Part 12

She bent forward to glance at the texture, and at that instant Barry realized with a start that he had handed her the letter which had come from the little man in black, inclosing the five one-hundred-dollar bills.

"I beg pardon," he said hastily. "I've made a mistake. This is the kind I want."

He drew forth the other letter; then, with a swift catching of the breath, stood staring stupidly from one to the other. For a second he did not move. He could not believe this odd coincidence. He held the two sheets to the light. The watermarks were identical. He lowered the sheets and examined them intently. In size, color, texture, quality they could not have been more alike had they come from the same box.

What did it mean?

*CHAPTER XXXVIII.*

*IN CAPITALS OF RED.*

In a moment Barry had recovered himself. After all, the sheets being identical did not prove that they had come from the same shop. No doubt there were hundreds of stores in New York which kept that kind of paper in stock. It was an odd coincidence, that was all.

"This is the sort I want," he said quietly, meeting the girl's curious glance with indifference. "About two quires will be enough--with one package of envelopes."

His perfect ease of manner seemed to reassure her, and she glanced at the paper he held out, then shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm afraid I can't give you even a quire," she said, reaching up to a shelf behind her and taking down a box. "I noticed when I sold a sheet and envelope this afternoon that there were only a few left."

"This afternoon!" Lawrence exclaimed, with well-simulated surprise. "I wonder if it could have been my friend Davis, who wrote this letter? Was he tall and slim and dark?"

"That's him," the girl answered. "He was dressed swell, too, and wore a high hat."

"Funny, isn't it?" Barry commented. "Well, give me what you have. I suppose you'll be getting in some more of the same kind soon."

"I'm afraid not," she returned, wrapping the few sheets with accustomed deftness. "The firm that supplied us with this has gone out of business. This box is three or four years old. It got lost in the stock, and I only ran across it about a week ago, and put it on sale. You'd have a hard job locating a bit of it anywhere in town. We've got some which is just as good, though."

It was with difficulty that Lawrence made an easy, casual answer, paid for the paper, and left the shop. The girl's explanation had left no doubt in his mind that the thing which had seemed so impossible was true. The man in black and the agent of those who had kidnaped Shirley Rives had both come to this obscure little shop to purchase writing paper.

It was incredible that there could be any connection between the two, yet Barry had seen so many apparently impossible things transpire within the past week that he began to doubt everything.

Out of the whole intricate medley of events, however, one fact stood clear and distinct: The men who had sent both letters must be living somewhere within a comparatively short distance of the little shop. University Place is not a main artery, like Broadway or Sixth Avenue; people do not pass through it, as a rule, unless they have business there or live in the neighborhood. There are no car lines on it--it is a sort of back eddy, away from the rush and turmoil and passing of great throngs.

But, now that he was sure Shirley's place of captivity was not so very far away, Barry could not make up his mind what to do. He could traverse the streets one by one, to be sure, but what would that accomplish? It was scarcely likely that chance would again direct his footsteps as it had done in sending him here from Union Square.

Puzzled and undecided, he told the chauffeur to follow him, then set out slowly toward Fourteenth Street. If he only had some one with whom to talk things over it would be much easier. Two heads are always better than one; and even Jock Hamersley might be able to suggest some feasible plan.

"I suppose there's nothing to prevent my hustling up and getting the old chap," he murmured as he reached the corner of the busy cross street. "It'll only take a few minutes. Hang it all! I believe I'll do it."

He turned toward the taxi, which had come to a stop beside the curb, and had almost reached the door when a newsboy darted toward him, waving a sheet with gaudy scareheads.

"Wuxtry!" he shrilled, thrusting the paper under Barry's nose. "All about banker's suicide! All about turrible shootin'! Wuxtry! Paper, mister?"

Lawrence shook his head impatiently, and was about to step into the taxi when his eyes fell upon the flaming headlines of the paper, and for a second his heart almost ceased to beat:

Trust Company Official Shoots Himself! Julian Farr, of the Beekman Trust, Blows His Brains Out. Defaulter in Many Thousands, He Leaves Behind a Confession Exonerating Former Employee.

