stopped with a grinding jar before the marble-fronted house facing the park. He was on the sidewalk in an instant, and, telling the man to wait, ran up the curving steps to the ornate doorway.

Evidently the footman was on the watch, for the door swung open before Barry had even time to press the bell, and, without a word, the servant took the visitor's coat and hat and led the way at once toward the elevator.

The long drawing-room was filled with a soft radiance from shaded lamps and ornate electric globes cunningly hidden in the heavy, carved cornice; and the amazing richness of its furnishing showed now to even better advantage than it had that morning.