Without a word, Barry snatched the sheet and thrust a coin into the boy's hand.

"Never mind the change," he said hoarsely.

Eagerly, feverishly, his eyes raced over the lines of large print. It was the old, old story, sordid in detail, inevitable as to conclusion. Julian Farr, cashier of the Beekman Trust, had started in by living beyond his means, and, getting in a hole, used the funds of the bank to speculate with. Once, when exposure threatened, he had saved himself by the despicable device of throwing the blame upon another man. The second time such a thing was impossible, and so, penniless, desperate, with a bank examiner due the following day, he had solved the whole problem, after the fashion of many cowards, with a little piece of lead.

The one graceful, decent action, which stood out in vivid contrast to all the rest, was the full and complete confession he had left behind, taking the responsibility of that first defalcation and explaining in detail how entirely blameless Barry Lawrence was. And, as the latter read the last word of this printed document, his eyes sparkled and a great joy surged through him.

He was free again--free from the shackles of suspicion and accusation which had been fastened upon him so unjustly! His name was no longer tarnished. It had been cleared in a manner which could leave no doubt in the mind of a single soul concerning his absolute honesty.

Then, like a flash, he came back to the present. What did this matter--what did anything matter when Shirley Rives was still in the hands of this unknown gang? He was wasting precious time, and, thrusting the paper into his overcoat pocket, he jerked open the door of the taxi.

"The Yale Club--and hustle!" he said tersely as he stepped hastily into the car.

*CHAPTER XXXIX.*

*HAMERSLEY TAKES A HAND.*

Jock Hamersley, after leaving his friend, entered the club briskly, and, having freshened up a little, took the elevator to the dining room. It was early, but his appetite had been making itself felt for some time, so he did not wait for a congenial companion to sit at his table.

The result was that he finished the meal and descended again to the lower floor before seven. Here he strolled about a little, chatting briefly with one or two friends, but with his mind altogether on the problem which faced Barry Lawrence.

When Jock once got something well fixed in his mind it was extremely difficult to find room for anything else. The more he considered the scheme of tripping up the mysterious persons who had been following Lawrence, the more he liked it, and the more anxious he was to put it into operation. He knew that Barry would not be likely to show up much before eight, and consequently, after fretting and fuming impatiently for some ten or fifteen minutes, he decided to take a stroll to use up the intervening time, with the added hope that something more might occur to him.

Leaving word with the hall man that he would be back shortly, he slipped into his coat and sallied forth into the street. For a moment he hesitated; then, turning to the right, he walked briskly toward Fifth Avenue.

He had scarcely reached the corner, and had not even decided which way to turn, when suddenly a man, coming up behind, touched him lightly on the arm.

"Beg pardon, sir," said a voice in his ear, "but have you any idea where I can find Mr. Barry Lawrence?"

Whirling about in surprise, Hamersley saw, standing beside him, a slim, slight individual of medium height, smooth-shaven and dressed in an inconspicuous manner. He was holding an envelope in one hand; and Jock first sized him up as a clerk from some banking or brokerage house. He was about to answer freely, when he suddenly recalled the varied assortment of men who had been trailing Barry of late, and paused.

"What do you want him for?" he asked abruptly, at length.

"The chief wanted me to give him this," the stranger explained promptly, holding up the letter. "Said it was most important he should have it at once. He isn't at his hotel, and they don't know where he's gone."

"Humph!" grunted the big chap. "Who's your chief?"

"Mr. Marvin, of Kane & Marvin," was the swift response.

Hamersley knew the Wall Street firm very well, and, having no notion of Barry's affairs, it seemed quite possible that the latter might be doing business in that quarter. Nevertheless, a vague, intangible suspicion made him hesitate, and in that fortunate pause a conviction suddenly flashed into his mind which almost took his breath away.

The fellow beside him was none other than the detective who had inveigled Lawrence into the empty house on Twenty-fourth Street the very night before.

Jock remembered his friend's description perfectly, and, moreover, recalled Barry's having said that he was the identical man who had sat next to them at the Belmont cafe. There could be no mistake. This was, indeed, the man, and Hamersley's first feeling was one of infinite regret that the chance they had been seeking should come when Lawrence was not on hand to take advantage of it.

On the heels of that, however, came a swift determination to work the trick alone. He could do it if only he kept his head and handled the situation cleverly. He would do it, and give Barry the surprise of his life. With a tremendous effort to keep his voice casual and careless, he plunged into the game.

"I see," he said. "But what gave you the idea that I could tell you anything about him?"

"Mr. Marvin said he belonged to a college club on Forty-fourth Street," the unknown returned glibly. "When I asked for him back there, they said he wasn't a member, but that he sometimes came in with you. That's what made me hustle out after you. I want to get rid of the thing and beat it home to supper."

His easy tone was most convincing, and, had he not been perfectly sure of his identification, Jock would never have dreamed that anything was out of the way. For a second he hesitated, digging into his brain for some plausible means of finding out more. Unfortunately Jock's brain was of the slow-moving variety which so often accompanies big, brawny bodies, and nothing occurred to him.

"Sorry I can't help you," he said at last; "but I haven't an idea where he is now. He's going to meet me at the Yale Club at half past eight or so. Why don't you come around then and see him?"

"Half past eight! I can't hang around till then. Still, I suppose I'll have time to get supper and come down afterward, won't I?"

"I should think so," Hamersley returned, with an affectation of indifference he was far from feeling.

"I'll do it," the stranger said decidedly, thrusting the letter into his pocket. "Half past eight, you say? Much obliged for the information."

With a quick nod, which Jock returned, he started briskly up the avenue, leaving the Yale man staring, helplessly after him in a perfect agony of indecision. He wanted to follow the fellow, and yet he realized how utterly futile such a thing would be. The man would be wise to the game before he had gone a block, and that would probably spoil everything.

What should he do? What could he do? The man was rapidly getting away from him, and Hamersley fairly danced on the pavement as he tried frantically to think.

It was at this moment that he caught sight of "Shrimp" Bradley briskly crossing the avenue.

*CHAPTER XL.*

*THE OPEN DOOR.*

As his cognomen indicated, Bradley was short and slim and boyish-looking. He had fresh, rosy cheeks and innocent, bland blue eyes, which reminded one vaguely of cherubs and better worlds than this. In reality he was as sophisticated a little chap as had ever made the lives of New Haven professors miserable; and he had a command of language which, during his two years of "coxing" on the varsity shell, had caused the hair of even those hardened athletes to stand on end. To the harassed Hamersley his appearance at that particular moment seemed like a direct dispensation of Providence.

"Shrimp!" he spluttered, clutching the diminutive chap by the shoulders, "there's a fellow going up the avenue there--short, slim, dark clothes and brown felt hat. He's a detective, after Barry Lawrence. I've got to know where he goes. For the love of Mike, follow him and tell me where he lands! I'll be at the club. Be quick, now, or you'll miss him!"

The single, searching glance Bradley cast at his friend's face convinced him that this was no joke, and without a question he snapped back: "Right. I'm on." And he hustled off up the street.

Jock watched him anxiously as he scurried away, and presently, when pursuer and pursued were lost to sight, the big chap sighed and turned back in the direction from which he had come.

"He'll catch the dope if it's a possible thing," he muttered. "Hang it all! I wish Barry were here."

He was puzzled to learn, on reaching the club, that Lawrence had phoned during his absence and left an urgent message that he was not to leave the building until he heard again from the Harvard man. Of what it could mean Hamersley had no idea, unless Barry had become wise to the situation in some way and was also following up a clew.

At all events, there seemed nothing else for him to do but wait; and for nearly an hour he performed that difficult and trying duty in a manner which nearly drove the other club members to murder.

Apparently unable to keep still, he tramped back and forth through the rooms on the lower floor with a frowning countenance. He was deaf to the gibes and jokes hurled after him, oblivious to remarks and questions from his friends, heedless to everything save the matter which filled his mind so exclusively. Had he not been so universally known and liked by almost all the members, there is no telling what might have happened. As it was, when Shrimp Bradley appeared about a quarter past eight, and Jock made a rush for him which compared favorably with some of his best efforts on the gridiron, there was a general sigh of thankfulness that something had at length arisen to break the spell.

"Let me get my breath!" panted Shrimp. "I never hustled so before. Yes, I got him! Did you take me for a piker? Sure, I want a drink. I've got a thirst a mile long. I want something to eat, too, and tell him to hustle. You and I have got our night's work cut out for us, old socks!"

While he was talking Jock had pushed him into the small room to the left of the door, which happened at the moment to be unoccupied. Placing one big thumb against the bell, he kept it there until the attendant appeared on the run and took their order.

"Now," exclaimed Hamersley, sinking into a chair, "where'd he go? Harlem?"

"Harlem? No. He went up three blocks and then hopped onto a stage going downtown. Luckily I was just about a block behind, so I sprinted and grabbed it. We rode down to Fourteenth, and then he got off. I stayed on half a block longer, then beat it. I was hustling back, keeping well in near the buildings, when I saw him coming down with another guy, and I slipped into a doorway. As luck would have it, they stopped a couple of feet past me for the stranger to light a cigarette, and I heard about all they said. They talked in riddles, of course, but I made out pretty clearly that they've got a girl locked up somewhere, and that they caught her by telling her some fellow was in trouble. I made out, too, that the girl put up something of a fight, but they told her if she didn't keep quiet 'twould be worse for the fellow, and she behaved after that. They said they'd have him by nine o'clock. Do you suppose they meant Barry Lawrence?"

"Sure!" said Hamersley hoarsely. "But how did you make out all of that, Shrimp? They must have been boobs to talk so much in the open street."

"Oh, they weren't so slow," protested Bradley; "but neither am I, Jock. I kept my ears open and read between the lines. What they said couldn't have meant much of anything else."

"Well, go on!" cried Jock impatiently.

"That's all I heard," said Bradley. "They were moving off by that time and the wind was blowing the other way. I let 'em get 'most to the next corner before I slipped out after them. They went down the avenue as far as Eleventh, and then turned west, with me following as close as I dared. I reckon they weren't thinking about any one being after 'em, though, because they never once looked back. They went down the street almost to the next corner, then walked up the steps of a brownstone front, opened the door with a latchkey, and stepped in. In a couple of minutes I pranced past to get the number, noticed the sign, 'Rooms to Let,' boarded a Sixth Avenue car, grabbed a taxi at Twenty-third Street, and hustled back."

Hamersley nodded, but remained silent.

"What's biting you, Jock?" inquired Bradley sharply. "Aren't you wise to what I'm telling you? Don't you catch on that there's a girl in trouble?"

"Sure!" gasped Hamersley. "But what girl?"

"What girl!" snapped Shrimp. "How do I know, when you didn't tell me anything? Don't you know?"

Jock shook his head dazedly. "First I've heard of any girl," he returned weakly. "I thought it was----"

"What girl are you talking about?" demanded a voice from the doorway, in a tone which made both men jump.

"Barry!" roared Hamersley, leaping at him. "For Pete's sake, come and put us wise! I put Shrimp on the trail of a man who was asking me all about you, and he comes back with a weird tale of a girl kidnaped by a bunch and kept a prisoner in a boarding house down on West Eleventh Street, near Sixth----"

"West Eleventh!" exclaimed Lawrence triumphantly. "By Jove! You've hit it right. Come on--both of you. There isn't a minute to lose. I'll tell you the rest in the taxi."

He turned and hurried out of the room, followed by Hamersley, and, more slowly, by Shrimp Bradley, who had paused to secure the remaining sandwiches. Issuing hastily from the club, Barry told the driver to take them to the corner of Sixth Avenue and Eleventh Street, and they all piled in and slammed the door behind them.

During the hurried ride downtown they exchanged stories briefly, so that when they reached their destination they were ready to act. In half a minute Bradley had led the way to the house, and Lawrence swiftly took in its salient features. It was an ordinary-looking, four-storied brownstone dwelling, a little gone to seed, perhaps, which accounted for the sign displayed in a lower window. The room on the second floor front was brightly lighted, but the shades were pulled down. All the other windows were dark. In that instant Barry had made up his mind.

"I'm going in if I can get in, fellows," he said abruptly.

"Hadn't you better wait----" began Bradley.

But Lawrence cut him short. "Not if I know it!" he exclaimed. "I've waited too long already. I'm going in! See if you can find a cop, Shrimp. Jock, will you watch the house?"

Before the others could realize what was happening, he had raced up the steps and grasped the doorknob firmly. To the intense surprise of his two companions, the door yielded to his touch, and a second later he had disappeared, leaving them staring dazedly at each other.

"There's something queer about this!" Hamersley burst out the next instant. "I don't like the looks of it a little bit."

Bounding up the steps, he seized the knob and twisted it, flinging his whole weight against the door. It held fast. He tried again with the same result, then turned a serious face toward Bradley.

"Beat it, Shrimp!" he said hurriedly. "Get a cop, quick! It's a trap, that's what it is!"

*CHAPTER XLI.*

*AT CROSS-PURPOSES.*

As the door swung into place behind him, with the unmistakable click of a spring lock, Lawrence stood there, every nerve tense, glancing swiftly around into the shadows, half expecting an attack of some sort.

The hall was lighted by a single gas jet turned down to the tiniest spark, and for a moment he thought himself alone. Then, with a suppressed start, he realized that a tall, slim, smooth-shaven man stood silently by the portieres of a double door, watching him with cool, level, dark eyes.

"Well?" snapped Barry, recovering his composure. "Where is she? Quick! What have you done with her?"

The stranger smiled. "One flight up, on your right," he drawled nonchalantly. "You can't miss it. The door's unlocked."

For a second Lawrence stared at him dazedly. With every nerve keyed to its highest tension, expecting, and ready to use force, and with visions of having to break down doors and overcome all sorts of obstacles to reach the girl he was seeking, the utter indifference and casual politeness were staggering. He scowled fiercely at the urbane stranger for an instant, the color rising to his face; then, whirling about, raced up the stairs without a word.

The upper hall was almost pitch dark, but he thrust out both hands and felt the panels of a door on his right. A second later his fingers closed over a knob, he pushed forward, then stopped still on the threshold, blinking in the bright light, with the echoes of a faint, suppressed cry of a woman ringing in his ears.

The room was long and spacious, that effect being heightened by several full-length mirrors, with massive, old-fashioned frames of black walnut, set into the walls at different points. The furniture was mostly of that same mid-Victorian period, ponderous, ugly, and uncomfortable, with a good deal of fringe and furbelows and gimcrack ornament. It was only in contrast to the hall that the place seemed brightly lighted. In reality, the only source of illumination was a nickel lamp with a dark-green china shade, which stood on a marble table at the farther end.

Most of this Barry perceived in that curious, instinctive, intuitive manner with which one observes a thing without really looking at it. His whole mind was taken up with the girl who had started from her chair and was staring at him, a half-frightened, half-puzzled, wholly incomprehensible expression on her lovely face.

"Shirley!" he cried, springing forward impulsively. "You're all right? They haven't--hurt you in any way?"

To his amazement, she did not show the slightest sign of being glad to see him. On the contrary, she seemed almost frightened; and the quick backward step she took to place the table between them, no less than the look in her dark eyes, halted Lawrence in his tracks as effectually as a bullet might have done.

For a second he stood there staring at her, the color swiftly ebbing from his face.

"I don't--understand," he said at length, in a low, bewildered tone. "What is the matter? It isn't possible that you're--afraid of me?"

She moistened her lips and, putting out one hand, let the tips of her gloved fingers rest lightly on the table top. From the moment of his entrance her eyes had never left Barry's face, and now, as he saw them clearly in the lamplight, the look there was like the stab of a knife.